[penniewrites]

THIRD TIME'S THE CHARM

[ frat!kuna x f!reader ] synopsis — you and sukuna miss each other twice, but you get lucky enough to roll the dice one more time. word count — 29.8k+ words warnings — MDNI 18+ alcohol, drugs, drinking and substance abuse, implied underage drinking, implied sexual relations, college shenanigans, strong language, banter, plot with porn, slight slowburn, smut, female reader, reader is described as bratty and pretty with big eyes and female genitalia, hair and height are only relatively mentioned, flirting, pain kink, tattoo kink if you squint, size kink if you squint, stomach bulge, public kissing, dry humping, thigh riding, choking, pinching, lots of kissing, teasing, oral kink, pet names (baby, bunny, etc.), edging, power struggle (sukuna is mainly dominant, reader is a slight switch), dirty talk, sukuna talks you through it, muscles, very graphic and descriptive smut, hair pulling, oral sex, p in v sex, fingering, praise kink, degradation kink, slight dacryphilia, overstimulation, missionary, doggy style, prone bone, consent and safe words are very important, brat taming, slight dumbification. there’s probably more that i’m missing, so please lmk if you see anything. author's note — this took up approximately 61 pages in my google docs, so please enjoy. first ever fic, not beta read but i did proofread it at 2am if that counts. idk if i know how to write smut i honestly just tried. i apologize for all the build up, i’m just a sucker for a bit of a slowburn. honestly no clue how this is going to go, so lmk if you guys like it.

The first time Ryomen Sukuna sees you, it's at his frat party.

It was a Friday night, syllabus week, and the gentle breeze that ruffled through the air was still warm from a summer that would soon give way to the autumn rain. Every kid in college, drunk or not, was taking advantage of this holy trinity, and his frat was no exception, beating the others to throw the first 'Welcome Home' party of the semester.

It’s a free invite tonight, though they still preferred to keep a ratio, and the house is packed to the brim. People spill out onto the large patio and down the steps to the front lawn, leaving a trail of crushed red solo cups and mangled beer cans in their wake, a growing mess for the pledges to clean bright and early tomorrow morning. The girls stumble about in giggling cliques, and the guys try to intercept where they can, still a little rusty from the summer. Music booms from the basement of the house, where Gojo's likely trying his hand at the DJ booth, causing the ground to tremble with the bass as the beat echoes its way up and out into the night air. A group of pledges had transformed the kitchen into an open bar in addition to the one in the basement, complete with an array of handles and coolers, and Choso’s pretending to know how to mix drinks while stepping off to the side to press little packs of whatever his customers desired into their palms. The backyard, on the other hand, was supposed to be off-limits, but that notion is quickly abandoned when someone jumped into the pool, beckoning others to follow suit. Even the upstairs is filled, claimed by the high and horny.

All in all, the party is a raging success. The only thing missing is another drink in his hand and a girl wrapped around his arm.

Which, normally, Sukuna prioritizes fixing above all else, but Shoko was still complaining to him about her landlord, and Geto was sure as hell taking his sweet time to get back to his girlfriend. He left Shoko in Sukuna's care a couple of minutes ago when a pledge ran up to them, all out of breath over some guy puking in the bathroom, and Sukuna knew better than to test Geto when it came to Shoko. She was more than capable of taking care of herself, but Geto liked to be safe and there's always the occasional drunk idiot.

Honestly, Sukuna’s surprised Geto isn’t back yet; he could barely go an hour or two without talking to his girlfriend.

"—and I keep texting him about the ants, but he neve—Hey!" Shoko snaps her fingers in his face, effectively pulling him out of his reverie. "Are you even listening to me?"

"Yeah," Sukuna mutters, barely even glancing down at her as he shamelessly watches a group of girls dancing on the table set up outside. Its original purpose was beer pong, but Sukuna wasn't complaining.

She squints at him, hands on her hips. "Liar," she counters, and then, without looking back, "You're watching that blonde stripper with the boobs."

He finally looks down at Shoko, who had let her sleek dark brown hair grow out past her shoulders, but was otherwise still the same since they'd met back in high school. He, however, looked almost nothing like the boy she'd met in her freshman year, save for the same intense eyes and the golden tan.

"She's not a stripper," he says with a roll of his eyes, tipping his Corona up to take a swig.

Shoko looks over, and Sukuna follows her gaze to see the blonde peel her top off and swing it over her head, earning well-deserved cheers. She turns back to him with a raise of her brow, and he can only grin in response. When he looks back up, the blonde is staring straight at him, eyes raking down his body.

"Yo, did Geto text how long he was gonna take?"

Shoko frowns and turns her phone over in her hand, the light washing over her high cheekbones and the little mole under her eye. Her notifications only include a couple of texts from friends and an email from some tight-ass professor, but nothing from Geto.

"No, he mu—" her eyes slip past him for a second before doing a double-take, her expression replaced by an immediate grin. "Oh my God!"

She rushes past him, almost clipping his shoulder in her excitement, and Sukuna has to hold back a sigh, used to this behavior. The blonde is still looking at him as she swings her hips, and he's tempted to just walk over. Judging from the chorus of laughter that bubbles from behind him, Shoko wouldn't mind, so he turns to tell her, fully expecting to see that one friend from her high school whose name he can't ever remember.

Instead, it's you.

He can't quite make out your face yet—Shoko came barreling at you so hard that you two spin as you hug, your head tucked over her shoulder—but the first thing he does is aptly note the curve of your ass in those jean shorts. You've rolled over the hem of them and paired it with a summery little tube top made entirely of sheer lace, save for the sturdier fabric up top, bunched in a sweetheart neckline. He has ample time to appreciate the soft swell of your chest and the line of your spine with those dimples at the base before you pull away from Shoko.

She says something to you, but it all blends into the buzz of conversation and music in his ears as he studies you. The high points of your face are all shimmery, your cheeks colored with a faint blush, and your hair has caught a hint of frizz from the heat, but it only makes it seem more alive as it falls loose and sways, wild with motion. Your eyes squint a little when you laugh at whatever she's said, crinkling at the corners and almost painfully expressive, all big and glimmering with that contagious sort of delight.

You don't see him, not yet, but he finds himself waiting for your gaze to fall on him.

"Oh, a couple of minutes ago," you say, glancing around the party behind you, and he realizes you must be answering a question. "Hime's here somewhere, too, but I kinda lost her when I went to get this."

You hold up a seltzer, one of those low alcohol percentage ones that tastes more like soda than booze, and shake the can, a shallow splash showing that you'd almost finished it. He takes the opening.

"Need a new one?"

Sukuna steps closer, bringing himself into your orbit. He thought you were pretty when he saw you from the side, but when you turn to look at him for the first time, it makes him pause for a second.

You blink up at him, lashes long and fluttery, as they cast shadows on your cheekbones, and you've got this smile, lips plush and glossy but only slightly, as if it's worn off since you first applied it. Your tongue comes out to wet the bottom pillow, a quick slip of pink, and it sends a little thrill down his spine.

You, on the other hand, seem almost unbothered, giving him a once-over as if his interruption has slightly inconvenienced you. He has to admit that it’s pretty hot.

"They told me this was the last one," you tell him, nodding your head in the direction of the house.

"Oh," Shoko jumps in before he can answer, "I should've introduced you guys earlier."

She gives him your name, and he rolls his tongue over his teeth, silently testing it out with a cocky little nod that doesn't seem to impress you. When she gives you his name, however, you offer no reaction, and that sparks something in him.

You know who he is. He's certain of it because even if you didn't frequent the frats—which he's also certain of because he'd know if he'd seen you before—his face is plastered on the game posters cluttering every inch of campus, and the hockey team's Instagram page has a follower count that surpasses the student population.

Instead, you're ignoring him, or at least, ignoring who he is. There’s an itch in his chest when he realizes what you’re doing, and he hasn’t decided if it’s annoyance or intrigue yet, but it draws him closer to you, nonetheless.

"He's the VP here," Shoko adds, and that seems to catch your interest. There's a little glint in your eyes now, a bit of an impish look that he has a strong urge to tease out of you.

"Does being vice mean you'd know if they keep a secret stash of these somewhere?" you ask, tilting your head, playful and innocent all at once.

It makes Shoko chuckle next to you, and he can't help but crack a grin, half his signature smirk and all pure sin.

"We normally do," he admits, one hand casually slipping into the pocket of his dark-wash jeans, "but why not go for something stronger?"

You arch a brow, and he ignores the sharp look Shoko gives him. She got annoyed when he hit on her friends, but any pretty girl standing in his frat and looking like that in the soft, warm wash of the fairy lights is fair game to him.

"What about a beer?" he offers, and you can see his canines poking out from behind the stretch of his smile, a touch lower now and near-predatory. "Or we can go for a round of shots?"

Normally, that's all it takes. That inviting tone, the dark look in his eyes, the way he angles his head a bit to make it seem like the entirety of him is focused down on you.

Too bad you know better.

You shrug, turning to Shoko. "No thanks," you say easily, wrinkling your nose a little. "I don't like the taste of beer."

The brief look you give him after, the subtle-but-impossible-to-resist challenge that flashes in your eyes, keeps him from cutting his losses and going back to the blonde. Nothing against her, of course. He imagines that if she could move like that while dancing on an old piece of wood, she'd be pretty good in bed, but, more often than not, he likes the fight, the chase, the sear of heat on his skin before drowning that fire, and it's clear you do too.

"Noted," he says, meeting your gaze with an unrelenting one of his own. "I'll go grab that drink for you."

He moves past you and Shoko to the open door of the house, not missing the way you watch him move for a second before ultimately going back to your friend. He takes that bare moment of attention as a win, heading back into the house through the masses.

No one needs to be moved when Sukuna makes his way through a crowd; people simply part to let him through without even being asked. He has that air about him, the weight of his reputation preceding him, and people watch as he passes by. He avoids the looks the girls give him and catches the eyes of a few of his frat guys, half-heartedly bumping his fist against theirs and accepting a couple of heavy-handed thumps on his back before he enters, making a beeline through the heavy thrum of bodies for the bar.

Choso is, as expected, lazily leaning on the wall to the side, his dark hair spiky with sweat as he aims an easy grin at a girl who's currently passing him a half-smoked blunt. It's about a hundred times more humid in here than outside, and the smoke curling up against the ceiling wasn't helping. Sukuna had no qualms with setting his bottle down and striding over to him, plucking the blunt out of his grasp and grabbing a fistful of his collar to pull him up off the wall and drag him back to his post.

"Yo—" Choso protests, albeit weakly, and stumbles over his feet as Sukuna shoves him behind the counter. "The hell's the matter with you!?"

"Long Drink," is all Sukuna offers him as he nods at the back cooler, tossing the still-hot blunt into an abandoned cup of mystery liquid and watching it hiss. "With cranberry juice and salt on the rim."

Choso looks mildly irritated, but a slow grin grows on his face when he processes the order.

"Salt on the rim?" he teases, but goes to grab the Long Drink, anyway.

"Just shut up and make it," Sukuna mutters, rolling his eyes as he takes his beer again and downs the rest of it in one go. "And get me another beer."

"Who's the girl?"

Choso cracks the can open and slides it over to Sukuna as he grabs the cranberry juice from the side. Sukuna takes a big enough swallow to make room for an extra splash of cranberry juice before sliding it back across the damp wood.

"None of your fucking business."

It doesn't deter Choso, who was a year younger yet infuriatingly unafraid of him, as he empties the last bit of cranberry juice into the can.

"You just dragged me away from my most loyal customer," Choso counters, glancing back at the girl who was waiting for him with a pout and hazy eyes, and he gives her a wink, pulling out the salt. "I think you owe me."

"Don't owe you shit," Sukuna grumbles, leaning heavily against the counter.

Choso pours the salt onto his palm, lifting it slightly to roll the lip of the can in it. The cold water from the cooler makes the crystals stick, and he manages to angle it so that none of the drink spills.

When Sukuna goes to grab the drink, Choso pulls it back out of reach, raising a brow. He has half a mind to grab him again, but he didn't want to risk spilling that drink.

"You wouldn't know her."

"Try me."

Sukuna hesitates for a second, and then gives him your name and watches as a faint flicker of recognition passes through his eyes. It's honestly kind of hard to see anything pass through them with how bloodshot they were, but he's known Choso long enough to figure it out.

"Shoko's friend?"

"Y'know her?"

He shrugs and sets the can and another bottle of beer down in front of Sukuna. 

"Seen her around," he says, and that's all he gives him before going back to his girl, letting her press him up against the wall again.

Sukuna doesn't ask for more, taking both drinks in one hand and heading back out the way he came. As soon as he clears the doorway, he turns to find you and Shoko where he last left you, still talking near the hedges.

You're laughing at something she's said again, a bright, twinkling sound that floats above the violent thrum of music, and he moves to the side as he approaches you, coming up from behind. He presses the cool metal of the can against your bare shoulder, startling you and making Shoko roll her eyes at his antics.

You jump a little and turn quickly, not exactly scared but definitely surprised, and something that smells dangerously like smoke sparks in your eye when you see the culprit. Your brows pull down in a furrow, and you open your mouth to likely tell him off when you're suddenly distracted by the drink, different from any other one you've gotten tonight.

"What's this?" you ask, carefully avoiding his touch when you take the can from him and suspiciously eyeing it.

He grins, devilish in both intent and looks. "Try it."

You glance down at it and back up at him. "It's open."

He hums and doesn't offer you anything else. You notice the little crystals on the rim, a couple of clumps slipping down with the condensation, and bring your thumb up to wipe a little off.

"D'you spike it?" you ask, but there's no real accusation in your tone.

"It's salt," he says, watching you lift your thumb to your mouth and taste the crystals, lips pursed around it as you look up at him from beneath your lashes.

Jesus.

"And?"

"Can't ruin the surprise," he shrugs, crossing his large arms as amusement dances in the explosive red of his eyes. "What? Y'don't trust me?

You turn your head to Shoko, looking for confirmation, and she rolls her eyes again but nods, pulling a cigarette packet from her pocket.

"He's stupid," she says as she pulls a stick out, "but he's not that stupid. Worst case, it tastes like shit."

"Best case," he counters, still watching you as you regard the can skeptically, "it's the best thing you've ever had, and you fall to your knees thanking me."

That gets a laugh out of you, short and sudden. "And then what?" you tease, bringing the edge close to your mouth. "I tie my hair up and return the favor?"

Behind you, Shoko snorts around the cigarette in her mouth, patting her pockets for a lighter, and Sukuna's grin only sharpens as you take a sip, watching your tongue peak out again to lick a bead of salt and seltzer from the corner of your mouth.

"Only if you want to," he flirts, and savors the way your eyes light up at the dare.

"Well," you simper, taking another sip, "only if you beg real nice for it."

The words somehow satisfy his ego and ignite his pride simultaneously, urging him to best you at this little game you two were playing now, but before he can, you take another sip and glance up at him.

"This isn't bad."

It's his turn to raise a brow now, stepping closer into your space. "You sound surprised."

"I am," you say, not backing down. "What's in it?"

"Trade secret," he answers, and watches the way your eyes drop to his mouth when he brings the beer bottle up, hooking his teeth into a gap and loosening the cap so it pops off.

You know what Sukuna's doing, you've seen it done a hundred times before, but this somehow makes your nerves go all electric, as if it's new. You can't explain the shiver you have to tamp down as you watch him, all pointed teeth and scathing insinuations.

"And what do I have to do to kno—"

You're abruptly cut off by a loud buzzing from your back pocket, and you slip your phone out to look at the Caller ID. Sukuna mourns the loss of that sentence as he sneaks a look at your phone, catching 'Utahime Iori' before you swipe your thumb across the screen and lift the phone up to your ear.

"Where the hell d'you go?" you ask, only slightly exasperated and mostly fond.

You take another sip and catch that smirk of his as he watches you do it, rolling your eyes and turning to scan the crowd for your friend. He can barely hear the voice on the other side, but it makes you stand up on your toes, eyes now tracking the crowd for a target.

"No, I don't see hi—Oh, shit," you interrupt yourself, a low mutter under your breath. He turns to see who you're looking at, but he has no idea who to look for in the throng of party guests. "Yeah, yeah, I see him now. Don't worry about it, I'll come get you."

Shoko looks up, cigarette still unlit and her search for a light unsuccessful. 

"Want me to come with?"

Shoko and Utahime were friends from high school, the type to roam the same circles but never really grow close until recently, when they rekindled their friendship last semester. That was how you met Shoko, when Utahime brought her to your shared apartment one day to have dinner with you and the two other roommates, and you and Shoko became fast friends.

You're about to agree when you glance over her shoulder and see a familiar dark-haired man stride your way, eyes trained on her. Geto's hair was up in the classic half-ponytail, and he barely registers the person he shoulders past on his way here, patting his jacket pocket for something.

"No, it's okay," you say, jutting your chin to Geto to get her to look. "Your boyfriend's back."

Shoko turns, half a smile already on her face as he finally gets to you guys, pulling out a lighter and flicking it beneath her cigarette, hand curled around the flame to keep it from blowing out. He glances up at the company and gives you a short smile, which you return, before looking at Sukuna.

"Had to kick the motherfucker out," he tells him, and Sukuna only nods, gaze still on you and the way you lick the salt from the rim, humming lightly at the tang of it.

"I can still come and help," Shoko offers, but you just shake your head.

"It's fine," you reassure her kindly. "Hime's fine, I'm just gonna go bring her out."

At the end of the line, Hime's still rambling from the bathroom she's hiding in, telling you about her almost-encounter with the man at the other end of the lawn, and you offer short words of affirmation as you begin to step away.

"Okay," Shoko shrugs, already settling into Geto's side as his hand finds home in the curve of her waist. "Come see me before you go, though."

"Yeah, we will," you agree, already a couple of feet out, but, before you go, you look at Sukuna, who's still watching you with those eyes that you'll likely think of later tonight. "Thanks for the drink—No, babe, not you, just keep talking."

You turn, too preoccupied with Utahime to see the way his brow furrows, the way he considers following after you. He doesn't think you'd mind. The drink seems to have softened you up a little, and he's not sure if he could convince you to end up in his bed tonight, not with the way you seem to be able to keep up with all his moves, but maybe he can get you into a corner for a couple of minutes and convince you of some other things.

He's about to, actually, ignoring the look Geto's giving him above Shoko's head right now, before he feels the light scrape of nails dragging down his biceps. When he glances down, he finds the blonde from earlier, still clad in only a black lace bra and a small denim skirt, looking up at him with dark eyes and a sultry little pout.

It's almost like instinct, the way his arm curves around her as he lets her reach up and whisper something into his ear, but he only half-hears what she's saying as he watches you walk away, eyeing the teasing glimpse of your ass under those damn shorts.

The second time you see Sukuna, it's actually probably from some Instagram post of the hockey team or one of those large posters of the players hung up in the gym. The second time you meet him, however, is at the bar, about a week or so after your first encounter.

You honestly weren't expecting to see him so soon after the last time, if at all.

You'd left kind of suddenly, tracking down Utahime after she'd locked herself in the basement bathroom because she saw the guy she'd gone on a date with last week fully making out with another girl. So, you stayed in there with her as she ranted about it, affirming that 'yes, it's really weird that he'd do that when he called himself a shy guy with not a lot of experience on his Tinder' and 'no, I don't think being drunk excuses his actions, especially when he told you he wanted to go exclusive with you really soon—even if it was weird that he said that on the first date'.

You weren't sure how Utahime kept attracting these sorts of men, but you are sure that she should probably stop looking for men at all on Tinder.

When you did finally manage to coax her out of the bathroom, much to the annoyance of the long line waiting behind the door, you couldn't find Shoko anywhere. You didn't think it wise to keep looking around when Utahime was currently at the stage of grief where she was promising to brutally 'fuck him up' in some really creative ways, so you both ended up leaving without saying bye, though you did send her a quick text.

You guys didn't go home right after, however, as you found yourself at a different frat when two of their brothers eyed you and her passing by. You'd both flirted a little, doing what you had to do to skip that line and get a direct invite inside, where you 'accidentally' lost them in the crowd near the cute DJ. The party was smaller than the other frat and the guys were a little sleazier, but the DJ, who had been watching you and Utahime dance for about ten minutes before inviting you up, was apparently specifically invited.

He wasn't a frat guy, but a supposed rising star who balanced the terribly burdensome life of being a DJ and a college student with a trust fund. You didn't really care about that, though, or how low his hands settled on your hips, because he was a good kisser and he let you play all the songs you wanted.

He'd slipped his number into your phone that night, and you'd texted sparsely over the next week before he invited you to come see him play here, at the bar that was a twenty-minute walk from your apartment.

This time, both Chloe and Tara joined you and Utahime. You all lazed about your shared apartment for most of the day, taking turns in the shower before turning on the speaker music and compiling all your going-out clothes into one pile. Shots were tossed back, the two bathrooms were split between hair and makeup, and you guys took pictures for the photo wall behind the couch before leaving the apartment, fashionably late and already tipsy.

By the time you got to the bar, the alcohol had settled into your system, and you were comfortably drunk, coordinated enough to text him that you were in line. It was good that you did because the line was awful, and after a bit of flirting—all four of you bunched together and crafting responses on your behalf—he came out for a second and brought you guys in immediately.

And then he led you through the dense crowd, the vibe electric and frisky tonight, to the DJ booth at the front end of the bar, painted in swatches of neon lights from the strobes above. There were some other people on the platform, too, all with the same bright pink wristbands and instructions not to crowd the DJ too much. He, on the other hand, didn't really seem to care, keeping one girl by his side at all times.

Tonight, it seems to be you, his hand resting just above the swell of your ass as he leans in to say the same variations of 'You look really hot' in your ear. Again, you don't really mind because he actually is a decent DJ and he knows how to match your vibe, but you need a break from him and his liquor-scented breath and the lines of white powder streaking his keyboard for a minute, so you retreat to the back-end of the platform to dance with your roommates.

And here you were, wedged between Utahime and Tara while Chloe was pressed to your side, all of you rolling your hips and swaying your arms above your heads to the music. Some heady mix was playing right now, and for a second, you're kind of glad you left him because he'd likely take advantage of the beat and slip his hand lower on your ass and grind on you.

Which, generally, you didn't mind when you were this drunk, but doing it in front of such a large crowd was a deal-breaker for you. As far as you were concerned, not every other kid from your college needed to see him practically dry hump you on stage, no matter how cute he was.

You're not certain how much time passes while you dance up on that stage with your girls, but eventually the track switches and a more rhythmic beat ripples through the air. You swing your hips to the music and bop your head, adjusting to the faster tempo. Just as you find your groove, a warm hand settles on your lower back, and you don't have to open your eyes to recognize the scent of tequila as a warm puff of air curls against the nape of your neck.

"Hey, baby," Evan mutters low against your skin, lips dragging up the side of your neck. "Why don't you come back to the booth?"

His hand slips around to your front, his intentions clear as he presses up behind you. You tilt your head to the side to let him mouth at your jawline before looking up at him with a little grin.

"You done with the set?" you ask, turning in his hold to drape your arms over his shoulder, looking up at him from underneath your lashes.

He dips his head lower, nose brushing yours. "Almost. C'mon."

You let him lead you out from the back of the platform, pressing close to his side as you shuffle through the horde. His hand slips down, testing the boundaries, and you let it.

You're no fool, you know what it all means, and you know exactly what you want from it.

When you get to the DJ booth, you're greeted by a group of three other guys and two girls, all crowded around the setup. One of them is leaning over it, reddish-brown hair flopping forward before he suddenly tosses his head back, shaking his head and sniffing, palm coming up to rub his nose. The guy to the side, a familiar-looking face with spiked dark hair and darker eyes and a tattoo running across the bridge of his nose, spots the two of you first.

“Hi Choso,” you greet, yelling over the music.

“Hey,” he greets back, a slow grin growing as he tilts his head down at you. “Haven’t seen you in a minute.”

“Y’know him?” Evan asks, and you nod.

Who on campus didn’t? Even if one didn’t buy from Choso, his name would echo in their conversations. He wasn’t the only dealer on campus, but he was by far the best, boasting a wider array of picks than what any other plug could get you here. You personally hadn’t ever directly bought anything from him, but you’d been with Shoko a few times last semester when she’d snagged a blunt from him.

“Want anything?” he asks, hands stuffed in his pockets, and glances at Evan’s arm around your waist. “It’ll be on discount tonight.”

“Discount?” You laugh, a little unbelieving but less on edge with the buzz of alcohol and the familiarity of Choso, even as the two other guys are now eyeing you as you stand next to their friend. “For what?”

“First-time buy,” Choso offers with a shrug. “Always see you around, but you never ask for shit.”

That causes all heads to turn to you, and Evan chuckles in your ear, warm and lacking any real judgment.

“You’ve really never bought anything from him?” he teases, bringing you out in front of him as you roll your eyes and shrug.

“No,” you answer, throwing Choso a mock glare over your shoulder, as if he’d just outed some big, awful secret.

“How come?”

His friends are suddenly at your side, respectfully far enough but still in your space. The pure redhead, the one with freckles dusting his pale skin, grins at you.

“Wanna get something for me instead?”

The girl beside him, with a septum piercing and plum-colored hair, elbows him with an annoyed look. 

“Shut up, Ty,” she nags, and then steps up to you, looping her arm through yours. “Obviously, she’d rather give it to me.”

You giggle beside her at his expression. She’s not overbearing in the slightest, and her touch is gentle enough for you to feel at ease. She smells like weed and vanilla, a curious combination that has you drunkenly leaning into her a little.

“Why the fuck would she get it for you and not me?”

They go off into a little argument while you still stand at her side, and Evan’s distracted by his other two friends, who are messing with the knobs on his DJ setup. Choso is talking to the other girl, someone that you only faintly recognize, probably a face you’ve seen here and there.

Before you can bring yourself to tune into their argument or even venture back to Evan’s side, there’s a prickle at the back of your neck. You’ve been turned away from the dance floor until now, but when you look back, craning your neck to take in the sight of a rolling throng of sweaty bodies, you don’t see anyone watching you, though you could barely see anyone ‌with how dark it was. Still, the sight of so many people below you, even if most of them are lost in their own worlds, unsettles you, and you decide you need a little more alcohol if you’re going to stay up here.

When you look back, you find Evan back in front of you, crowding close again. You place a hand on his chest, keeping him from coming closer and kissing you or something in front of all these people. He gives you a confused smile, hand coming up to grab yours and pull you in so his mouth is near your ear.

“What’s up?” he asks, still loud as the now violent thump of the beat reverberates through the space.

“I’m gonna go get a drink,” you tell him, pulling back just a little to see him nod. “I’ll be right back.”

The girl next to you, with her arm still looped around yours, leans in too.

“I’ll come with,” she offers, and you nod along.

She makes quick work of dragging you two through the space and off the stage, readjusting to hold your hand so that you could stay tethered in the dense thicket of people swerving this way and that. You keep close to her as you two duck and weave past them, giggling and a little giddy from what you already had tonight.

Normally, you aren’t one to buy drinks at the bar. The prices are insane, and your father always checks your credit card bill, so you tend to get the guys to pay for you, but sometimes, when you’re drunk enough, shooters call out to you with an allure you can’t ignore.

“So, what’s your name?” she yells over her shoulder. 

The feeling of being watched follows you, but you still can’t really make anything out in the darkness, even with the sweeping streaks of neon lights. The music is just as loud here as it was closer to the stage, reverberating through you from the ground up. You have to yell your name out to be heard.

“What’s yours?”

“Amaira,” she says, a little softer now that you guys have finally got to the point where the crowd has thinned out a little. “How d’you know Evan?”

You glance back, catching his sandy blonde curls at the DJ booth, his headphones slightly askew.

“Met him at a frat last week,” you answer as you both make your way over to the bar on the other end. “We texted a little, and he told me he was playing tonight.”

She nods as her hair glints in the low light, and you’re beginning to think it’s actually more maroon than plum.

“TDX?”

“Yeah, he was playing there.”

“No way,” she says, surprise creeping into her voice as she turns to look at you. You didn’t notice it before, but she has a lip piercing that matches the gold septum ring. “I was there too.”

“Really?” You two make it to the bar, and you lean against the wood, waiting for the bartenders to finish with their current customers. “I didn’t see you.”

She shrugs. “I was hopping around different frats that night,” she explains, tapping her long nails on the grain. “We were probably there at different times. You a senior?”

“Junior,” you reply. “What about you?”

“Same,” she says, and then continues when you give her a curious look. “Evan’s actually my older brother’s best friend. You probably saw him up there—the guy doing coke on the records?”

“Oh, yeah,” you remember, rubbing the back of your neck to ease the goosebumps despite the heat. “I don’t think I actually saw his face, though.”

“Lucky you,” she snorts.

Just then, a group of girls stumble up to the bar on Amaira’s other side, and one of them seems to recognize her, nearly falling on her as they hug. They start to chatter animatedly, and another one takes a step toward you, an invitation to talk, but the bartender taps the counter to get your attention, and you decide to order first.

“Two lemon drop shots, please,” you say, elbows braced on the wood.

“Make that four,” a voice adds from behind you, gravel-rough and shockingly familiar enough to make your stomach swoop pleasantly.

You turn to see Ryomen Sukuna standing closer than you expected, an arm coming up to hold the counter next to you as he leans over, eyes glinting. Your shock only lasts a second before you raise a brow, the same attitude you gave him the first time you met warring with the urge to play nice and let him do whatever he wanted to do with you. 

The attitude wins, obviously.

“I’m not paying for that.”

The deep-throated chuckle he lets out makes your nerves buzz in a way alcohol couldn’t compare to. It settles deep in your gut, curling up with the satisfaction of being able to pull it out of him, as you lean back against the bar counter.

“Put it on my tab,” he tells the bartender above your head, and you grin, a little more reckless tonight than usual. You silently thank Tara for that extra shot she made you take before you left the apartment.

“Does your tab have a limit?” you ask cheekily as you flutter your lashes up at him.

The entertained smile he gives you seems more predatory than anything, sharp canines teasing the plush of his bottom lip. To your side, the group of girls had stopped talking the second they saw him approach you, and now they explode when he gives you that signature grin, but you can barely hear it with the way his presence drowns them out.

Sukuna’s presence had the effect of drowning out a lot, actually, and you’d noticed this at the frat too. You aren’t sure if it was that imposingly broad set of shoulders, the sheer width of his toned biceps, those tattoos curling up his neck from the collar of his shirt. He’s intense in a way that makes your toes curl in their black boots, the crimson of his eyes flickering with something dangerously dark, the set of his jaw made sharper by that one set of tattoos that traced the line of it, the faded scars that littered his tanned skin.

Whatever it is, it makes the world fade away into practically nothing behind him when he focuses all that intensity on you. The line of his shoulders, the towering height of him above you, the arrogant tip of his head, the messy locks of his faded pink hair falling over his forehead—all make you feel simultaneously like the only girl in the world and like you’re in some terrible trouble. At the frat, you were able to distract yourself with Shoko and the chaos around you, but here, with the way the darkness warps around him, like gravity bends to center around Sukuna, he’s impossible to escape.

And he knows it.

Sukuna’s other arm reaches to the bar behind you, effectively trapping you against the wood for a long second. He savors the way your breath catches when he does, the way your eyes briefly flicker down and then back up. You’ve been intentional with the way you meet his gaze directly, unafraid and bold, but he has the urge to crowd closer and loosen that control you hold over yourself.

Instead, he takes two of the shot glasses the bartender put out behind you, pulling his arm back to offer one to you.

“No limit,” he says, watching as your fingers cleverly take the shot from him without ever actually making contact. It makes his grin grow wider, makes you feel you’ve somehow fallen into some trap. “S’long as you give me a reason to keep it open.”

He can almost predict the arch of your brow by now, and that obstinate flash in your eyes. You’re not exactly trying to resist him, but he can tell you’re going to make him work for it.

“Cheers.”

You clink your glass against his before you both tap them on the wood and tip them up. He finishes his before you do, and it gives him time to watch your throat work on the swallow underneath a thin sheen of sweat.

He saw you before you saw him, dancing at the DJ booth with that blonde guy who clearly isn’t keeping you occupied enough. You were magnetic up there, the sway of your hips intoxicating, and even as Geto tried to convince him to slip into the back section for athletes, he kept to the balcony on the second floor, watching you.

When you talked to Choso, he knew he was in, because right after you stepped off the stage, Choso caught his eye and gave him an imperceptible nod. It told him that you and that DJ weren’t anything serious, just a little fling that, if he plays his cards right tonight, he could easily disrupt.

You bring the glass down, setting it back on the bar counter as your face scrunches at the taste.

“Too strong?” he asks, though the burn of alcohol hadn’t even touched him.

“No,” you say, shaking your head and rubbing your nose, “too sour.”

“Seriously?”

You glance up at him, your smile a little sheepish but unapologetic. “I don’t really like sour things.”

“You ordered lemon drop shots,” he reminds you, and, for some reason, you weren’t expecting the snarky side of him, but it thrills you anyway.

“They’re sweeter at the other place,” you defend yourself. “Besides, that tasted more like lime.”

He laughs again, and you’re well aware that he could just be doing it to get into your pants, but you can’t help the pride that slips down your spine.

“Alright,” he considers, tilting his head. “So no beer and no sour things.”

“You’re keeping track?” you ask, though it comes out less like a question and more like a statement, and he doesn’t seem the least bit embarrassed.

“You’re on my tab,” he says, handing you another shot, and this time, you let your fingers brush over his in a feather-light touch, the contact gone before he can even take advantage of it. “Gotta know what to order, don’t I?”

You don’t drink your shot yet, just holding on to it, and he waits you out as your free hand comes up to fiddle with the shiny pendant of one of the gold necklaces draped around your neck and down the open expanse of your chest in your low-cut black tank top with the lace of your red bra peeking through. It’s inevitable, the way his gaze drops down to the rise of your boobs and the detail of the lace, and then further down to the tight black skirt you paired with it, dangerously short as it covers your ass and very little else, wondering if you had a pair of matching panties underneath.

“You said I had to give you a reason to keep the tab up,” you backtrack, still playing with the gold coin pendant, and you can’t help but smile at how distracted he is. “Why’s it open right now?”

He hums, gaze darkening as he takes you in. “Well, for starters, this outfit is doing you a lot of favors right now.”

You roll your eyes despite the little ego boost it gives you, and glance away with an amused huff, as if you can’t believe that’s what he’s focused on right now, even though that’s exactly what you want him to see.

“Plus,” he says, drawing your attention back to him and his nearly-blown pupils, “you’re interesting.”

You can’t help but laugh at that, giving him an incredulous look but letting his hand slip from the counter to your waist now. The size of it settles on at least half the span of your hip, hot and heavy against the thin layer of fabric that separates skin, and it nearly makes you dizzy.

Christ, if his hand had that effect on you, you can’t help but wonder what the rest of him could do.

“You barely know anything about me,” you counter, refusing to be distracted by his maneuver, no matter how the heat of it brands your skin.

“I know you don’t like beer or sour things.”

“Oh, yeah,” you scoff, sarcasm dripping from your teeth. “That’s really the crux of my personality.”

“I also know you use big words to flirt.”

“Crux is four letters,” you deadpan, and he shrugs, that little smirk of his never leaving.

“Four letters in an order that makes no sense to me,” he admits, and then lowers his head just enough for you to have to tamp down the shiver that runs up your spine. “Besides, what do you know about me?

Now that he’s got you pressed up against the wood, close enough to cause a rumor, you can make his cologne out past the other strong fragrances and the tang of sweat and smoke that hangs in the air. The woody scent makes your head spin, cinnamon and leather undercut by something lighter, something you can’t quite put your finger on. It nearly makes you step closer, just to try and figure it out, but you don’t because you recognize that glint in his eyes, so you choose your words carefully.

You had to keep up, but you couldn’t give away too much.

“You’re in a frat, you play hockey, you get in a shit ton of fights,” you list off as you give him a measured look, your gaze dragging from top to bottom and then back up. Those are all the usual things, the things everyone already knows about him, but then he watches you pull your bottom lip between your teeth, and his hand flexes on your waist when your eyes snap up to his, daringly bright with a small smile that tells him you’re up to no good. “And you’ve got a pain kink.”

That shocks him for a second, long enough that he barely notices when you knock your glass against his, tap it on the wood, down the shot, and scrunch your face up again.

“I swear they’re using lime in this.”

“Where’d you get the pain kink from?”

You roll your eyes like it’s obvious. “Well, one, you aren’t denying it,” you point out, grinning with pride at your little detective work. “And, two, no one gets that many face tattoos without liking it.”

“Well, everyone’s got a thing for pain,” he retorts, and then taps his glass on the wood and tosses his own shot back, sliding it back over to the bartender.

“Everyone?” you repeat, crossing your arms over your chest.

His smirk sharpens, and your eyes catch on his canines. “You gonna tell me you don’t?” he asks as he takes one more step closer, causing you to crane your neck as his fingers begin to slide up your side and his voice drops an octave. “You gonna say you don’t like it when it stings just a little before you feel all good?”

Oh.

You can’t help the way something tightens at the base of your core at his words, the way the idea of it flashes in your mind and makes your breath catch with the anticipation of it. And you know he sees it too, you can tell with the way his fingers press on your ribs, the gleam of victory that flashes in the smoke of his eyes.

When he leans in closer, your lashes flutter and your heart thuds painfully fast, and you can’t tell if that’s a good sign or a bad one.

You’re saved by a loud voice and a flash of messy white hair.

Satoru Gojo is the antithesis of Ryomen Sukuna in nearly every way possible, but it’s those few exceptions that allow him to drape a heavy arm over his friend's shoulder and yell in his ear without getting punched in the face. Not that Sukuna doesn’t look like he wants to, though, because the way his face goes blank in shock and then very quickly darkens with anger as his hands are thrown to his sides in tightly clenched fists suggests that he’s close to knocking Gojo out for the interruption.

“Hey!” Gojo yells, or maybe just says, because while you haven’t had very many interactions with the man, you’re pretty certain this may be his regular volume at all times. “Have we met?”

You laugh, beguiled by both the randomness of the question and the annoyed look Sukuna’s giving Gojo right now. The two shots are beginning to settle into your blood, making the bar a little hazier than it is, but it also gives you enough courage to stay relaxed, still leaning against the bar coolly as if two campus celebrities weren’t currently placing the spotlight on you right now.

“No, I don’t think so,” you answer, not unkind but honest as you tuck a lock of hair behind your ear. “But I think you know my friend.”

“Who’s yo—”

“Get away from her, you white-haired freak.”

Utahime, with perfect timing, appears behind him, shoving his shoulder to get past him and settling into your side. Her arm goes around your waist, yours goes around hers, and she rests her chin on your shoulder as she glares at her high school enemy.

“Came to save you,” she tells you, fully serious in a way that makes you giggle and lean into her, a familiar warmth wrapping around you when your best friend is near.

“Consider me saved.”

“Utahime!” Gojo exclaims, despite her clear disapproval of him. “I haven’t seen you in forever.”

“I know,” she says, tone dead. “I was hoping to keep it that way.”

“Hi,” a voice interrupts, and Amaira interrupts from the side where she’d been watching alongside that group of girls.

You realize they must have been waiting the entire time you and Sukuna were talking, and the idea of all those stares sours something in your stomach. They don’t seem to mind, however, as they crowd closer, and the more people that enter the conversation, the more space grows between you and the pink-haired man, yet you can still feel the heavy weight of his stare on you, his eyes stormy. It’s cold now that he’s not as close, the skin of your ribs still burning with the phantom of his touch.

“I didn’t know you and Sukuna knew each other.” 

The way she says it isn’t rude, but it’s expectant and Utahime stiffens next to you. You smile despite it, pointedly ignoring the way he’s currently burning holes in the side of your face with the laser-like glare of his.

“Not really,” you answer truthfully, glancing at him. The tension is thick in the air, and the alcohol in your system doesn’t help, but you endeavor to be unbothered, anyway. “We kind of just met.”

“Really?” she perks up, stepping forward and inviting herself into the circle.

“Yeah.” 

You look over at him to find him gazing at you with hooded eyes, something suspiciously dark flashing in his eyes, as if he’s daring you to go through with your next move. It’s an odd crossroads you’re at right now, and it’s not exactly like you want to hand him over to her, but you don’t want to show him the want swirling in your gut, and you kind of like how your denial seems to get under his skin.

You can’t help it; you’ve got just as much pride as he does and you can’t resist the challenge.

“This is Amaira,” you introduce, smiling with a vindication that comes more from the way his jaw clenches than from being friendly. “Amaira, Sukuna.”

You take a small step to the side, urging Utahime to shuffle over a bit. His eyes drop to your feet, tracking the movement, and then back up to yours, his body coiled like he’s about to follow. The idea of the chase sends a hot thrill down your spine.

You’re still standing in front of him, just a little past him now, with Amaira on your left and Utahime on your right. Gojo, standing on Sukuna’s right, introduces himself to Amaira, and the group of girls she was talking to also invite themselves in, introducing themselves to the famously charming hockey player. Sukuna, on the other hand, is still watching you, confusion and annoyance and something that looks faintly like interest rippling in the red glow of his eyes.

Before either of you can do anything, Utahime turns her head to you, coming close to your ear so that she doesn’t have to yell over the music.

“I don’t wanna interrupt or anything…”

“You’re never interrupting.”

“This guy keeps bothering Chloe,” she tells you, and your eyes scan the crowd to find your friend. “Tara and I tried to pull her away, but his friends are, like, intercepting or some shit.”

You find Chloe off to the side, gold cuffs glinting in her braids as she shakes her head, looking increasingly uncomfortable the longer she stands there talking to some dark-haired guy. His back is to you, so you can’t make out his face, but it’s clear that he’s saying something to make her shrink away from him.

“Did she tell him about Dante?” you ask, finding Tara talking to two guys who must be the guy’s friends, looking annoyed and trying to get past them.

“He said, and I quote, ‘you should break up with him.’”

You wrinkle your nose. “Ew,” you mutter, and take her hand in yours. “Let’s go get her.”

Before you can take a step, however, Sukuna leans to the side in front of you, tilting his head.

“Heading out?” he asks, brows raised. That smirk on his face had dropped since Gojo came, but there’s this little quirk at the corner of his mouth that tells you he’s not given up yet.

The girls on your left suddenly fall a little quiet, watching the interaction with probing eyes, waiting for an opportunity to slip in.

“I’ll be right back,” you say loudly with a very wide, very fake smile as you glance at them and then back to Sukuna. “In the meantime, you should tell them about your open tab offer.”

They descend without hesitation, fluttering around him with loud giggles and manicured nails twirling locks of hair. It surprises him long enough for you to slip by, but apparently not long enough for you to make a break for it, as he catches you by the arm before you can lead Utahime out.

The contact sends a jolt through you, his hand calloused and warm and impossibly large, wrapping around your upper arm. You have to crane your neck up, looking at him expectantly, as if you’ve got better and bigger things to do than deal with whatever he’s got going on right now.

He’d find this annoying if it weren’t so well-played.

“Seriously?” he asks, voice low and a little incredulous, like he can’t quite believe you’re about to leave right now.

“What?” you ask innocently as you tilt your head and bat your lashes up at him, voice low enough for only him to hear. “You can have a pain kink, but your wallet can’t?”

You slip out of his grasp with surprising strength, disappearing into the crowd just as he turns his head to look. He’d follow you, but Gojo keeps him in his place with his arm slung around his shoulders as the girls crowd the bar.

It is, after all, on his tab.

The third time Sukuna sees you, it’s back at his frat.

It’s a Saturday night this time, maybe two weeks since that night at the bar, where he blew nearly two hundred dollars on drinks for him and that group of girls who were, apparently, the new executive board of Zeta Tau Alpha. It luckily boosted their previously less-than-flattering opinions of the brothers from Delta Kappa Epsilon, but the praise he got from his frat for it fell flat when he thought about the gleam of victory in your eyes that night.

He normally didn’t bother with the chase; he had no reason to, but something about the way you’d managed to slip out of his grasp just as his fingers were closing in sparked some sort of urge in him. He wasn’t sure when he was going to see again, but he’d already made his mind up about it.

Therefore, he supposes it’s a good thing Gojo is forcing him to man the entrance of the frat tonight, even though it was that asshole’s fault you slipped away that night, because Sukuna’s the first to notice you. He’s been standing here all night, arms crossed with an expression that warns anyone against arguing about the entrance fee or about how that girl with a see-through top got in for free and they didn’t.

He’s currently hearing out a group of four girls who are trying to convince him that they know someone in there, debating whether he should just let them go in or not, when he spots a familiar face walk up to Gojo. She’s got a little drunken sway in her gait, but she walks up with purpose, her black-blue hair styled with a large white bow in the back, bangs falling over hazel eyes that glare up at the president of DKE without fear.

“Utahime,” Gojo greets, unbothered by her unmistakable hostility, grin widening. “How have you been?”

She rolls her eyes and gives him some barbed answer, arms crossed and tongue just as sharp as it was when they were in high school. Sukuna recognizes her as Shoko’s friend from when she and Geto just started dating, though he never remembers her name because she refused to hang out with them if Gojo was there. It was easy for her to avoid him back then, even as their friends dated, because Shoko and Utahime went to a different high school than Sukuna, Geto, and Gojo.

Now, however, she was finding it increasingly difficult, especially when Shoko was always at his frat.

Sukuna watches them banter a little, but more so, he’s looking for you. He’d found out from Shoko that you and Utahime were good friends, with the added benefit of being roommates, and the last two times he’d seen you out, Utahime wasn’t far behind. That, however, was all he could get out of her before she got suspicious and asked him why, and he had to make his escape before Geto recounted the embarrassing story about how his bank account suffered that night. She still laughs every time she sees him now.

He’s glad she’s not out here right now to watch him scan the growing crowd outside the frat house for you. It’s a mess, barely resembling an actual linear line, and people shove and push to get to the front. It’s so packed that he can’t really make out faces or individuals, even as he tries to find the exact shade of your hair or the tune of your voice or the tone of your skin.

Just then, Utahime reaches out into the crowd, barely glancing back at it behind her as she still argues with Gojo, and tugs, causing you to come stumbling out of the mess. You’re obviously not paying attention to where you are, completely unaware of your surroundings as you frown down at your phone, glossy lips pressed in a purse, and eyes narrowed at whatever’s upsetting you on your screen. If it weren’t for Utahime leading you with your limp hand in hers, you’d have probably gotten lost in the churning crowd.

She holds on to you as your attention stays stuck to your phone, brows furrowed as you concentrate on typing something out with only one hand. The pale glow of the screen lights up your face, and he can make out the subtly transparent glitter that streaks your cheekbones and the tops of your eyelids, sparkling in the night. You’ve got a deep blush he can make out past the dark, and your lashes are heavy, all feathery and deceptively innocent as you blink, hair falling in a styled curtain around your shoulders and framing your face.

Before he can say anything, Gojo moves to the side, letting Utahime in for free despite the annoyed look she throws at him. He spots you behind her and deviously grins up at Sukuna over your head, ignoring the glare Sukuna gives him as Gojo taps your shoulder to get your attention.

“Hi!”

“Hi,” you respond before you can even look up all the way, the word an instinct more than a response as you drag your eyes away from your phone to see—

Gojo?

You’re turned away from Sukuna, so he can’t see your expression, but he can tell you're surprised by the way you jerk back to do a double-take and realize what frat you’re about to enter. Your head swivels, clearly looking for him, and he gives you a shameless grin when your gaze lands on him, reveling in the way you look so caught off guard, like a deer caught in headlights.

But then Utahime gives your arm another hard pull, clearly unaware of your predicament and simply in a rush to get away from the white-haired frat boy, and, again, you stumble and disappear into the crowd inside. 

And, again, Gojo stops him from going after you.

“Dude,” Sukuna snaps when Gojo pulls him back with a hand on his shoulder.

“Dude,” Gojo mocks with a roll of his eyes. “We’ve got entrance duty.”

“You’re kidding,” Sukuna deadpans, but the irritating grin on Gojo’s face tells him he is very much not.

“Relax, Casanova,” he teases. “Our shift ends in five minutes. Maybe you can use the time to strategize how not to let her slip away this time.”

Sukuna scoffs and shoves Gojo’s hand off, but still complies. True to Gojo’s word, the shift ended in five minutes, but apparently it took the new set of frat guys an extra five minutes to find the entrance, for which they promised to take up cleaning responsibilities tonight when catching sight of Sukuna’s glowering scowl.

It then takes Sukuna another ten minutes to find you, because you’re not at the bar or the basement or the backyard, which are the main hotspots tonight. The lawn stays thankfully clear of too many people this time, and the upstairs has been labeled as off-limits and blocked off, all of the rooms locked so that a repeat of that earlier frat party didn’t happen. He did not appreciate finding that threesome in his room.

He sees both Shoko and Utahime lounging by the pool, but you’re still nowhere to be found, so he does a second sweep of the basement, where Gojo was up on the stage again, messing with the setup of a very disgruntled-looking DJ. They keep having to switch the DJs out at each party because they’d all get annoyed that Gojo would end up taking control while dozens of girls gathered at the bottom of the stage and danced to the music, no matter how terrible the mix was.

Sukuna shoves through the compact crowd, using his height and build to his advantage as his eyes rove over the eager faces with a disinterested glance. It’s too dark to be able to make anyone out, and the flashing LED lights seem to hinder more than help. He reaches the other end of the basement and still doesn’t see you, so he heads to the bar at the back, getting a drink while reevaluating.

And then, of course, he spots you.

You’re actually not in the basement at all, but standing outside the double French doors that lead out to the backyard. He hadn’t seen you earlier because you’re keeping to the entrance, and the wooden back patio is positioned right over it. It’s a clever little hiding spot, and he can understand why you choose to stay there because you’re currently in the middle of what looks like a heated argument with that blonde guy from the bar.

You are not enjoying this conversation. Not that you enjoy a lot of your conversations with men; you found they had little substance to add, but this one in particular is grating on your nerves.

“—and can you blame me for thinking that we worked really well?” Evan asks you, running his hand through his hair as if he’s the one being tested right now. You’ve half a mind to throw the drink in your hand at him, but you don’t because you’re practicing being civil right now.

“You’ve lost your mind,” you answer plainly. “We fucked for an hour, you have no idea if ‘we worked well’ or if it was just that you ended up finishing, like, three times.”

His face reddens, and it’d be entertaining if you weren’t so annoyed. Apparently, he wasn’t too proud of how excited he got when you were making out.

“I didn’t fin—It was twice!”

“Sure, bud,” you say, rolling your eyes. “Whatever you say. S’not like I was there or something.”

“I’m not saying we have to be a couple,” he grits out, ignoring your comment. “Why not fuck buddies or something? You had a good time, didn’t you?”

Disregarding his make-out session thing, you actually did have a good time. Unfortunately, ‘good’ was all it was. You came twice, and that was honestly enough for you, each high giving you a nice buzz before you inevitably came down. It was more than the regular guy could do, but it was just so…

“Yeah, I don’t wanna do that.”

“Why not?!”

“‘Cause I said so,” you snap. “It was nice while it lasted, and now it’s done. Get over it.”

“That makes no sense!”

“It doesn’t have to,” you counter. “All that needs to make sense to you is that I’m saying no.”

You could tell him the real reason, tell him about how, at some point, you’d watched the seconds tick by for a minute, but this conversation was already dragging out longer than you’d like, and you don’t think he’s the type to let go of something like that so easily.

“Well, it makes no fucking sense when you don’t give me a fucking reason,” he argues, getting more agitated by the second.

“Hm,” you hum in mock consideration, and then take a step to the side, your patience running thin. “I can’t lie, that seems more like a ‘you’ problem than a ‘me’ problem. Imma give you some space to figure that out.”

You turn on your heel, ready to leave him and hit the pool, when you stop in your tracks at the shadow that lingers in the doorway, familiar in its size.

“Trouble in paradise?” Sukuna asks, voice deep enough that even when he speaks at a normal volume, you can still hear him beneath the thumping bass of the music coming from the basement. He seems amused, his tattoos stretching up the line of his jaw as he smirks at you. You have to ignore the way your stomach flips for the sake of decorum.

“Hey, man,” Evan says behind you, “we were in the middle of something an—”

“Actually, I was in the middle of walking away—”

“—and it’d be great if you could leave us alone to talk.”

“No!” you cry out, turning your head to give him an exasperated look. “How much clearer could I possibly be? We’re done talking!”

“You didn’t give me an actual answer or rea—”

“Sounds like she gave a pretty clear answer to me,” Sukuna interrupts and then looks down at you, crossing his arms over his chest. The ink shifts, the dark bands around his wrists and biceps almost swelling as corded muscles ripple underneath the skin. “Do I need to kick him out?”

“No,” you mutter, looking away from his arms. You didn’t want to waste any more time on this, and you were quickly losing focus with Sukuna in front of you. Apparently, you can’t catch a fucking break tonight. “It’s fine, we’re done.”

You move to pass Sukuna and hopefully find Shoko and Utahime when you feel a hand come down on your arm. Your response is immediate and sharp, twisting out of Evan’s grasp and whipping around, temper snapping. 

“What the hell do you think you’re do—”

You don’t get to finish your sentence before Sukuna steps in front of you, deceptively fast for a man of those proportions. His broad back, clad in a thin black shirt that stretches across the span of his chest, nearly eclipses Evan fully out of your vision, and you find yourself blinking up at the arcs of ink on the nape of his neck, below the buzz of dark brown hair.

“She said fuck off,” he says, and it’s neither aggressive nor loud, just in that monotone voice that’s somehow intimidating all on its own. “Only reason I’m not dragging your ass out of here is ‘cause she said so, and I don’t wanna be seen next to a little bitch like you.”

You have to lean to peek around Sukuna, and you’re glad you do because Evan’s face is as red as a beetroot right now, and that is really not his shade. He glances at you, his brown eyes and thick brows pulled into a furious expression, and then back at Sukuna. Evan is a tall-ish guy, maybe a couple of inches shorter than Sukuna, and muscular, but there’s really no comparison between the two of them. Even if he looks like he’s about to throw a punch, he knows better than that.

Instead, he turns without a word and stomps away like, you have to admit, a little bitch.

You watch him go as Sukuna turns back to you.

“Wow,” you say blankly. “That went against, like, everything in Conflict Resolution 101.”

He shrugs. “Never took that class.”

“You probably should.”

Sukuna doesn’t say anything in response, just keeps his arms crossed as he studies you, face unreadable. 

The theme tonight is ‘Party in Ibiza’, and you don’t disappoint. You’ve got a mini skirt on again, this one somehow a touch shorter than the last one, with a bunch of sequins and glitter swirling around the dark pink material, and a plain burgundy halter top with a deep neck to match. You’re decked out in gold accessories, the pendant necklace hanging low, a cuff snug on your left arm, your little dangly bracelets catching the light, and you’ve got a small white purse that hangs off your shoulder. The outfit leaves little to the imagination, and your skin subtly shimmers in the night every time the faintest light washes over you.

He can’t even blame Evan for wanting a second chance with you tonight. Too bad he’s here.

You squirm underneath his stare, the dark look that flashes in his eyes sending warning bells ringing in your head. But you can’t help yourself.

“How long have you been standing there?”

That brings the arrogant smirk right back to his face, and you almost immediately regret asking.

“Not long,” he answers vaguely, and then glances over to watch Evan turn and stomp up the stairs to the back patio. “Three times, huh?”

You blink, confused for a second before realization dawns on you like a tidal wave of embarrassment, and you groan, your eyes fluttering shut.

“I didn’t think he had it in him.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, glaring at him as you take the last sip of your drink, pressing the cool material of your can up against your neck to calm the heat.

Instead of listening, he takes a step closer and leans down, shadows shifting over his face and amusement dancing in his expression. “How many times did you cum?”

Your eyes snap to his, brows furrowed at the low baritone of his voice. “I’m not telling you that.”

He hums. “You talked about how many times he came.”

“In a private conversation,” you argue, genuinely lost on how you’ve come to be in this situation right now, “that was between him and me.”

“You said it in a public space,” he says. “Makes it a public conversation.”

“Wha—No, it doesn’t!” you exclaim. “You were just eavesdropping.”

You can tell he’s enjoying getting a rise out of you, and you shift the can to a spot higher on your neck, quelling the flush of frustration simmering in your blood. His eyes drop down, clearly not ready to leave you alone. 

“You gotta stop drinking this shit,” he says, and then moves to take it from you, quicker than you can react.

“It tastes good,” you protest as you watch him read the description and scoff.

“Not even twelve-year-olds get drunk off of this.”

You squint at him. “How many drunk twelve-year-olds do you know?”

He ignores the question and shakes the can a little, looking at you with a smile you’d almost call pitiful if you didn’t recognize the tease in his eyes. His tattoos seem somehow more prominent tonight, under the faint glow of the fairy lights outside, and he’s dressed in a simple black tee and baggy jeans, which you’re pretty sure is the combo he was wearing the last time you saw him at his frat.

“There’s nothing left in here,” he says, and you roll your eyes.

“Yeah, it’s almost like I drank it.”

“Why didn’t you just throw the can at him?”

“‘Cause that would be littering.”

He laughs at that, the sound settling somewhere low within you. “Seriously?” he taunts. “You’re afraid of littering.”

“God forbid a girl cares about the planet,” you huff, crossing your arms and turning back again to walk away from him now. 

You’re certain that a couple more minutes in his vicinity would actually have you go into certifiable psychosis, and he’d enjoy every second. 

Just as you cross the threshold of the door into the basement, Sukuna rounds up beside you, long legs catching up to you faster than you can escape him. He grabs your arm and pulls you forward through the crowd, toward some destination only he knew.

“Hey!—” you yelp in surprise, having no choice but to stumble after him. His hold is surprisingly gentle for how rough his palm felt against your skin, burning your arm. “What’re you doing?”

“We are getting drinks,” he answers, looking back over his shoulder at you with a wicked grin. “Real ones, not whatever that shit was.”

You have neither the time nor the space to argue, and you can’t muster a loud enough yell over the music that booms through the small space. People are jumping up and down to the beat, bumping into you and nearly knocking you off your feet, but Sukuna’s grasp helps you stay upright. You’ve no choice but to keep close to him as he effortlessly parts the sea of people, all of whom are too busy admiring him to notice you slipping by.

He comes to a stop at the bar, and you have to scramble not to bump into him, maneuvering your arm out of his hold. You lean against the counter and try to peer over to see what they have. If you’re going to be here with him, you figure you might as well get a drink. When you glance around to see if it’s self-serviced, you find a familiar face behind the counter, pouring someone drinks from a pitcher of concerningly green jungle juice.

“Is Choso always your bartender at these things?” you ask, turning to see Sukuna already watching you, expression mild and smirk ever-present.

“Not just a bartender,” Choso answers, drawing close to you two as he winks at you. “Also a dealer. Discount still stands, by the way?”

“Discount?” Sukuna asks, crowding closer so you can hear him, and you feel his warm breath break against the side of your neck. He’s not touching you, not yet, but he’s close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off him.

“First-time purchase,” Choso answers before you can.

“You’ve never bought from him before?”

You glare at Choso. “You enjoy doing that, don’t you?”

He just grins in response, already pouring a pair of shots even though you didn’t hear Sukuna ask him for anything. You roll your eyes and turn your head to look at Sukuna, trying to ignore how intense this man was, especially when he was bearing it of his attention down on you like that.

“No, I haven’t bought anything from him, and no, I won’t use the discount on buying anything for you.”

Sukuna chuckles and comes in closer as he grabs the two red solo cups Choso places on the counter.

“Alright,” he murmurs, his voice a rasp. “For you.”

You blink when he pulls back a little, and you realize he’s waiting for you to take the shot.

“No chaser?” you ask, looking up at him in disbelief.

“You can’t be serious.”

“I can’t take this without a chaser,” you press, and then bring the cup close to your nose to sniff the contents, but you don’t get to before his hand is nudging your cup away.

“Don’t smell it,” he chastises. “You won’t be able to drink it.”

“I can’t drink it either way,” you argue, looking up at him with big eyes. Something hot coils in his chest when you do that, and now he’s imagining doing all sorts of things while keeping that gaze on him, but he has to push it aside when you double down. “I need a chaser.”

He rolls his eyes, but you don’t miss the way they flicker for a second, the crimson almost glowing in the dark. The party roars on behind him, but it all fades into the background. You feel like you're on a rollercoaster when you’re near him, your stomach dropping and heart thudding at an irregular beat, suddenly all too aware of the effect he has on you.

“You’re a junior,” he says. “You can’t go through three years of college and not know how to just take a shot.”

“I don’t know anyone who ‘just takes a shot’!”

He raises a brow, the corner of his mouth lifting in a cocky grin.

“I don’t know anyone normal who does that,” you correct yourself.

“I’m not normal?” he teases, but still reaches over the counter to grab another cup and a large bottle of Pepsi.

“You’re abnormal.”

“Back with the big words.”

“Abnormal has two more letters than normal.”

He doesn’t respond, just looks at you with that stupid grin again, the one you’re pretty sure girls have dropped their panties for, and now you’re wondering if it would really be so bad to join their ranks. You ignore the beginnings of want swirling within you as he hands you the cup of soda and knocks his shot against yours. Even after you thump it down on the counter, you regard it suspiciously, and he lets out an annoyed sigh, gently pushing the cup up to your mouth.

“Drink.”

You do. And it tastes fucking awful. You have to squeeze your eyes shut and take a deep breath to keep yourself from gagging, feeling the burn warm your chest enough to make it ache a little. You sip the Pepsi almost immediately after, but it takes a little for your taste buds to register it, and those few seconds in between are literal hell.

“Jesus,” you choke out, eyes still closed and lashes pressed together.

“You good?” he asks, and even though you can’t see him, you can hear the amusement in his voice. 

He looks down at you, face all scrunched up like the night at the bar, and he has the urge to reach up and press his fingers into the apples of your cheeks. He wonders if Evan did that, if he wrapped his fingers around that pretty little column of your throat, if you moaned all sweet for him, and he has half an urge to tilt your chin up and check for the telltale bruises. He doesn’t, however, and just watches you rub your nose again, like a habit.

“No,” you answer, blinking rapidly because you think there are tears from how disgusting that was. “That’s bad. That’s, like, really bad. What the hell is that?”

He leans over the counter again to sneak a peek at the handle. “New Am,” he informs you. “Green Apple.”

“It should be called Bad Apple,” you mutter, swiping under your lashes and still sipping on the Pepsi. “That was phenomenally terrible.”

“Do your words get bigger the more drunk you get?”

You give him your best withering look, not certain if he’s messing with you or not.

“It’s a little concerning that you consider ‘phenomenal’ a big word.”

“It’s an abnormal word,” he taunts, and you have to scoff, but you can’t help the stupid little smile he pulls out of you. 

Sukuna pours you another shot before you can protest, and then pours one for himself as well. He doesn’t take it yet, just sets the handle back down on the counter and shuffles closer so that his face is only a couple of inches away from yours. He’s leaning against the bar to bring himself down to your height a bit, and you shiver at the scalding press of him against you, unable to keep it down. He smiles at you like he knows something you don’t, those canines making their presence known again, and you think about Evan, who left a singular hickey on your neck, but then you look at those teeth again, and you think about them on your skin, sinking into you—

You gonna say you don’t like it when it stings just a little before you feel all good?

“Cold?” he murmurs, low and deep, breaking your trance as heat flushes up inside you again.

“No,” you say, a little too fast and a little too breathless, but before you can regain your senses—

“Why don’t you do it?”

You furrow your brow, lost and unnerved by his gaze, stuck in place as your mind goes all blank.

“Do what?”

“Fuck him again,” he says, jerking his head back in the direction of those doors, where Evan left, and you roll your eyes.

“I’m not telling you that.”

“Why not?”

“It’s personal.”

“Why’d you fuck him in the first place?”

You study him for a second before you answer, taking in the stripe tattooed across the bridge of his nose, the slits in his brows, the probing glare of his red eyes. It’s not judgement, but he’s looking for something.

“Why?” you throw the question back at him, taking a sip of Pepsi and arching your brow. “Jealous?”

He shrugs, somehow gracefully for a man with such a broad span of shoulders. They seem to swallow you whole right now, narrowing your world down to just you and him and the buzz of alcohol that’s warming your blood and loosening your tongue.

“Just wondering,” he answers, though it gives you nothing. “You did leave to go fuck him.”

“I left to go help my friend,” you correct. “He was just… there after that.”

“You could’ve come back,” he says, and if anyone else would’ve said that, it would’ve sounded terribly pathetic, but pathetic is a far cry from Ryomen Sukuna, who’s looking at you with too much confidence, too much of that dark something swirling in his eyes.

“You seemed preoccupied,” you taunt, needing humor to break through the haze that clouds your head.

His eyes narrow at you, and a thrill shoots through you like lightning at the way he looks at you like you’re trouble. “You owe me two hundred bucks for that, by the way.”

The amount makes your eyes widen and your head jerk back in surprise. “You spent two hundred dollars on their drinks!” you exclaim, your voice dropping to a whisper as if it were a secret.

“The hell did you expect when you told them I was giving out free shit?” he asks, clearly annoyed.

“You could’ve said no!”

“To the entire exec board of ZTA?”

You squint in confusion. “ZTA?” you ask, and then suddenly recognize the acronym when you say it out loud. “Oh, shit, the sorority!”

“Yeah,” he mutters, and then gives you a curious look. “How do you not know what sorority your friends are in?”

You shrink a little, stepping back and trying to hide the growing smile behind your cup, but nothing escapes Sukuna, whose gaze hardens as he follows you. You take another one, your back thudding against the wall of the basement, and it sends sparks skittering in your core, excited and nervous at the same time. He ducks his head, eyes sharp as he keeps up with you to close the distance again.

“What?” he demands, and you let out a nervous little laugh, at which he draws his brows together.

“Don’t get mad.”

“What?” he asks again, not really looking any less upset, but you had to admit, he was somehow hotter like this, with that divot between his brows and the stern set of his mouth and the tension in his jaw.

“Well… they’re not really my friends.”

His face drops for a second, and then turns thunderous. “You offered free drinks to strangers on my tab!”

“No!” you backtrack, even though that was fully the truth. “They were just more like… acquaintances.”

“Acquaintances?” he repeats, and you nod. “Right. What are their names?”

You blink and try really hard to think of at least one of their names, but you don’t think you actually talked to any of them, and you’re terrible with names, so your chances are shot.

“Amy?”

His expression goes blank for a second, and you’re uncertain if Amy was actually someone there or not, but then annoyance flashes across his face again, disbelief coloring his groan, and he presses down on the bridge of his nose. He’s close enough that you can feel the sound rumble through his chest in the small space between you two more than hear it, and it makes your insides twist, has your breath catching in your throat.

“What the actual fuck is wrong with you?” he complains, but you can’t detect any genuine heat behind it, so you giggle, unable to help yourself.

“I was being nice!”

He looks at you like he can’t believe what’s coming out of your mouth right now. And, to be fair, he can’t.

“You’re insane.”

“I’m generous,” you counter, cheeky and eyes so bright that he can’t help but lean in closer, his chest barely brushing yours, but you don’t seem to notice, or, if you do, you don’t seem to mind. “And now, I made you look generous. So, actually, you should thank me.”

“Thank you?” he repeats, incredulous, and you beam up at him.

“You’re welcome,” you simper, and then take another sip from your cup.

Sukuna just watches you for a long second. Your amusement fades a little when those red eyes stare down at you like that, all dark and violent with something you don’t dare name yet, but the alcohol has sunk deep into your system by now, dizzying you enough to deafen the little voice inside of you that screams at you to run.

“What?” you ask, almost defensively.

Sukuna doesn’t answer, just blinks once, then twice, and then suddenly tips the shot back. You almost choke on your Pepsi when he does, finding yourself watching his Adam’s apple bob, the tan of his throat stretched out in front of you with the ink of his tattoos creeping around the sides. A perfectly timed flash of light streaks his body in red, and you realize how close he’s gotten without you noticing, his chest brushing against yours with every exhale. One more step would bring him close enough to—

“You owe me,” he says, tossing the cup onto the counter. 

You watch it bounce off, but never see where it lands because suddenly his arm is blocking your view, braced on the wall behind you, the sleeve of his black tee stretching around the flex of his biceps. When you look back at his face, he’s closer than before, slightly crooked nose a couple of inches from yours. 

“I’m not paying you two hundred dollars.”

“Then tell me why you won’t fuck him again,” he bargains, and you draw your brows together in equal parts confusion and annoyance.

“I’m not doing that either!”

“It’s one or the other,” he shrugs, and you’re only faintly aware of the party that rages on behind him.

The music changes beat, something low and heavy and loud enough that you can feel it thud in your chest, matching your heart rate. His eyes glint like rubies in the dark, messy pink hair falling forward to tickle his forehead. 

“Since when are those my choices?”

“Since I made them,” he answers simply, gaze pinning you in place.

You ignore the shiver up your spine at the dominance of his tone, ignore how it makes you want to shift in your spot.

“And since when do you decide what my choices are?” you scoff, attempting your very best to seem unaffected as you cross your arms. It’s a feeble attempt to keep space between you two, but it’s all you’ve got right now.

“Since you made me pay for random girls at the bar.”

“I didn’t make you do anything,” you argue.

“You got two hundred dollars on you?” he asks, and you channel your irritation into a glare, which is a lot easier said than done right now, when he’s leaning over you in a way that makes you feel smaller than you are.

You roll your eyes at him, nonetheless. “Do I look like I have two hundred dollars on me?”

Sukuna’s eyes drop, roving over you in a slow drag that sends goosebumps down your arms, and you nearly regret saying that. You can almost feel the heat of his gaze as it lingers on your upper thigh, the inch of skin between the hem of the top and the waist of the skirt, the deep cut of your top that shows off your boobs, pressing up and together with the way you have your arms crossed. When he looks back at you, his pupils are wider than before, an overwhelming darkness nearly eclipsing the jarring red of his eyes.

“Why not let him fuck you?” he repeats, voice dropping an octave, and you fight the haze that’s building in your head.

“Why are you so obsessed with this?”

Sukuna continues like he didn’t hear you. “He didn’t make you cum?”

You huff out an incredulous laugh, sounding amazed for all the wrong reasons. “Let me guess,” you sneer. “You think you’re the only guy on campus who can make a girl cum?”

The grin he gives you is pure sin, rows of neat white teeth gleaming in the dark, the tips of his canines teasing you. His tongue rolls over them, and heat pools in your stomach, pitching you down and making you unable to look away.

“No,” he admits, making your eyes snap up to his, and now he’s looking at you like he knows exactly what you’re thinking. “But there’s a difference between making a girl cum and giving a girl a real orgasm.”

Fucking hell.

You need to get a grip because suddenly your knees feel a little weak, but when you attempt to take in a steadying breath, the scent of cinnamon and leather and something just barely sweet shoots straight up to your head, making the world spin. You try to get your bearings, but the press of him so close is so intoxicating that you can barely think straight right now.

“I’m not talking about this,” you mutter, and then move to slip out from the other side, but he’s quicker, his other arm coming up to fully trap you between the basement wall and the muscled wall of his chest.

You turn, anger flashing in your eyes, but he interrupts before you can voice your annoyance.

“Fine,” he concedes, not sounding like he’s surrendering in the least. “Don’t tell me why you won’t fuck him again.”

“Thanks,” you say, rolling your eyes. “Can I go no—”

“Why not let me kick the loser out?”

You blink up at him, equal parts shocked and agitated by his insistence. “Seriously?”

Sukuna shrugs, even though he’s still looking down at you with that devilish promise, the one that sends electricity shooting through your nerves. “S’not like you were gonna go home with him tonight.”

“Just ‘cause I didn’t want to have sex with him again doesn’t mean he deserved to be publicly humiliated,” you say in a tone that suggests you find him insane for thinking there was a correlation between the two.

“So he has a small dick, and you feel bad for him,” he says simply, as if he’s just summarizing your words instead of twisting them.

“What! No, that’s not what I—”

“He has STDs.”

“He doesn’t have ST—”

“He moaned a different girl’s name.”

“Stop!” you exclaim, smacking his arm with the back of your hand. Obviously, it doesn’t even make him flinch, and you cross your arms again, though you can’t keep the little laugh from tugging at the corner of your mouth. “He didn’t have a small dick, he didn’t have STDs, and he didn’t call out a different girl’s name! The sex was fine, he was just—”

You cut yourself off, but it’s too late. 

Sukuna’s looking at you now like you’ve just fallen into his trap, with a sharp grin. Regret immediately courses through you as you lean your head back against the wall and groan, shutting your eyes as if that’ll block everything out or reverse time.

“Don’t stop,” he teases, and he shuffles closer as the thin sliver of control you’d managed to maintain wavers.

“Stop talking,” you mumble, refusing to open your eyes.

“Oh, c’mon, you were just about to say it,” he insists, and you open your eyes to just look at him.

You’ve no idea how you got here, crowded up against the wall, caged in by thick arms on either side of your head, facing a man that was more legend than human. You knew what Ryomen Sukuna was before you knew who he was: the infamously brutal hockey player who liked to fuck around and leave a trail of lovesick girls in his wake, who always knew how to get what he wanted.

So what’s he doing here, pressing up against you like he can’t stay away, probing for answers that he seems far too interested in? The first time, at his frat on the first week of school, you’d thought it was a fluke; he just saw a girl that looked easy and was friends with his friend so why not go for it? The second time surprised you, but you’d chalked it up to the abrupt way you’d left at the frat. Maybe he was just testing if you were still a viable option.

This time, you have no idea what it is. You left him to pay for random girls, slept with a different guy, and actively refused to fall for all the old tricks. You entertain the idea of this being a dare, a bet between frat brothers, but you barely even know them, much less them you. Besides, it’s not like you’re some unconquerable virgin, you’re just a regular college girl who doesn’t have time for a relationship but does have needs. You fuck around here and there, but not enough for it to turn into gossip, and certainly not enough to spark interest.

“Well?” he asks, raising a brow. “He was just what?”

You consider telling him.

It’d be a little embarrassing for you, sure, but you know how to spin it to your advantage. You could picture it clearly. The only issue is that you hate the idea of being clumped into a collection of wins for him, just another notch in his belt. It isn’t that you want to be his one and only or anything like that, it’s the idea of adding to his inflated ego that gets to you. But…

But it’s not like he’s going to be your one and only either. You’re not the type to get attached so easily, and neither is he. And it’s not just his pride on the line, yours stood to gain just as much, if not more.

So, slow enough that his gaze drops to watch you do it, you uncross your arms and drag your nails ever so lightly up his arm and over the veined expanse of tattoos and skin. His other arm flies to your waist, grip flexing, branding the exposed skin that he held in his calloused palm. When you reach his shoulder, you lean in a bit to the other side of his head, just enough to bring your mouth near his ear, and pause to let a little puff of air roll across his neck, pushing up on your wedges just slightly to stretch your body up against his, feeling the toned mass of him against you, and then—

“Boring,” you answer, dragging your nails up his neck now, lips just barely brushing against the other side of neck. “Didn’t press me into bed like I wanted. Didn’t make me wanna beg for it.”

His grip on your waist tightens, your name on his tongue as either a threat or warning, you can’t tell, but it sends a hot thrill down your spine and straight to your panties either way. You don’t respond to him, just focus on the tension that settles in his jaw, bringing your hand to stroke the line of it.

“Didn’t have me crying at the stretch of him,” you say, breathing the words into his skin now, your lips still just the tease of a touch as you pull back, stare deliberately focused on the pillows of his lips before you look up at him through your lashes. Sukuna’s red eyes are now fully dark, glittering with the sort of hunger that twists in your gut, and you can’t help your taunting little smile. “Think you could do better?”

Sukuna doesn’t respond. Something snaps in him, hot and desperate, as he lunges, and then there’s the rough press of his lips against yours.

He’s not gentle with it, and he’s certainly not sweet. Sukuna kisses you with the raw sort of passion that has your knees faltering, lips moving against yours with a need that floods you with heat. His tongue licks against the seam of your lips, and his hand, the one not on your hip, comes up to the junction between your jaw and neck, thumb pulling at your chin to coax your mouth open for him, relishing in that little gasp you give.

It takes you a second to process, but then you’re kissing him back, trying to match his pace and intensity, just as hungry as him. He tastes like liquor and mint, and it makes you desperate for more, chasing the burn of it on your tongue, and your lips slide against his with the same force. Your other hand slides up his chest and to his neck, keeping yourself anchored to him as he kisses you so hard it makes your head spin and your lungs burn.

You pull away, trying to get some air, but he follows you, hand slipping from your jaw to tangle in your hair and tilt your head back as it hits the wall behind you, having you melt into him with a broken moan. He swallows the sound, the kiss turning bruising as he smiles against you, licking deep into your mouth. His fingers stretch across the span of your side, pressing into your ribs and brushing at the sensitive skin underneath your boob.

You have to push against his shoulders to get him to pull back for a second, just enough to catch a breath before he’s descending on you again, urgent, open-mouthed kisses that you can only gasp into, leaving you slumped against the wall.

“Sukuna,” you mutter, trying to keep the needy little whine out of your tone as he brushes your lips against yours again, and then once more as the hand in your hair shifts. “Wait, I need—”

You don’t get to finish before he’s moving down, pressing wet little kisses down your jaw, and your eyes flutter shut, head tipping back against the wall. Your breath catches when both his hands grip your waist, nearly engulfing the entirety of it and venturing dangerously high while he pushes his hips against yours in a dirty grind, the pressure eliciting a whisper of a whimper on your lips as you tangle your fingers in his hair.

“Come up,” he mumbles against your skin, and when you don’t answer, he nips hard at the spot between your neck and jaw to get your attention, making you yelp.

“What?” You’re all breathless and distracted, and it goes straight down to his cock as he pulls back.

“Come up,” he says again, watching with a dark satisfaction at the way you blink up at him, lips glossy and parted around little huffs of air. “My room.”

He ducks his head down again, lips brushing against your spit-slick ones. “We don’t have to fuck,” he murmurs, “but I’m not gonna do this in the fucking frat basement.”

You let out a breathless laugh, and then tilt your head up to kiss him properly. His hands squeeze the skin of your waist, but it only makes you bite his bottom lip briefly.

“If I go up to your room,” you say against his mouth, “I’m gonna want to fuck you.”

“Then come up,” he urges, and you hum, leaning up a little more to kiss him again, but he leans back, hand coming up from your waist back to your hair to tug at the locks and keep you from following him. He grins at the way your brows immediately furrow, and you glare at him, still fiery even after all this. “Gotta use your words, baby.”

You ignore the way the nickname sparks your nerves and roll your eyes. “Yes, fine, up to your room.”

Your hands have fallen to his chest with the distance between you two now, and you clench the material of his shirt to pull him back to you, impatient, and he lets you guide him with a deep chuckle. His hold on your hair tightens, and your scalp stings a little, but it twists into something hot in your gut.

“Couldn’t fuck the attitude of you, could he?” he mutters against your lips before indulging in a couple more kisses, his tongue scorching and heavy against yours.

“Shut up.”

“Brat.”

You begin to get lost in the rough press of his lips against yours again, melting into the feverish weight of him as his thigh comes between your legs. It presses against your heat just right and makes you squirm against him, electricity racing up your spine and making your head all dizzy, but then he retreats. You’re about to snap at him, but then he pulls you forward by your waist as both hands settle on your hips again, turning you around and urging you forward.

“Stairs,” he mutters from behind you, into the top of your hair, and you follow as he takes you to the stairs that lead up out of the basement. 

The press of him behind you, large and tense, has you stumbling forward, wanting nothing more than to stop and let him crowd you up against the wall again. Sukuna’s hands tighten on you, a near-bruising grip on your hipbones, as you climb up the stairs quickly, your ass brushing up against him, and you can’t help but purposefully press it back into him at times, the silence between you two thickening with tension as his fingers tighten.

When you come up the last step, you stop, unsure of where to go now that you're facing the large foyer of the house, with what looks like a living room to your left and a kitchen to your right. He bumps up against you from behind, not expecting you to stop so suddenly, and you instinctively turn to ask him. Before you can, however, Sukuna’s hand comes up, quicker than you can process, and grips your jaw to force your face forward, thumb and finger pressing into your cheeks, and something behind your navel pulls taut.

“You turn around right now,” he warns, voice low against your ear, and you shiver in anticipation against him, “and I’m not gonna be able to stop myself from fucking you against this wall.”

You’re distinctly aware of the prominent press of his length against your ass, and your panties grow damp, but you grin despite the warning. You hold on to the forearm of the hand on your jaw, nails digging in lightly.

“Alright,” you say, and you can’t keep the laugh out of your tone, even as you feel him squeeze your jaw with a warning. “Which way do I turn?”

His hand drops back to your waist, and he doesn’t answer, just pushes you to the right and then around the end of the wall to another set of stairs. You have to keep your balance by holding onto his forearm and the railing, especially when his feet nudge yours at a pace that’s faster than what you’re used to. He makes quick work of having you walk up the second set of stairs, dipping his head to drop burning kisses on your exposed shoulder. It makes your steps stutter, but he continues to push you forward, unapologetic.

When you get to the top of this set of stairs, you find someone standing there on his phone, blocking off a hallway behind him and a loft with a couch and TV to the right with another hallway at the other end. You blink in surprise, and he looks just as shocked.

“Oh,” you say. “Hi.”

The guy, who looks to be younger than you, opens his mouth to say something before Sukuna interrupts.

“Move,” he basically orders, and when the kid glances behind you, his eyes nearly double in size before he all but scrambles out of the way.

You can’t say or do anything before Sukuna’s pushing you again, nearly shoving you into the hallway past the loft, and you stumble.

“Hold on,” you gasp, feeling like you’re about to fall forward, but his tight grip keeps you upright. “Ow, hey!”

He stops at the end of the hallway, turning to the last door on the left wall. You’re still in front of him, so you reach for the brass doorknob, twisting only for it to stop halfway.

“What the—”

Sukuna kisses up your shoulder and neck, teeth nipping at the skin like he’s on the hunt for something. You’re about to mention the door, but then he finds that sweet spot just below your ear, and it sends sparks ricocheting through you, making your knees buckle. You melt into him the second he brushes the hot swell of his lips against it, head tipping back onto his shoulder, a quiet half-moan—more of a wispy breath than anything—leaving you as your eyes shutter, and you feel him smirk against your skin.

“C’mon,” he says, viciously proud as his teeth tease at the spot, hard enough to make you have to tamp down your whimper, squirming in his hold, but one arm wraps around you, trapping you in place, while the other braces against the door. “Get the door for me, baby.”

“Can’t,” you gasp, and you reach back to push against his chest, trying to think past the fog that clouds your mind as his hand starts to explore, fingers dancing at the waistband of your skirt. “The door—Sukuna.”

He lifts his head at the emphasis on his name, allowing you to shove him away a little, but not far enough. You’re both breathing hard as you turn your head to look at him, heated breaths mixing in the air between you, and his gaze drops to your lips.

“What?” he says, still looking at your mouth and beginning to nudge closer. 

You nearly give in, the press of him behind you and scent of him too disorienting to focus, but the cold metal of the doorknob grounds you enough to pull back.

“The door,” you say quickly before he can interrupt again. “It’s locked.”

He blinks in surprise, clearly not expecting that. He glances at the door, then you, then the door.

“Fuck.”

“What?” You twist around as his hand moves from your waist to his pat at his pockets.

“Need the fucking key,” he grumbles, and you lean back against the door, legs weaker than you realized.

“You need a key to get into your room?” you ask, watching him fumble for them as you cross your arms. Your breath is still heavy, your pulse roaring in your ears, and you fight to steady both.

“It’s an old house,” he huffs, finally finding it tucked into his back pocket. 

“So you locked yourself out of your room?”

He lifts the key to fit into the keyhole. “No,” he mutters, fiddling with the knob. “I locked the room so that other people wouldn’t get in.”

“Well,” you hum, watching him struggle, “now we can’t get in.”

“Fuck!” He pulls the key back out and jangles the knob before trying it again.

“Who even wants to get into your room so badly?”

“Last time it was open,” he says, pushing at the door, “three people decided to experiment in here.”

You blink, eyes travelling up the expanse of him. He’s hunched over the stupid doorknob, muscles coiled with the same tension that tugs at your gut and pulls you toward him. His wrist twists, veins prominent in the low lighting before disappearing into the flex of his biceps, and his other hand is still leaning against the door, right next to your head. His shirt is pulled taught across his shoulders, and rises as he messed with the lock, a sliver of toned muscle and the band of his underwear peeking through. Your throat goes dry at the hint of his v-line, the trace of dark hair leading down, and you have to force your gaze back up, ignoring the fever rush that blooms deep within you.

“Three people?” you repeat absentmindedly, voice a rasp, and then you realize what he’s saying and your face scrunches up. “There was a threesome in your room?”

He tries the key a third time, fiddling with the knob before finally glancing up at you, and his eyes narrow. “I thought I told you not to turn around.”

You grin up at him, all slow and sweet. You inch closer to him, the scent of amber and honey invading his senses as you wind your arms around his neck, leaning up on your tiptoes. It takes Sukuna a great measure of control not to shove you back against his door and kiss you senseless, maybe slide his hand up your thigh to the apex of you, as he works the damn key.

“I don’t remember,” you say, infuriatingly innocent as you lean close, forcing him to look at you. “Tell me why again?”

God, you’re a fucking vision right now. Your pupils are blown, eyes large and dark with a need he wants nothing more than to smother, and your lashes bat up at him in a way that makes his pants tighten impossibly. Your hair’s a mess from when he had his hand in it, and you tilt your head up at him like sin in the form of a woman who’s about to bring him to his knees.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots the pledge watching you both, and Sukuna knows what he sees: the shorter than short skirt, the rumpled top, the way your chest rises and falls with each breath, the stretch of you against him.

He leans down and kisses you hard enough to have you shuddering against him, the hand braced on the wall above your head coming down to give your ass an appreciative squeeze, one he’s certain the pledge watches. You gasp into his mouth as he does, moving your plush lips against his with just as much pressure, your tongue licking into his mouth with coy licks, soft but just as intoxicating.

Jesus.

He pulls away, frustration broiling in his gut as his hand rests against the damn doorknob. You don’t seem to be deterred by the wave of anger that rolls off him in a swell of heat, pressing fervid, open-mouth kisses down his jaw and neck. You lick at the pulsing vein in his neck, teeth scraping skin, and he hisses, palm pressing against your ass as his fingers tighten.

“Fuck this fucking fuckass door,” he snarls. Just as he thinks maybe you can use Gojo’s room, he feels your shoulders shake against him, and when he looks down at you, he finds you stifling a laugh against his collarbone, eyes gleaming and lips pursed to keep it from escaping. “Are you fucking laughing at me?”

“Not at you,” you try, the excuse flimsy as you pull away from him, hands still braced on his chest. “With you.”

“I’m not laughing,” Sukuna deadpans, and you can’t help the giggle that bubbles up at that, turning your head away, but it’s useless because he catches it anyway.

The hand on your ass comes up to curl around your hip, and his fingers pinch the skin there with a sharp, harsh twist.

“Ow!” you wince, looking up at him in surprise, your eyes wide with humor and shock. Your hand flies to his wrist, fingers settling on the thick bands of ink. “What the hell!?”

“You’re such a fucking brat,” he mutters, dipping his head down. 

He brings his arm up from your waist to wrap around the side of your neck, thumb pushing your head back as his lips hover over yours. Sukuna smirks at the way your breath stutters, lashes fluttering, but he keeps you in place, not letting you push forward to kiss him again, and the denial makes your eyes flash with a fire he wants to devour.

“At least I’m not the one that can’t get the door open.”

He scowls as you jerk your head out of his grasp and take the key from him, twisting around to the door. You pull at the door, and then push, testing the lock, before carefully slotting the key back in, gently trying to tell where it catches in the mechanism.

“You’re not getting in,” he says, with a finality that makes you turn your head to glare at him as he stands there with his arms crossed.

“Wanna bet?” you ask. “Two hundred dollars.”

“You already owe me two hundred dollars.”

You shrug, inching the key in a little further. “So I’ll be out of debt then.”

“Or you’ll be four hundred dollars in debt,” he counters.

“Aw,” you coo, making his frown harden. “Are you worried about me?”

He clicks his tongue in annoyance, and then shakes his head. “Fine,” he concedes. “Two hundred dollars. But I’m expecting every penny of the four hundred when I win.”

Your eyes glint at the dare, and you turn back, focusing all your attention on the knob. The key slips in a little further, the mechanism still not giving way for it to turn. You work slowly, twisting every couple of seconds to see if the tines have aligned with the lock yet. Sukuna huffs behind you, but you ignore him and keep at it. Your chest burns with hazy desire, yes, but right now the fire of the competition rages a little brighter, your pride rearing its head in the face of his blatant disregard.

“This isn’t fucking working,” he decides after a couple more seconds. “I think Gojo’s roo—”

Click.

You turn your head slowly, a too-wide grin aimed right at him, and his eyes narrow.

“You’re fucking kidding me.”

“Uh-oh,” you say in a sing-song tone, turning the key further.

“Shut up,” he glowers.

You tut, twisting the knob as the lock gives way and the door swings open. “This is not a good look for you.”

“Shut. Up.”

“Oh, man,” you say with a laugh, stepping in as you turn to him and walk backward. “I’m holding this over you for, like, ever.”

“I swear to God—”

You turn around again, ignoring him in favor of his room. There’s the low, warm wash of a lamp he’d left on earlier in the corner of the room at his desk, and it makes the shadows stretch dark and long. Old movie and band posters are plastered on the walls, tacked with surprisingly deliberate care. His desk is in the right corner of the room, his bed tucked into the left corner, and a window in between them with a short shelf of random notebooks and knick-knacks beneath it. There’s a dresser on the right wall next to his desk, and his closet is to the left past the foot of bed, while there’s a closed door on the other side of the entrance.

“Hey, this isn’t bad,” you apprise, and Sukuna watches as you venture in further, eyes dropping to the open back of your top, the way your skirt hugs your ass and practically nothing else. He shuts the door behind him and locks it, silently crossing the space in a few steps as he reaches for you. “No wonder that threesome wante—mmph!”

Sukuna grabs you by the back of your neck, palm firm and wide as he spins you around and crashes his lips into yours. It pulls a sharp gasp out of you, one he swallows as he presses his lips against yours with a bruising force, tongue licking deep and dirty into the crevice of your mouth. You try to keep up with him, but it’s nearly impossible as he keeps your head tilted at the angle he wants, keeping you from fighting with him on it. You stumble with the force of him pushing against you, and he slams you against the wall with a harsh thud, your spine stinging as the hit knocks the breath out of you.

Your lungs burn again, and you press at his chest, but he doesn’t give, just keeps kissing you, sliding spit-slick lips against yours and you're powerless to do anything but respond, having to rely on him to keep yourself upright as you meet his kisses with your own messy ones. When he finally pulls away, you gasp for breath, vision swimming, head thick with lust and falling back on the wall. He doesn’t give you time to find your breath, pressing kisses back down your jaw, harsher this time, teeth testing the fragility of the skin there. 

Your breath stutters, fingers coming up to tug at his hair while your other hand squeezes his shoulder, nails digging into flesh. Sukuna drops his hand from your neck to skim his palm over your ass and then up the curve of your back, hot and heavy as it slips beneath your top, tracing up the line of your spine and leaving a burning trail in its wake. His legs part yours, the thick muscle of his thigh bunching as he flexes it, other hand on your hip to pull you down. The thin material of your lace thong does nothing to keep you from feeling the rough friction of his jeans against your core, and you jolt, pleasure sparking below your navel.

“Fuck—ngh,” you whimper, not being able to keep it in as you grind down, heat flooding your panties and light flashing behind your closed eyes.

Your hips buck, searching for more, but his hand on your hip forces you to stay still, controlling the slow roll of you against his leg. His teeth nip at your neck, where your pulse kicks in your throat, and you feel him bite down when you try to override his grip on you, trying to move your hips on your own. Instead, he goes infuriatingly slower, as if punishing you.

“Sukuna,” you whine, nails digging deeper into his shoulder with frustration. He doesn’t let up, just pulls your hips in torturously sluggish pace over his leg as his other hand slips to the front to cup your boob. “Want—ah!”

He gives a firm squeeze, kneading the flesh in his palm with a hard pressure that has your nerves buzzing. His fingers find the pebbled nipple through your top, almost painfully hard, and tug at it, the cloth brushing against the sensitive skin. You barely swallow the moan threatening to breach, but then he twists it, harsh and sudden, and you can’t help but cry out, skin smarting with a dizzying thrill.

His hand travels back up, ghosting the heated skin of your fast-rising chest and over the dip of your collarbone and up the delicate column of your throat to grab your chin, thumb and forefingers gently pressing into your cheeks again. At first, you barely notice, more focused on trying to squirm out of his hold so that you can shift yourself on his thigh, only to find yourself no match for his strength. Then, however, he taps your cheek, and your eyes flicker open to find him looking at you, hooded gaze nearly unrecognizable with how dark it's gone.

“Eyes open, baby,” he murmurs, and you blink, then groan, trying to move your hips again but not being able to escape his hold.

“Sukuna,” you snap, ignoring the way his fingers press tighter at your tone. “Would you just fucki—”

You’re cut off by the painful force of his thumb and forefinger against your cheeks, tightening around your jaw all of a sudden before loosening enough to have you pouting up at him.

“Behave,” he warns, but you can’t help the way your face scrunches up with irritation when the hand on your hip completely stops, keeping you pinned in place on his thigh. Something glints in his eyes, and you fight through a frustrated sigh before you realize it’s humor.

“What?” you ask, nose wrinkled and a little petulant because you’re not finding anything funny right now, especially with the way he’s refused to let you move.

He grins and leans in closer, lips teasing yours with a gentle brush while his hand on your jaw keeps you from tilting your head up to kiss him fully.

“Anyone ever say y’look kinda like a bunny?”

You blink, convinced you heard him wrong, and blink again, but he just watches you with that sick, amused smile folding itself into his smirk.

“What?”

“Y’look like a bunny,” he repeats, leaning in to indulge in a too-short kiss before pulling back a bit again, making you bite back an annoyed groan. “Screw your face up all cute like one.”

“I do not—”

“You do,” he says against your mouth, and then kisses you again, harder this time, nose bumping against yours, and you try to chase him before he’s shifting back. “Got an attitude like one, too.”

You’ve genuinely no clue what he’s talking about right now, but you do know that you’d like him to talk less and try to fuck you more. Still, if there’s one thing about you, it’s that you’ll always bite.

“Who died and made you the expert on bunnies?” you snark, rolling your eyes, and your hands go to tug at his grip. 

Surprisingly, it loosens, and you falsely believe this is your chance, but then he thumbs at your bottom lip and jerks his leg up, stealing a surprised gasp as it hits your core just a little to the side from where you need it. Pleasure builds in you, but then dissipates faster than it came, leaving frustration swirling alone in your belly. He uses the opening to slip his thumb into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue as he grabs your chin again, jerking your head a little.

“They can also be fucking brats,” he mutters, as if lost in thought, when your teeth instinctively close on his finger, and his eyes narrow as he presses down harder, trapping your tongue with the calloused pad of his thumb. 

You don’t loosen your bite, harsh enough to leave indents, you’re sure, but not enough to break skin or draw blood. Not yet, anyway. He leans in, mouth brushing against your cheekbone before going to your ear, and his hand tightens to a promise of bruises on your hip. Then, before he says anything, he guides your hips in a slow, purposeful roll that has your clit catching on the perfect press of his jeans, a knot tightening in your gut at the added delight and you let out a soft sigh, lashes fluttering.

“C’mon, bunny,” he whispers, voice pitched low. “Behave.”

There’s a second of hesitation, and then your teeth lift. If that’s what he’s promising, then you can do without having him lose a finger.

“Good girl.” The praise slips down your spine like oil, going straight to your clothed cunt, pulsing with need.

He does it again, guiding your hips at the exact angle you need it, and you squirm in his hold at the way it twists into something deep in your core. The muscle of his thigh flexes beneath you as you let out a breathy little moan, and he tucks his head into the crook of your neck, mapping the expanse of it with wet kisses and sharp canines dragging across the skin. His thumb presses further into your mouth as it falls lax, and you cry out around it when he finally allows you to buck your hips in a desperate rut against the texture of his jeans.

“There you go,” he mutters darkly, eyes peering up at your face. “S’good when you fucking behave, isn’t it, bunny?”

You can’t respond with your tongue pinned by his thumb, only whimper as you roll your hips faster.

The pleasure builds in you, sharp and thrumming behind your navel, but it lingers somewhere out of your reach, and you urge him to quicken the pace, desperate for something more. His hand retreats from your jaw, thumb smearing spit down your chin as he kisses you again. Your arms fall over his neck and shoulders again, hands tangling in the messy pink locks. 

Then, without warning, both of his hands fall to your hips and hoist you up. Your legs wrap around him by instinct, and your whine at the loss of pressure against your cunt is muffled by the hot press of the kiss. 

He moves away from the wall, and your arms scramble around the width of his shoulders and neck, keeping yourself anchored to his chest as you continue to kiss him and he carries you to the bed. You’re suspended in the air for a couple of seconds before Sukuna lowers you onto the mattress, deceptively gentle in the wake of the bruises he’s sure to have left on your skin. The soft cushion of his comforter meets your back, and your legs fall to the bed while your arms drop from his neck down to the hem of his shirt.

You can feel the toned muscle as he pushes you onto the bed, and you want more. You tug on the hem and he separates from you to reach back and yank on the collar of his shirt. The scene of you has your mouth going dry and your panties wet, his triceps swelling as he pulls his tee up off his head in a swift move to reveal the large expanse of his chest and the carved muscle of his abs, glistening with sweat in the low light.

You drag your hand up his torso, feeling his abs contract under your teasing touch as your nails scrape over the ripples of his chest. He leans down to kiss you, knee braced between your legs as his hands smooth down each thigh down to your calves. You’re barely aware of the way he fiddles with the straps of your wedges, only hearing the thud of them fall to the carpet when he lifts his head up again.

“Word,” he murmurs, still leaning over you as you blink up at him.

“What?”

You’re a different kind of pretty when you’re staring up at him with those big eyes and blank stare, skin flushed, hair pooling on his sheets, chest pushing against his bare skin with each labored breath. It takes a great deal of strength not to lower himself again and kiss you, have you gasp into his mouth in that way he was quickly finding drove him insane.

“Safe word,” Sukuna explains, and then leans down just enough to tease you. “Y’know what that is, right?”

“I know what it is,” you grumble, lashes fluttering and head tilting up subconsciously. “S’just… I don’t know.”

He arches a brow, his quiet little smile mocking you as he his breath breaks against your lips. “Don’t know what, bunny? Just gotta think of a word.”

You squeeze your eyes shut to try to ground yourself, but it doesn’t work. “I don’t know,” you repeat, annoyance edging your tone as you open your eyes again. You reach up to pull him down, but he resists. “Can’t think.”

His smile widens, pride dancing in his eyes. “Can’t think?” he murmurs, hand slipping into your hair and tangling in the locks again to keep you in place. “What? Did I fuck you stupid without even touching you yet?”

The words sober you up a little, not enough to break through your desire but enough to have you glare up at him. Instead of responding, you hook your fingers around the dangling silver chain around his neck and pull hard enough to surprise him, lips coming down to meet yours again. His hands find themselves on your torso, hot enough to steal the breath from your lungs as they slide up the plane of your ribs to burrow beneath the flimsy material of your top. You lift yourself up on your elbows and let him drag the top up and over your head, breaking the kiss. 

“You think of one, then,” you challenge before retreating, watching him flounder for a word with a smirk of your own, his brows furrowed in thought.

There’s a brief wave of insecurity that washes over you when his eyes drop to your naked upper half, nipples hardening in the cool air and chest rising with each breath. It’s quickly doused over, however, with a dark thrill that slips down your spine when his palm skates up to your boobs, cupping the heavy flesh and his eyes flicker with simmering lust. 

“Well?” you ask expectantly, breathier than you’d like it, and his eyes lift to yours to find a smug expression at his silence.

He glowers and leans down to kiss you so hard that it almost hurts, wiping the grin from your face and pushing you back into the bed. The calloused skin of his hand is rough against your skin, more so as he squeezes your boob, the other one this time, and his fingers find the bare nipple, twisting. You moan into his mouth, leg hiking up to his hip, as his other hand slips down to your thigh, and then up the last bit of decency your skirt was keeping.

“We’re using colors,” Sukuna says, breaking away again. “Y’know those?”

You hum, trying to tug him back down. “Red, green, yellow,” you answer quickly, and he allows you to kiss him again, and again, and again.

His fingers creep up to the crease of your thigh, finding the delicate lace of your thong hugging your hips there. He twists the material, pulling it tight, and you shudder.

“Color?”

“Green,” you gasp out as he lets it snap back against your skin, melting into the sheets when his thumb finds your clothed clit, electricity jolting through you.

He draws small circles over the ruined fabric, watching as your expression shutters into one of pure pleasure. He goes slow, just like earlier when you had you up against the wall, and your hips buck with need as his other hand continues groping at your chest.

“So fucking wet, bunny,” he mutters into the skin of your jaw. “What’re we gonna do about this, hm?”

“Sukuna,” you whine as he moves your panties to the side and slides a deft finger through your drenched folds.

His smiles, nipping at your jaw as his finger gathers the wetness there, and then teases your entrance, the thick width of it prodding with barely-held restraint. And then, without warning, he pushes in a singular finger, all the way up to his knuckle, and your head falls back onto the sheets with a gasp. He goes slow again, letting you adjust, as he pumps it in and out before adding a second one, and the stretch stings for just a moment before he’s pushing on that spongy spot inside and making you whimper.

Your nails dig into his shoulders as his head travels lower, nosing at your neck and biting at your collarbone before taking your perky nipple into his mouth, already a little sore from earlier. His tongue laves over the skin, hot and heavy, as his fingers continue to press into you and his thumb lands on your clit just as his teeth clamp down on your nipple, making you cry out. He moves to your other boob, doing the same thing while making you moan out into the air before his mouth travels further down.

“Pretty fucking girl,” he mutters into the skin below your belly button, and something in your stomach flutters as his lips land on the sensitive skin there before it twists into the deep pleasure thrumming within you. “Pretty fuckin’ tits. Pretty fuckin’ pussy.”

The knot behind your navel tightens, pulling taut at the words and the constant pressure of his fingers inside you and the wash of warm breath that lands on your exposed folds. You can’t help the way you tighten at that, growing wetter by the second, so much so that his fingers have started making wet, squelching sounds as they scissor you open. He’s far down enough that you can’t reach his shoulders anymore, but your fingers go to his hair, both hands running through the already mussed locks.

Before you can even say anything, there’s the thick, hot press of his tongue against your clit, and you let out half a moan before one hand flies up to cover your mouth, suddenly all too aware of your volume. The music from two floors down still echoes up here, but you doubt it’s loud enough to mask all your sounds, especially if there was someone in the room over.

“Fuck no,” Sukuna snaps immediately, and his large hand wraps around your arm before pulling it down and pinning it onto the sheets by your wrist.

“Wait,” you whimper, but Sukuna doesn’t pay attention, licking a stripe up your folds, tongue pressing onto your clit at the end again. “Your roommates—mmm—”

“I don’t give a shit,” he says, and then groans into your pussy, the vibrations making you jolt. “Fuck, you taste good.”

“They’re gonna—” you’re interrupted by your own low whine when you feel a third finger prod at your entrance, preparing to enter. “They’re gonna hea—haah!”

His third finger enters all of a sudden, cutting off your protest as the stretch burns before melding back into pleasure as he continues his pace, driving his fingers in and out of you. His mouth fully descends on your clit, tongue flicking at the sensitive bundle of nerves, and you have no chance against the moan that tumbles out of your mouth as your eyes screw shut.

“Fuck them,” he mutters, coming up for a breath and watching your chest heave, covered in a fine sweat already. His fingers go still inside you, and the other hand leaves yours to come down to your thigh, pinching the skin on the inner side. “Eyes on me, bunny. I’m about to make you cum for the first time, wanna watch and hear you fall apart for me.”

You gasp at the sting, lashes fluttering open before you raise yourself up on your elbows. You look down to see Sukuna looking up at you, dark eyes glittering in the low light with a wicked grin on his face.

“Good girl,” he praises, and the pleasure that warms over you only intensifies. “You look away, and I stop. Understand?”

You nod, but his fingers tighten on your thigh again, and you rush to do what he wants before he pinches you again. The command is silent, but loud in your head.

Use your words.

“Yes,” you rasp out, your voice pitchy and gaze never straying from his. “Yes, okay, I understand.”

You barely get the words out of your mouth before he’s dipping his head down between your thighs again and foregoes all teasing. Instead, he’s got his mouth on your clit again, fingers driving up into you at a mad pace as they press down right where you need them, and waves of pleasure wash over you. You writhe in his hold, thighs automatically trying to close at the sudden intensity, but he uses his unoccupied hand to keep one leg pinned to the mattress.

You’re still propped up on your elbows, eyes hooded and gaze unfocused as you whimper and moan, not being able to keep your head from tipping back as his fingers quicken and your walls flutter around him, tightening with need.

“Fuck,” you whimper. “Fuck, I’m close—ngh—”

He doesn’t break away, and the knot in your stomach grows tighter, threatening to break as the waves wash over you higher and higher. His tongue is relentless, bullying at your clit without mercy, and you gasp as you feel yourself right on the edge of it. 

It’s when his teeth land, nipping at your clit and making it hurt as much as it feels good, that you come, a white wash of pleasure surging over your head and making your face contort with a silent moan. The orgasm ebbs, sparking in your nerves, but he doesn’t stop through it all, keeping the same pace and intensity as you slowly come down from your high.

Then, suddenly, the pleasure grows into too much, and you realize Sukuna isn’t showing any signs of moving away. It turns sharp in your stomach, cramping with overstimulation, and you try to scramble back from him.

“Sukuna—wait,” you whimper, and then yelp when he gently clamps his teeth down again. “Hold on!”

He doesn’t let go, the hand on your thigh going up to lay heavy across your stomach and keep you in place. You’re unable to keep yourself up anymore, falling back on the bed as your hands scramble to his hair, unsure if you’re trying to tug him away or keep him there. 

“Wait, Sukuna, I can’t,” you whine, toes curling as you kick your feet. “S’too much, too much—”

You manage to free yourself for a second, but then he pulls his fingers out of you in a sudden move, making you gasp, and grabs your hips, pulling you back down with a growl. His mouth goes back to your cunt, tongue invading without warning, and you squirm violently, hips bucking up.

You cry out as he pins you down and eats you out without giving you time to breathe, and the pain slowly bleeds back into pleasure as the same knot in your stomach tightens. You can’t help but melt back into the sheets, thighs trembling by his head as your fingers tighten in his hair. Pleasure thrums in you again, this time sharper and faster, making your core twist with anticipation.

Then, just as you begin to catch that edge again, he shifts up and away, and you whimper as you tilt your head down to take him in. His chin glistens in the warm lighting as he kisses his way back up your body, and your hands slip from his hair to his back, feeling the muscles ripple underneath the skin as he comes up to meet you with a filthy kiss. You taste yourself on his tongue, the salt of you staining his lips as they turn hopelessly messy with desperation and desire.

His hands are braced on either side of your head as one knee comes up to harshly press down on your pussy, and the rough fabric of his jeans startles you, making you jerk with a whine.

“What is it, baby?” he asks in a teasing tone in-between hard kisses that make it impossible to focus on what he’s saying. “C’mon, use your words.”

You can only shake your head, eyes squeezed shut as pleasure sparks behind them, but not strong enough for you to grab. One of his hands comes down to wrap around your throat, the subtle pressure making you dizzy.

“I don’t—ngh,” you whimper as he shoves his leg up higher, and then lets it slip to the wrong side. He’s toying with you, and you know it, but you’re so lost in the frenzied desire fogging your mind, you can’t bite back. “Fuck—haah—Sukuna!”

“Can’t give you what you want if you don’t say it,” he tuts against your cheek, and your hands scramble to the front, slipping down to his belt. “Look at me.”

Sukuna’s fingers squeeze at the sides of your neck in a thinly veiled warning, and you force yourself to peel your eyes open to look at him. He’s panting just as hard as you, but his eyes gleam as he’s clearly enjoying the way he’s got you on the hook.

“There she is,” he murmurs, brushing his lips against yours in a barely-there kiss, and you fight to keep your eyes open. 

You groan, trying to buck your hips again, but his leg isn’t at the right angle anymore.

He hums, a rumble in his chest that you can feel reverberate through you. “Wanna hear you say it,” he tells you. “Won’t do shit until you tell me what you need, baby.”

“I don’t know,” you huff, squirming in his hold again, but his grip keeps you stuck in place. “Need—fuck—need more.”

“S’not enough.” Sukuna clicks his tongue, pulling away and keeping you pinned against the mattress with his hand on your throat when you try to come closer. “Gotta be more specific, bunny. Had such a fucking mouth on you earlier, didn’t you? Use it.”

Something sharpens in you, and Sukuna must see it in your face because his gaze narrows as he glares down at you, hand around your throat flexing, a threat this time. A silent tension hangs in the air for a couple of seconds as frustration surges in you, both at him and your lost pleasure.

“Why?” you ask, breathless but still sharp. “Don’t know how to fuck a girl unless she tells yo—”

You’re interrupted when his hand tightens around your throat, hard, cutting off your air, and one of your hands flies to his wrist, nails digging into the inked flesh there.

“Careful,” Sukuna growls, voice deliciously deep, eyes glittering dangerously. “What’d I tell ya, hm? Behave.” His nose bumps against yours, lips hovering over yours as he loosens his hold enough to make room for you to gasp. “I’ve got all night and this pretty little throat in the palm of my hand. I’d play real nice if I were you right now, bunny.”

You can only take in pathetic, little breaths as his hand stays pressed up against your throat. The control makes your head all fuzzy, and the searing weight of him pinning you doesn’t help nor does the buzz of your recent orgasm humming in your veins. It’s his eyes that keep yours open, fully blown and daring you to look away, to defy him.

“You,” you mumble as an answer, but then his fingers begin to tighten again, and you force yourself to say it out loud, cheeks burning. “Your cock. Please.”

Sukuna’s expression shifts, darkens, and his jaw tenses as his tattoos shape the contours of his face. He ducks down and kisses you, teeth clashing and tongues in a messy battle, and you’re drowning in the haze of him again, unable to breathe when he’s stealing kisses like that, yet unable to pull away.

The hand on your throat comes down to pull your skirt and thong, and you lift your hips to help him tug them down your thighs. You kick off the material as soon as you can, leaving you completely bare, and then your fingers fumble with the leather before it gives and you make quick work of the button and zipper of his jeans. He groans into your mouth, shoving you further into the sheets when you cup him through his boxers, toying with him through the fabric.

He doesn’t stop kissing you as you slip your hand into the waistband of his Calvin Kleins, and then down further to pull the nearly intimidating thick length of him out, stroking it a couple of times as you twist your palm. Sukuna drops his head into the crook of your neck again, panting hard against your skin as the mass of him nearly crushes you.

He’s, with the risk of being blunt, huge. You look down to see the ruddy head of his cock, flushed and dripping with pearlescent pre-cum that you swipe with your thumb and bring down the long length of him. You can’t wrap your fingers fully around him, either, and your pulse races at the weight of his hardened cock in your palm.

He groans into your shoulder, the sound traveling through you, when you let your nails gently settle against the veins that run up his length, dragging across the sensitive skin when you give him another pump, this one slower but your grip harder as you press down on the underside.

Condoms,” you remind him, and watch as he huffs in annoyance but reaches over you to the drawer on his nightstand, pulling it open sharply and digging through before finding the little foil sachet. 

You take it from him and rip the packet open with your teeth, completely aware of the way he watches you while you do it as you take the condom out and begin to the roll the latex down his length, pausing every couple of seconds to toy with his patience.

“Stop teasing,” Sukuna warns, nipping at the already-sore skin of your neck, but you only hum in response, continuing to roll it down and then pump him slowly.

You feel bolder than before, and you bring your other hand up to cup his cheek as you tilt your head to bring your mouth near his ear.

“You’re so big,” you whisper, smirking when his hips thrust just an inch up into your hand. You can feel his jaw clenching underneath your other hand, and you keep at it. “Want you inside me, Sukuna.” You give him another stroke, faster this time. “Wonder if you’ll fit.”

He lifts his head up, and one hand comes to push your wrist into the bed next to your head while the other one stays braced on the mattress. His expression makes your stomach flip, nerves tingling, as he looks down at you with eyes so dark you can’t look away.

“Color?” His voice is barely a rasp, the carnal hunger that plagues ‌both of you thick and heavy in his tone. It catches you off-guard for a moment before you realize what he’s asking you.

“Green.” You’re breathless, looking up at him with large and hazy eyes.

“Good,” he says, and then down in a little closer. “You’ll make it fit, won’t you, bunny?”

Your gaze drops to his lips, shiny in the warm lighting, and you can only hum in response.

“C’mon, baby,” he mutters against your lips. “Put it in for me.”

You swallow, suddenly unsure of what you’re doing in the face of his confidence, but you obey anyway. You twist your hand around his length again and slowly guide him to the apex of you, breath catching a little when the hot head of him nudges against your clit.

You guide him lower, your heart thudding against your rib cage, and then let out a low, little whine when it notches against your entrance. It’s only then that you realize the size of him compared to you, when the pressure of him is lined up against you.

Fuck, is it even going to fit?

Before you can voice your concerns, he gives a barely there thrust of his hips, and the tip of him pushes in, stretching your entrance in the most gloriously painful way possible. You gasp and your hand flies up to his shoulders to steady yourself.

“So fuckin’ sensitive,” he says against your ear, and he gives another shallow thrust and the tip of him bullies its way in, nestled against your walls now as your nails dig into the muscled flesh.

“Wait,” you gasp, eyes fluttering shut. “Wait, I don’t think it’s gonna—”

“It will,” he says, and then slides in another inch, making you whine. 

Your hand comes down on instinct, pushing at his chiseled torso to get him to stop for a second, but it doesn’t deter him as he eases in another inch, impatient and clearly trying hard to restrain himself.

Your reaction is immediate; you’re more than wet enough for that third thrust to work smoothly, but it has you arching your back with a whimpery little moan, walls fluttering wildly around the thick pressure of him. Sukuna slips his arm around your waist and keeps you in place, already familiar with the way you squirm when it gets too much.

“Fuck,” he grunts, rocking his hips a little as you clench around him. “Shit—so fucking tight, bunny.”

“I can’t—”

“You can,” he cuts you off, and then rocks his hips in a wide circle that has your legs turning into jelly. “Gotta relax f’me, bunny, gotta let me in.”

“I am relaxed,” you huff, but even when you say it, you know it’s a lie as you have to force yourself to go a little more lax.

Without warning, Sukuna gives a hard thrust, the rest of him sliding in and going deeper than anything you’ve ever taken before. You cry out, hips bucking, as he bottoms you out, and you swear you feel the tip of him touch your cervix as a pang of sharp pain shoots through you, and then a wave of pleasure washes over the cut of it.

You’re eyes are squeezed shut and it feels like he’s just punched the breath out of you, the consuming pressure of him making your head go all fuzzy and it feels like too much and just enough all at the same time. Sukuna’s mouth is buzzing at your jaw as he rolls his hips, causing bright sparks to dance in your veins, and then his steady breath rolls over the shell of your ear.

“Eyes open,” he reminds you, and then gives a sharp, sudden nudge that has you gasping for air as your lashes flutter open in shock when he knocks against your cervix. “C’mon, bunny. If you’re gonna act like a brat, then I’m gonna fuck you like a brat.”

“I’m not—”

Before you can finish your sentence, Sukuna pulls out almost all the way, his large tip coming back far enough to stretch your entrance again before he slams into you, harder than before, and cutting you off.

“Ah—haah—Sukuna!”

He doesn’t give you time to adjust to either his pace or the width of him or how deep he sinks into you, just takes it and goes the way he likes it, which is something you should’ve known from the beginning. Honestly, it’s something you think you already knew, because this only results in you getting wetter.

“You are,” Sukuna grunts, teeth biting into the most sensitive parts of your neck and shoulder. “Don’t worry, baby, ‘cause I’m gonna fuck you ‘til your all sweet and dumb for me—”

Thrust.

“—and then you’re gonna be a good girl and thank me—”

Thrust.

“—and then maybe I’ll be nice and fuck you all over again.”

He picks up the pace just a little, thrusting into you with deep strokes that have you feeling every drag of his cock against your walls. The width of him burns, the way his tip slams into your cervix stings, the friction of his jeans and cold metal of his belt against your thighs hurts, but all the pain slowly begins to bleed into pleasure as it all ignites something hot and twisting inside of you.

“How’s that sound, bunny?” he asks, and you attempt to answer.

“Sukuna—s-shit—wait—hngh—oh fuck!” 

You can barely get the words out as they all melt into moans and whines and whimpers that join the cacophony of skin slapping against skin and the embarrassingly wet squelch of his cock sliding through the gathering wetness of your pussy.

“C’mon, baby,” he urges. “Gimme an answer. Or was all that—mmph—attitude just for show?”

“F-fuck—haah—fuck you,” you gasp out, and you open your eyes just enough to see that devilish grin grow wide on his face before he picks up the pace, this time much faster.

The new speed has his hips snapping forward to slam against you, and it steals the breath out of your lungs. It’s brutally hard and fast and has you squirming, fingers tangling in the sheets as you tighten them into fists. That knot behind your navel begins to tighten again, hurtling you toward the edge that you’d been denied a couple of minutes ago. Your mouth falls open in a silent whine, unable to move away from the sheer intensity of him, and he kisses his way up past your cheek to your mouth, messy with tongue and spit and teeth.

“What was—fuck—that? Hm?” he grunts, and you can’t answer, can barely hear him over the overwhelming press of him above you and the sounds of sex that nearly deafen you. He seems to find your amusement in this as he snorts. “Go on, bunny, tell me how you want me to fuck you.”

One hand, the one not keeping himself braced above you, slides up your torso and grabs your boob, giving it an unforgiving squeeze. It sends lightning shooting to your core, and you feel yourself approaching the cliff's end faster and faster.

“Fuck you feel good,” he says against your lips. “Squeezing me so fuckin’ tight. You gonna milk me dry? Gonne come all over my cock, baby?”

You nod desperately, arching your back and gasping when he slaps your thigh hard enough to make the skin sting.

“Asked you a fucking question, bunny,” he reminds you, and then, because he’s cruel and you’ve apparently got a thing for masochists, drives into you at a new angle, keeping your hips lifted off the bed. 

It has him hitting a spot that makes stars dance in your vision, has you writhing in the sheets with a loud whine. You can feel the arrogant curve of his grin against your cheek, and the proud puff of his chest as he uses both hands on your torso to keep you hovering in place while he fucks you.

“Fuck, Sukuna!” you cry out when he hits it again, the tender spot making your blood run hot.

“Right there, bunny?” he teases, and then kisses you hard, teeth playing with your bottom lip. “That’s the—shit—spot, huh?”

Your hands go to his shoulders again, nails making imprints on the flesh without care, as you try to push at him, the feeling suddenly too much. “Hng—Wait! Sukuna—ahhh—hold on—”

Sukuna does neither, and instead continues to thrust into you hard and deep enough to abuse that sweet spot inside of you, hitting his mark with his snap of his hips. He’s relentless, grunting above you as he pushes you to that edge, where you dangle for a breathless moment before the band in your stomach snaps.

“Fuckfuckfuckfuck!” 

You come hard around him, white-hot pleasure consuming your body as blood roars in your ears and fire floods your veins, traveling from your core to your limbs. The world around you becomes a distant hum in the face of such as intense orgasm, but Sukuna doesn’t stop, fucking you through it as your walls clench unbelievably tight around him, velvet-soft and sopping wet. Your high triggers his, and his thrusts become more desperate, sloppy, as he buries a groan into the crook of your neck and comes with a few rough pumps.

He stays there for a second, breathing so hard that his chest presses down against yours with every exhale. After a couple of seconds, while you’re still in this haze of warmth, he lifts his head and pulls out, making you whine at both the stretch of him and the loss of it. You have to fight a little ground yourself, pressing your lips together and trying to think past the buzz of your orgasm. You only look up at him when you hear a crinkle above, and then the smooth tear of foil.

Sukuna is rolling another condom down his cock, not nearly as slow or gentle as you’d been, and before you can find the words to ask, he’s flipping you around and manhandling you onto your arms and knees.

“Sukuna, wha—”

Smack!

You yelp when his hand comes down on your ass, slapping the flesh with a heavy palm and making the skin smart with a tight burn that runs straight down your spine and sparks into something hot in your core. He does it again, and you barely conceal the low moan that threatens to spill. One of his arms stays wrapped around your waist, keeping you in place, when you feel him lean down, abs and sculpted chest pressing against your back as his mouth comes to your ear.

“Color.”

You don’t answer at first, you can’t with how sudden the change is, but then he spanks you again and you’re startled into a response.

“G-green,” you gasp out, lurching forward a little with the momentum but rebounding because Sukuna was right when he said everyone likes a little pain now and then.

“You sure, bunny?” he warns, deceptively soft lips brushing against your heated skin. “‘Cause once I start, I’m not stopping ‘til I’m done.”

You shiver beneath him, arms holding you up with barely enough strength. You can feel his hard length pressed up against your ass at this angle, and, somehow, you feel yourself grow a little wetter despite the way your last orgasm still lingers in your nerves, making you more sensitive.

You nod, but then there’s another sharp blow, and you can’t keep back the cry that ends in a little moan.

“Last time I’m gonna warn ya, baby,” Sukuna growls. “Use your words.”

“Yes,” you whimper, “y-yeah. I’m—it’s green.”

Sukuna doesn’t even give you time to think before he’s shifting his weight back to push deep inside you again, not giving you the chance to adjust before he’s all the way in. His hands go to your hips, long and thick fingers spanning almost the entirety of your waist as he groans when he’s sheathed all the way in. The new angle has your arms trembling when the rush of pleasure hits you again.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he grunts out, pulling back and slamming in again, and your walls flutter around him, a little sore from the overstimulation but the heat in your core burns hotter than ever. “Dripping all over my sheets like a fuckin’ slut.”

He doesn’t bother with getting you readjusted to the pace, just gives you brutal, almost punishing thrusts that have you moaning every time he bottoms out at the end. 

“Ahh—fuck, Sukuna! Hng—haaah—”

You don’t have much control over yourself, either, because he uses the unforgiving grip he has on the fat of your hips to bring you back into him with every thrust, his hips slamming into your ass with each shove. Sukuna reaches a different sort of depth with this position, and you can feel the weight of his cock against your walls as he continues at mind-numbing speed.

“C’mon, bunny—ah fuck—”

The moans that tumble past your bitten lips are near pornographic, and they only make him grunt and drive into you harder, determined to get more out of you. You’re so fucking tight around him, Sukuna swears you’re trying to milk him dry, like he hadn’t already had his cock inside you and stretched you out with three of his fingers. The velvet hot press of you has him losing all rationality as he chases the hot pleasure twisting deep within his gut.

It matches what’s swirling in your belly right now, sparks dancing in your veins as the thick pressure of him never lets up. Heat thrums a steady beat within you, and each thrust has you whimpering beneath him and growing weaker.

One of his hands slips from your hips up your chest and to your throat right as your arms falter, shaking harder now with how fast he’s going. His fingers wrap around the column of your neck, and you feel the press of his palm against the center before he’s pulling you up in a violent motion, his grip tightening so hard that you can’t breathe for a second. He’s now got you on your knees with your back flush against the toned muscle of his chest, one hand wrapped around your waist for support and the other still choking you while he fucks up into you with sharp, brutal thrusts.

His grip on your throat slackens just enough to let you gasp as your fingers scramble at his wrist.

“Fuck, Sukuna!” you cry out, the new angle sending him somehow deeper within you, making you feel sore and so inexplicably good at the same time.

He chuckles behind you, albeit still panting, and his voice is in your ear. “That’s all you got, bunny? I’m—haah—fucking you so good all you can say is my name?”

“No—ngh—”

“No?” he teases, and you can barely hear him over the pleasure that buzzes in your ears, tightening and twisting deep within you as you begin to lose yourself to the feeling again. “C’mon, then, tell me how good I’m fucking you.”

“So good—ah s-shit—s’full,” you gasp out. “I can’t—haah ahh—”

“Yeah, baby?” he urges, breath hot as it breaks against the bruised skin of your neck. His hand around your waist comes to grab one of your hands and brings it down to your torso, pressing it into the soft skin of your stomach. “Feel that, bunny?”

You don’t at first, but then he pushes into you so hard that it hurts for a blinding second before the pleasure doubles and you feel the bump of him beneath your skin. When he withdraws, you feel that too, and on his next thrust, you can feel him burrow into you, hot and flush against your palm. You whimper, melting back into him, and your head tips back onto his shoulder.

“S’me fucking you so good, you can feel it from the outside,” Sukuna groans into your ear, and your body shudders with the effect, that heat in you growing and taking over your senses. “You’re gonna cum for me and you’re gonna feel me fuck you through it.”

You’re already shaking your head, gasping with a moan at the feeling of your orgasm nearing. It feels like too much, like a wave you won’t be able to come up from, something that will overtake you and pull you under without mercy, but Sukuna also offers no mercy.

“Wait, Sukuna—mmph—”

He cuts you off with a messy kiss, hand on your throat forcing your head to the side as your teeth clash and his tongue invades and claims your mouth. He drinks that sweet little moan, the whine that breaks from your throat, and kisses you so hard your lips start to go numb.

“What’d I say about being a fuckin’ brat, hm?” he growls when he pulls away, and then drives into you with a relentless fury, his other hand still keeping your palm flat against your stomach to feel it all. The pressure from outside makes you dizzy as he bites at the shell of your ear. “Told you I’m not stoppin’ until I’m done, and I meant it, bunny.”

Sukuna seems to be close to as well as he ruts up into you, hips losing their rhythm but never their roughness, and the uneven thrusts are what start to beckon the overwhelming feeling of your orgasm. The heat of your core makes you flush, blood searing hot in your veins as you feel that familiar twist behind your navel tighten to the point of no return.

“Gonna cum,” you whimper, arching against him, but there’s no escaping his hold. “Fuck, Sukuna, m’gonna cum, gonna—haah ngh—”

“Yeah?” he mutters darkly, thrusting up into you with a frenzy you can’t keep up with you. “C’mon, bunny, cum for me. Want you to cum—fuck—all over my cock, can feel you fucking—ahh—squeezin’ me so fuckin’ tight—fuck!”

He turns your head to kiss you again, keeping you in place with one hand on your throat and the other pressed on your stomach, over the bulge of his cock inside of you, and you feel the wave of pleasure crash over you, your eyes squeezing shut as your vision blanks and you’re left gasping against his lips in the face of an orgasm that fills your nerves with a shattering thrill. Your walls clench around him, milking him as he continues to fuck you, and your stomach cramps with the intensity of your orgasm, your limbs thrashing and trembling in the aftermath. It seems to go on forever, and Sukuna doesn’t stop to let you breathe, keeps kissing you as he chases his own high and comes with a low, raspy moan as he buries himself so deep inside you that you can feel him against your cervix again.

“Fuck,” he groans against your mouth, hips stuttering as the orgasm runs up his spine and spreads heat over his nerves as he spills into the condom. “Fuck, you feel so good.”

You whimper as he pulls out, and his hands leaves you, gently enough to lower you back onto the bed, and you hold yourself up on your arms for a second before the effort is too much and you have to brace yourself on your elbows. You’re panting hard, skin slick with sweat and head all dizzy and the blood in your veins fizzing with heat and pleasure. Your pulse races, and you push yourself forward on the bed, intent on settling onto the sheets and letting the buzz fade away, but then Sukuna’s hands are on your hips again.

He pulls you back with a tight grip, making you yelp, breath catching as he leans down, the muscled weight of him hovering over your back as his cheek presses against your shoulder.

“Where ya running off to, bunny?” he snarls, and you jolt at the still hard press of his cock behind you. He must’ve slipped on another condom without you noticing, and you scramble against the mattress.

“Wait, Sukuna,” you plead, “I can’t. S’too much, I—”

“Don’t fuckin’ care,” he snaps, and then you feel the head of him back at your entrance and you try to move, but he’s everywhere—behind you, on top of you, and, now, about to be inside of you again. “Gonna cum for me again, bunny, whether you wanna or not.”

You cry out as he pushes the thick head of him through, and your walls flutter and clench with pure overstimulation, unsure of whether to take him in deeper or push him out. It doesn’t deter him, he shoves further into you with a grunt, and the wetness of your three previous orgasms allowing him to slide in without resistance.

“Still so fuckin’ tight for me, baby,” he groans out when he bottoms you out with a particularly rough thrust, and he must’ve punched the air out of your lungs because you can’t breathe for a second. “Color?”

It takes you a second to find your voice, but it comes to you with a needy rasp. “Green.”

One of his arms is braced on the pillow above your head and the other one snakes around your waist to play with your clit. You jerk against him, overwhelmed, but you’re reminded of the way he’s like a solid rock pressed up on you, making you arch your ass up and bury your face into the pillows. He stays buried to the hilt inside of you, the fullness of it making everything go hazy again, made worse by your fresh orgasm.

“Sukuna,” you whine into the sheets. “Please—haah—”

“Please what, bunny?” he taunts , long fingers drawing circles on your sensitive bundle of nerves and making your core twist almost painfully with too much pleasure. “Please more? Please don’t stop?”

You open your mouth to answer, though you’re not even certain what you’re about to say, when he pulls almost all the way out and thrusts back into you, sharp and hard, and anything your about to say tumbles out as a moan into the sheets. He doesn’t stop there, rutting into you with a desperate grind of his hips, seemingly almost as gone as you are and needing that next orgasm.

“Ahhh—Sukuna, please, I—hnghh—”

He tuts, voice slightly strained as he keeps you pinned down. “You said it earlier, didn’t you bunny?”

You whimper, confused and unable to concentrate with the way he’s pounding into you without pausing, making you jerk forward and deeper into the sheets with each thrust. You feel the fabric grow wet as your jaw goes slack, drool slipping out the corner of your mouth.

“You said—f-fuck—said you wanted someone who pressed you—haah—into the sheets,” he repeats, and something far away in your mind sparks with recognition of your prior words to him, back when you were teasing him downstairs. “Said—shit—you wanted someone to make you beg for it.”

Sukuna’s half falling apart above you, but his words are as sharp as his thrusts, and he doesn’t let up even as he rambles in your ear. You whine, loud and desperate, beneath him, as he knocks up into you with such a brutal push that the rough drag of it against your already sensitive walls has tears stinging the corners of your eyes.

“So I—ah—fuckin’ did.” He continues circling your clit, fingers slipping in your wetness, and the movement is just as rough as the rest of him. “And now—mmf—you’re gonna cry for me while you cum.”

“Haah ahh—Sukuna,” you sigh, and sniff, and then there’s that sharp twisting in your gut, the familiar twinge in your nerves that tells you that you’re close even though the pleasure is all barbed in your core, catching at the most delicate parts of you. “Fuck!”

“Such a good—oh fuck—good girl,” he groans against your skin, tongue hot as he mouths at your jaw, “letting me make a fucking mess of you.”

You moan into the pillows, arching your back and pushing your ass out further to take each of his thrusts as you reach back with one hand, fingers finding purchase in the faded reddish-pink locks.

“Want—hngh—want you to—fuckfuck—cum with me,” you manage to whimper out.

“Nasty fucking girl,” he sneers. “Gonna make me work for it, hm? Fuck—fine then, c’mon, bunny, take it.”

He picks up the pace, renewed by the heat that courses through him at your words, and it makes out moan loudly as the praise and degradation makes your head spin. He reaches a new depth in this position, bruising your cervix with every harsh thrust he ruts into you, and you can’t do anything but take it, whining into the sheets and writhing uselessly beneath him. The pleasure thrums hot and insistent in your gut now, inescapable, and you tug at his hair because you can’t get the words out.

“C’mon, c’mon,” Sukuna chants, lost in the feel of you, the tears and the wetness and the soft moans and desperate whines and the feel of you trapped underneath him. “Cum for me, bunny.”

His orgasm crests, and his fingers are heavy and messy on your clit, unrelenting as draws circles and feels you clamp down, fluttering around him that way you did when you came last time. The orgasm hits you like a train: one minute you’re on your way there and the next it’s crashing into you without warning, ripping a long whine out of you as it singes the blood in your veins and has you collapsing beneath him into the sheets. You tremble in the aftermath of it, but Sukuna doesn’t let up, dragging out both of your orgasms with stuttering hips and sloppy thrusts, and each new drag of his cock against your walls sends bright white-hot sparks down your spine and into the very tips of your fingers.

Eventually, the weight of him settles on you as he tires as well, and you pant into the sheets, still floating with the remnants of the high. He stays there for a long moment before slowly pulling out of you, and making you wince, torn between the relief of having the overwhelming pressure of him out and the empty feeling that has you feeling almost incomplete. Sukuna rolls over, and you turn your head as you lie on your front to watch him land on his back next to you, chest rising and falling rapidly as he recovers from his own high, tattoos glistening with sweat in the lamplight.

The air reeks of sex, humid and heavy as it presses down on both of you, and the sheets are damp beneath you two. The music from the basement has subsided a little, but you’re a little too gone in the haze of your orgasms to decipher what that means right now. You’re spaced out, watching Sukuna throw his arm across his head and over his eyes as you both catch your breaths in tandem.

He comes to a little faster than you do, moving his arm away from his eyes and turns to look at you. You look gone, eyes unfocused but breath slowing down, and he can’t help but smirk as he takes in the curve of your back, the way you’ve nestled into his sheets.

Sukuna flops his hand down on your head, ruffling your hair, and you blink out of your daze. The little scowl and huff you give him is less a true reaction and more instinct because the high that still buzzes in your veins has made you a little slower right now, but you try to shove his arm away from you regardless. It only makes that stupid smirk of his widen into a grin as he shifts to face you, face shadowed by the light behind him and tattoos carving out his sharp features.

“So,” he begins, voice still a little raspy, and you aren’t even fully aware of the way you raise your brow at him, “that was better than your little DJ, right?”

You groan and roll your eyes. The banter helps you ground yourself, and you push at his arm, still on your head, again. You’re honestly no match for his strength regularly, but after four mind-numbing orgasms, your arms are genuinely nothing compared to his.

The little struggle adds to his amusement, and he chuckles as he leverages himself closer to you, eyes glinting red as he watches you. You’re slower than him, and he expected you to pass out or something, but there’s still that spark in your eyes that makes him draw closer, makes him consider pinning you down and fucking you again just to feel that fire singe his skin. 

Plus, you look so damn pretty all fucked out like that. He decides, however, from the lingering tremor in your limbs, to give you a break. A physical one, at the very least.

“I definitely made you cum more than he did.”

author’s note — umm yeah. anyway, this is a one-shot, but it’s also kind of a test run because i have this whole idea for a short fic and this would be the first chapter. lmk if you guys would be into that. otherwise, i might just leave it here. thanks for reading, and i hope y’all enjoyed!

[fromsil]

ᝰ. WORST THING EVER

✎𓂃 EX RYOMEN SUKUNA

✦ ⋆ ࣪. about: ryomen and you had lived a very beautiful love story for about three years before it all went down, but the meeting itself? it was surely the antipode of romantic.

✦ ⋆ ࣪. warnings : suggestive thoughts. yearning. mention of beating someone up. chubby and horny reader. (no sorcerers!au)

✦ ⋆ ࣪. words : 2.4k

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ𓂃 series masterlist

ⓘ main masterlist & ao3

It was a nightmare. A real, true, and horrible nightmare.

You shouldn't even be here—it wasn't your fault, what happened. However, since your friends were the worst people on earth, you were now the only one getting locked up for the night. Of course. You.

It was awful. None of them would come to bail you out since, well, the cops were probably looking for them too, and you had absolutely no one else to call. Bail wasn't even that expensive—you were just meant to stay the night until you sobered up—but you didn't really want to spend the night in a jail cell filled with strangers. Hopefully one of their boyfriend's would come to the police station, you'd be so grateful.

The crime? The reason you were now locked up in a room with bright lights, shoes flopping loose from missing laces, was absolutely ridiculous.

Disorderly conduct.

All from a stupid idea that wasn't even yours. One of your friends' boyfriends had cheated on her, and she'd just found out. The night was only supposed to be a fun one, ranting about what a terrible, idiotic person he was while drinking litres of sex on the beach.

But then Layla had the absolutely insane idea that you should all go to his house and throw eggs and whatever else you could find. You had been more than reluctant about the whole thing, but hey, you weren't about to be the party pooper, right? So you went along.

Of course, at almost 2 a.m., even if the ex wouldn't have called the cops, one of his neighbours would have—you were all screaming, laughing, and calling him a cunt very loudly. And when the police showed up? Well, let's just say you didn't have the best reflexes and weren't exactly the fastest runner.

Sighing loudly, you dropped your forehead against the cold plexiglass window of the locked door. This was the worst thing. Ever.

Turning around, you scanned the room, trying to figure out which spot would be best to claim for the rest of the night. This place was your literal nightmare: the room was full of men. Gulping, you cringed when you noticed they were all looking at you.

All but one.

He was clearly the tallest, and definitely the broadest. His arms were crossed over his chest, biceps straining against his shirt sleeves, thighs thick and spread slightly apart. His eyes were closed, head resting back against the wall. His face looked calm and unbothered, a line of black ink tattooed across the bridge of his nose.

He had a big nose. A perfectly crooked one—exactly the kind you had always found particularly beautiful and attractive. His hair was artfully dishevelled and dyed a light pink, which felt a little unexpected on a man with his... build.

As you walked slowly toward him while doing your best to ignore everyone else in the room, you came to the conclusion that this man, whoever he was, was probably the most attractive person you had ever come across in your entire life.

Even better, he wasn't sitting in the middle of the bench, leaving plenty of room at the end so that he would be your only neighbour. It was perfect.

Once you sat down at the far edge, the eye on your side opened slightly, looking at you as though you were bothering him. In his barely-open eyes you caught a flicker of surprise at seeing a woman—followed by one raised, pierced eyebrow.

He gave you a single look up and down, then closed his eyes again.

For some reason, his gaze had unsettled you. You tugged your skirt down as far as it would go without showing half your ass, then did the same with your t-shirt, pulling it over the soft curve of your stomach.

For a good thirty minutes, you succeeded in entertaining yourself in your own head, trying not to feel the ugly looks all the men were sending you, even more so when a few more arrived. The only solution you'd found was to avoid their eyes and fidget with your fingers and rings.

Without noticing, one of your legs had started bouncing up and down from stress, anxiety and exhaustion.

"Can you not?" A deep voice came from beside you.

Turning your head toward the sound, it was the man right next to you. His eyes were a strange dark brown, almost reddish—a colour you had never seen before. His skin was smooth and flawless, scattered here and there with perfect freckles and beauty spots. He truly was handsome.

His head wasn't completely turned toward you, and the angle gave you a close look at just how perfect his nose was. With his sort of alternative vibe, he really should get it pierced. To accessorise it.

"You have a very beautiful nose," you told him, the alcohol in your blood serving as liquid courage.

He raised his brow and turned his head fully toward you, a smirk playing on his lips. You hadn't really noticed them at first, but god, they were perfect too. Not too thin, perfectly symmetrical, with a cupid's bow that was to die for. How unfair.

"Yeah?" he teased, but you were too far gone to catch the tone.

"The most handsome one I've ever seen," you nodded enthusiastically. "You should get it pierced."

For a moment he looked straight into your eyes, then closed them again with a soft scoff. His laugh was hot as well. How could a laugh be hot, you wondered, but it didn't really matter.

Was this what love at first sight felt like?

Wait. You were still in jail. That sobering thought crossed your mind as you remembered where you were and where that very hot guy was, for that matter. Without stopping to consider that it might be slightly dangerous or offensive, your mouth moved before your brain could catch up.

"What are you in here for?" Your voice was a little higher than normal, which, given the silence in the room, meant it came out very loud.

"Beat up that guy," the man said casually, jerking his thumb over his shoulder toward a man holding an ice pack to his—very imperfect—nose.

Frowning, you hadn't really gotten violent vibes from the guy. Which meant nothing, because, to be honest, you were pretty drunk. You really didn't want to find a man that thrived on violence hot.

"Why?" you asked, like a four-year-old peppering their parents with random questions.

"'Cause that little fucker over there can't take no for an answer," the hot guy said with a humourless smile, eyes still on the other man. "He learned his lesson, though."

Looking at him, you were sure there were hearts in your eyes—like in cartoons. Did he have any flaws? So far, all you'd seen was that he was hot and he defended women. Win, win. Where was the lose?

"What's your name, lovely?" he asked, his smirk softening into something gentler—not the teasing one from earlier.

After you told him, his smirk only grew before he spoke again. "Cute. I'm Ryomen. Nice to meet you."

He extended his hand, and it took you a couple of seconds before you shook it. It truly wasn't your fault. His hand was—like the rest of him—perfect. Fingers slim but looking strong, nails polished in black that was slightly chipped but suited him entirely, skin soft without a callous in sight, decorated with various rings. His wrists were adorned with heavy black lines tattooed around them, and as your eyes drifted higher toward his biceps, you noticed more dark ink peeking out from beneath his sleeves.

Without you realising, because your drunk mind was convinced you were being subtle, Ryomen was watching you with amused eyes. He couldn't blame you from the moment you'd spoken to him, he had been eyeing you too. A little too hungrily, he would admit.

Once you dropped his hand with an awkward fumble, you looked back at his face. Curiosity about this man was getting the best of you, and your friends had always said you were a yapper.

"What do you do for work?" It was a random question, but it wasn't like you had anything else to do tonight but get to know him.

"Just started at an architecture firm," he answered, his thighs spreading a little wider—almost discreetly.

It might have gone unnoticed if his knee hadn't brushed against the side of your thigh. He was so big, and it was turning you on far more than it should, given that you were spending the night in jail.

"As?" You asked for more details.

"An architect." He deadpanned, very seriously.

"No, really, what do you do?" you pressed, flustered by how close he was but doing your best to stay focused on the conversation.

"I'm not fucking with you," his voice was calm, deep, and effortlessly charming.

Your eyes widened slightly as you looked him up and down—the piercings, the rings, the nail polish, the pink hair, the tattoos... all of him.

"You don't look the part," you said, frowning.

Then he did something you were not at all prepared for, he leaned in. Not close enough to touch you, beyond his knee still pressed against your thigh, but his lips were suddenly just beside your ear.

"Did no one ever teach you not to judge a book by its cover?" His voice had dropped lower, making it deeper and faintly hypnotic.

He should do ASMR videos, you were certain he'd go viral. Or maybe porn audios, recordings of another kind—he'd be famous overnight. God, now you were picturing him above you in a bed. Heat crept up your cheeks and you immediately looked down.

Which wasn't the best idea, because now your eyes landed on his ringed fingers, which looked like they would fit perfectly in your mouth.

"Sorry," you muttered, dropping your gaze to your feet.

Beside you, you heard him laugh—not mockingly, though. "You're cute," he said, leaning back against the cold wall behind you both.

Looking back up at him, you fully expected to find something teasing in his eyes, some sign that he was just playing with you—the way men usually did when they said things like that to you. But you found none. Only sincerity and a gentle smirk.

"Why are you in here? Public intoxication? Or are you some big evil criminal they finally caught?" His voice was smooth, and he held eye contact steadily which was making you nervous.

"Oh yeah, caught me at last. Murder." you joked, since it was fairly obvious that being drunk had something to do with why you were here. "Egged a friend's ex's house," you explained after he let out a small laugh, gesturing vaguely at yourself, "but I don't run as fast as them."

"Glad you don't run fast then," Ryomen said, his eyes trailing over your body.

This time you caught it and you were far from unaffected. Without even meaning to, you pressed your thighs together, trying to will away the feeling building between them. It wouldn't be so distracting if you weren't literally in jail.

"Really?" you replied, your voice coming out small and not quite like your own.

"How else would I have met you?" He wasn't really expecting an answer but you didn't realise it was rhetorical.

"Fate?" you offered with a proud smile, like a child getting a question right in class.

That made him laugh, nodding along in agreement with your little theory. Then, probably without realising it, his eyes swept over your body again, slow and hungry.

"Sure. But this is a better story though. Something to tell our grandkids." He said it shamelessly, his smirk growing wider.

The room was already warm, but his words made your cheeks burn hotter than ever. It was striking how at ease he was, how simply he said what he wanted, without game-playing. It felt like a breath of fresh air.

"I—I, uh..." You were still searching for something to say when the door swung open and a cop called your name.

You turned. He looked up at you. "You're free. You made bail."

Oh.

Most of you was genuinely relieved to be going home, to shower, and to sleep in your own bed but a quieter part of you was sinking. Leaving meant never seeing this man again, and you were already certain he was everything you'd ever wanted. Big, warm, flirtatious, and honest.

When were you ever going to meet someone like that again?

It was almost like he could read your mind. When you turned back to him to say goodbye, he spoke first.

"You know the Garden Coffee Shop?" You frowned slightly and nodded. "Tomorrow. Five o'clock. You're going to be there and you're going to let me buy you a coffee."

It wasn't a question. It wasn't quite an order either. It was simply his confidence, the quiet certainty that you wanted to see him again just as much as he wanted to see you.

The cop called your name again, impatient this time—barked it, really. You could feel his eyes boring into the back of your head.

Ryomen had your head spinning, not helped by the alcohol still humming through your system, and you couldn't find a single word to give him. You just nodded, stood up, and tugged your skirt down.

"Have a good night, lovely." He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall, settling into the exact position he'd been in when you first walked in.

Glancing back at him just before you crossed the threshold, you couldn't help but think he truly was the most attractive man you had ever seen in your entire life. The kind you didn't come across every day and you were not about to let your chance slip away.

What you didn't know was that this chance would bring three years of happiness, along with months of sadness and tears. But in the end, you'd still say it was worth it.

©fromsil.

a.n.: what a mess that was right? at least tumblr fixed it quickly so y'all don't have fomo for a long time. hope you enjoy this after this fucking stressful time. (as if we needed that)

[sukunahs]

starburned and unkissed | ryomen sukuna

chapter 3: the mirror

pairing: villain!sukuna x magical girl!reader

summary: after years of hiding your identity and spending nights fighting off monsters, you're tired of being a magical girl - especially with a new villain known as the king of curses out to get you.

all you want is to be able to focus on your normal life, and when you finally meet a nice guy at a work event for your day job you figure that maybe things are looking up.

if only he wasn't the very villain who wanted you dead.

word count: 7.5k

content: 18+ mdni, smut, angst, humor, betrayal, lying, yandere/obsessed sukuna, confusing feelings, loneliness, falling in love, mentions of past illness, hurt/comfort, manipulation, sukuna is evil but he's also very confused, true-form sukuna, enemies to lovers (and back to enemies and then to lovers LOL), this couple is a mess

a/n: this one is mainly fluff but the angst will be starting SOON

series masterlist | ao3 | previous chapter | next chapter (coming soon!)

Sleeping with someone on the first date probably wasn’t a good idea. 

That thought had been running through your mind for the duration of your date with Sukuna. It wasn’t the type of thing that you’d ever done before, you just weren’t really that sort of person, you should’ve thanked him for a nice night and gone your separate ways. 

But there was just something about Sukuna that had led you to throw caution to the wind. 

It felt like he understood you, like he was one of the few people in the world who could truly see you. He was also extremely hot and that had ultimately finalised your decision to invite him in that evening. 

And to say that he’d rewarded your bold choice with one of the best nights of your life would be a major understatement. 

It was late into the morning when you finally awoke, with light streaming in through the curtains. Sukuna’s body was still there beside you, an arm thrown lazily over your midsection. He looked almost angelic in his sleep, eyelashes fluttering against his tattooed cheeks, lips parted softly. 

You’d assumed that he’d be gone by the morning, that his interest in you had extended to a singular date and one night stand. You were glad that wasn’t the case. There had been a connection between the two of you last night that had felt profound, something that you weren’t keen to easily let go of. 

There was a part of you that had assumed it was you overromanticising things - that your lack of social connection over the last few years had you reading into something that wasn’t there. Him still sleeping peacefully in your bed suggested that wasn’t a one way thing. 

It was a rush that had you feeling like a teenager with a crush all over again. 

Slipping carefully from his grip, you made your way quietly to the bathroom, brushing your teeth and doing your skincare. You’d figured that he’d awaken fairly quickly in your absence, but upon emerging to find him still blissfully asleep, you headed into the kitchen to make two cups of coffee. 

It was the sound of the grinder that woke him up. 

“Morning.” You practically jumped out of your skin at the feeling of soft hands on your waist, lips skimming against the bare skin of your neck. You hadn’t heard him entering the room, caught off guard by how a man so large could move so silently. 

But your brain didn’t linger on the thought for too long, leaning back against him in total bliss, allowing him to plant more kisses up against your warm skin. 

“Morning.” You hummed in return, goosebumps rising on your arms as his fingers slipped beneath the oversized t-shirt that you’d thrown on, tracing a line up your stomach all the way to the curve of your breasts.  

Biting down on your lip, you found yourself squeezing your thighs together at the action. The dull ache from the previous night’s activities already forgotten in favor of lust for the man standing behind you. Unfortunately he refused to continue any further, stalling his movements at the sight of the two mugs on the counter. 

“Making one for me?” He asked, his tone almost perplexed. 

“Of course.” 

What kind of a person wouldn’t make a drink for a guest in their house? Especially when said guest had spent several hours rearranging their guts in the most pleasing way.

You pulled away from him, reaching for the mug with an owl image on the side, holding it out for him. “Not sure what you’d usually drink but you seem like a black coffee kind of a guy, so…” 

It felt almost nerve wracking to present the drink to him, caught off guard by the way that he was staring down at the offering in near disbelief. The expression was gone before you could question it though, his large hands wrapping around the cute mug, giving you a nod before taking a tentative sip. 

“It's good.” He said, almost robotically. 

“I can make you something else if you’d prefer? I make a good mocha.” 

“No, that’s not- I am a black coffee type of guy.” 

“Oh, good.” You said, breaking out into a smile, pleased that you’d guessed correctly. 

Taking a sip of your own drink, you couldn’t help but let your gaze linger over his muscular form. He was still half naked, wearing nothing but his boxers, allowing you to appreciate the tattoos that twisted over his chest and abs. He wasn’t the image of someone that you’d imagine to work in the legal department of a high profile company, but you certainly weren’t complaining about his aesthetic choices.

“You like the tattoos?” He asked, noticing the way you were staring at him. 

“Mmm, they suit you.” You said plainly. “Did you get them all done at once, or?” 

There was a flicker of hesitation in his eyes at your question, as if it wasn’t something he was used to discussing. “Uh, yeah.” He said with a shrug. “Same kind of time period.” 

Reaching out, your fingers traced over the inked rings around his wrist, noticing the way his fingers twitched ever so slightly at your touch. “Some of them must’ve hurt, you’ve got them in all kinds of sensitive areas.” 

The ones on his thighs in particular must’ve been excruciating. 

“I’ve got a high pain tolerance.” 

You hummed softly, fingers moving to the lines on his chest, tracing them up to his broad shoulders. His keen gaze didn’t leave your face for even a moment, examining you carefully, in a manner that had you feeling almost nervous. He had a way of stripping you bare, giving the impression that he was capable of peeling back your layers and taking a peek below the surface. 

He placed his coffee cup down on the counter, hands moving to your hips once more. “Do you have any plans today?” he asked. 

You were quick to shake your head. It was humiliating, but outside of work and responding to a monster appearance, you never had any plans. 

He didn’t need to know that though. 

“Good, because I do.” He murmured, pressing his lips roughly against yours, your own mug of coffee left forgotten on the kitchen top for you to pour away later. 

The rest of your morning passed in a similar manner to the way that your night had, tangled up in your sheets with a man who seemingly couldn’t get enough of you. He was infinitely more skilled than any of the men that you’d been with in the past, granting you his unwavering attention and letting you come undone on his cock in the best way. 

He gave you a release that you didn’t realise you’d been needing for years. 

It was like you were caught up in some dream, being treated with such reverence by a man that you never imagined would’ve given you a second glance. For a moment it had you feeling like your whole horrible life had been worth it if it was leading to this, if it allowed you to have him treat you like this. 

For a few blissful hours you were able to focus on yourself without the weight of your magical girl contract pressing down on you. 

That was the impact that his presence had. 

He didn’t fail to send your head spinning, and the effect that he had on you led to your complete disorientation when later in the afternoon he asked you about something that you really should’ve hidden away better. 

“This is beautiful.” 

Your body was heavy on the mattress, eyes barely fighting off sleep, just about managing to figure out what it was that Sukuna was entranced by on your nightstand. He looked like some sort of renaissance statue, the setting sun illuminating the curves and muscles on his body, almost distracting you from the cold fear that ran through your blood. 

He lifted the amulet carefully, the chain catching around his fingers, the shining jewel glistening in the golden light. His thumb grazed carefully over the gem, and you had to grit your teeth hard to try and conceal the agonising pain that arose from someone laying a hand on the item tethered so intimately with your soul. 

It was a feature you weren’t aware of, a pain unlike anything you’d felt before - a blinding agony in your chest. It was almost as if his hand was wrapped around your beating heart, squeezing hard enough to constrict your breathing. The feeling was different to when monsters or villains had touched your amulet when it was on you - this felt desperate, defensive. 

The amulet was warning you to protect it, to bring it back into your possession immediately or it would burn you from the inside out. 

You needed Sukuna to put it down as soon as possible. 

“Everything okay?” Sukuna was gazing at you, the amulet still firmly in his grasp, eyebrows furrowed with concern at the way that your breaths had grown shallow. 

“Just feeling a little dizzy.” You said honestly, trying to focus on anything but the searing pain in your chest. 

You tried not to glance at the amulet, unwilling to draw any further attention to it. You didn’t want him to look too closely at the thing, the item that was always so proudly displayed around your neck when you were Shining Star. It was stupid of you to leave it out for him to find, but in your defence, you hadn’t expected to bring him back here. 

No one ever came round to your apartment, so you’d never made any effort to conceal it. 

Stupid. 

A defence was already on your lips if he asked, a claim that you were a big fan of the famous magical girl and subsequently had a replica of her prized item. But if he was aware of the jewelry's significance, he said nothing, placing it back down on the dresser in favor of stepping closer to you. The pain instantly yielded, your heart returning to its usual pace. 

You had to hold back a sigh of relief. 

“Did I fuck you too good?” He asked with an easy laugh, reaching out to test the temperature of your forehead with the back of his hand. 

You giggled softly, shoulders dropping in relief at the swiftness with which he moved on. 

“Yeah, something like that.” 

“Mmm. It won’t be the last time.” 

Over the next few weeks, you saw Sukuna regularly. 

It was as though a bond had been thoroughly formed on that first date, and after that he simply couldn’t get enough of your company.

You’d hidden the amulet away after that first little incident, keen to avoid him seeing it again and putting the pieces together, but there was a part of you that believed that you needn’t have worried. Sukuna seemed so smitten with you that he probably wouldn’t have the least bit of interest in the meaning behind your jewelry. 

He was too busy giving you everything that you’d ever wanted, something that you never could’ve expected from a man who you’d thought would only be interested in a one night stand. 

It felt nice. 

He’d text you non-stop, grab food with you during your lunch break, spend evenings curled up on the sofa with you in your apartment, take you on cute little dates in the city, and spend every night worshipping you between the sheets of your bed. 

Hell, now that your two companies were connected, there were a few times where he’d set up meetings with you under the guise of event planning, only to close the blinds of his private office and fuck you on his desk in the middle of a work day. 

It was the most time that you’d spent with another person since becoming a magical girl, probably the happiest you’d felt since you’d signed that damn contract. For those few weeks you could almost convince yourself that you were a normal person living an ordinary life. You’d order takeout with your boyfriend and fall asleep on the sofa watching some movie just like every other lucky normal person. 

The illusion would shatter a little any time you’d awaken with that telltale sickening feeling that a monster had risen up, but the number of monster incidents seemed to have decreased ever since you’d met Sukuna. There were no more hard situations like there had been over the last couple of months - things were back to the way they were before the King of Curses had shown up. 

So even though you’d had to make up a few excuses to nip out late in the evening when you and Sukuna were settling down for bed, it hadn’t been anywhere near as difficult as you’d been expecting it to be. Even the media had commented on how quiet things had been lately, how little the world had seen of Shining Star over the past few weeks. 

Perhaps this was just the world’s way of throwing you a bone. 

Maybe the King of Curses had lost interest in you entirely. Perhaps for at least a while, you’d be able to live out some semblance of a normal life with a man who actually seemed interested in you for you, rather than someone who loved Shining Star. 

Wouldn’t that be a novelty?

—

Sukuna was losing his mind. 

He couldn’t quite put a finger on where things were going wrong, but he was more than aware that his plan wasn’t really panning out in the way that he’d intended. 

For starters, the timeline had really fallen apart. He’d intended to spend a couple of weeks with you, lovebomb and manipulate until you were wrapped around his finger, and then destroy your life in the cruelest way possible. 

And yet, somehow, he was now a month and a half into a relationship with you and he still hadn’t pulled the trigger. Hell, he’d barely taken any actions at all to make your life a misery lately, too busy spending nights in your bed to go out and raise monsters for you to fight. He’d told himself that was simply to avoid causing suspicion, but there was at least a part of him that knew better. 

It was because he couldn’t bring himself to pull away from the warmth of your soft body. 

A humiliating realisation for him, and one that had him throwing more darts than ever into the picture of your face that he had on the wall of his apartment. He was glad that you never pushed to hang out at his place, because he really didn’t want to take his beloved target down. 

He’d gathered himself back together by resigning himself to the fact that his feelings weren’t within his own control. You were a magical girl, there was no doubt that you had some special charm magic responsible for the way that he was feeling - it was all artificial, made to emulate the sensation of love where there was none. 

It was frustrating, the way that you so easily wriggled beneath his skin with each encounter. He’d reset each time, reinvigorate his hatred for you, only for holes to be blown straight through it with the soft touch of your fingers against his skin. You’d treat him with such care and reverence, do kind things for him like making him coffee any chance you’d get, showing a genuine interest and affection for him that no one ever really had. 

You’d bring up foolish things like how painful his tattoos must’ve been to get, feigning concern as if you actually cared. As if it mattered to you that the markings were excruciating for him to receive, because they’d slowly etched themselves into his skin like someone had taken a jagged knife to him when he was just a child. 

You had no right to ask him about that, to feign pity for him. 

His tattoos were a sign of what he was, they branded him as the very thing that you hated, and yet there you were touching them and showing concern for him. He hated it, hated that your gentle nature and sympathy made his heart flutter. He hated you and your stupid fucking charm, your innate ability to get to him. 

What was he supposed to do against such power? 

Stick with the plan and execute when needed, that was all. 

That was what was necessary. 

It didn’t matter that he was having a genuinely good time with you, that his heart ached at the depths of your loneliness and despair, that he’d never felt better than when he was buried inside of you with your lips pressed against his. 

None of that stuff mattered. Shining Star was evil, horrendous, and she needed to be purged. No amount of affection that he held for you was going to change that. 

But that didn’t mean that he was having an easy time doing so. 

Everything he needed was there. He had evidence of you being Shining Star to leak to the press, he had the location of your amulet ready for him to steal it from you, and he’d become more than aware of your kryptonite, a type of sedative that he could use to weaken you in your magical girl form if it came to that. 

He’d even taken a video of you for blackmail, hiding a camera on the bookshelf in his office and then fucking you in front of it, figuring that he could use that to destroy and humiliate you even further when his plan came to fruition. 

But as more time passed, the more defensive he grew over the idea of someone else seeing you like that. 

That video had been witnessed by his eyes near one-hundred times at this point, often with his fist wrapped firmly around his cock. There was no excuse for it, he knew that, but he still couldn’t stop doing it. He should really delete that shit, but the sight of your pretty face in total bliss as you came undone on top of him was just too good to miss. 

There was a chance that he could replay the whole damn thing by memory in his head now, the way that your fingers dug into his shoulders, clinging onto him for dear life while he thrusted up into you over and over again. 

He’d keep the video for himself. Destroying your life in the conventional way was enough without also leaking your sex tape. It could be something for him to remember you by when he finally pulled the trigger on his plan, a trophy that was just for him. 

Eventually. 

Because even though all the pieces were in place, even though he could go ahead with his plan right now if he wanted to, he couldn’t bring himself to do it - teetering right at the edge of a cliff, knowing that once he jumped, he’d never be able to turn back.

He told himself that he’d only act once he was satisfied that he’d really really gotten you to like him - that he was only stretching out the timeline with the intention of causing the highest level of emotional trauma to break your mind irreparably. 

Just like he told himself that there was no point in rushing things - that the more times he could get you to fuck him, the sweeter the eventual outcome of this would be. 

That was definitely why he was doing this. 

There was definitely no other reason - not one that made him feel a little sick to consider. 

Unfortunately, he wasn’t the only person that he needed to justify himself to. 

“You’re falling for her.” Uraume’s voice was matter of fact, a casual tone that would’ve drawn Sukuna’s ire had it come from anyone else. 

“The fuck are you talking about?” He grumbled, stretching out a little on his sofa, making the most of being in his normal form before having to meet up with you later in the evening. 

Even if he wasn’t the very villain that had been making your life a living hell, he was sure that you’d be repulsed by his normal body. That was what he had to remember when he started romanticising your interactions too much. 

Uraume shook their head in disbelief. “I think you know exactly what I’m talking about.” 

“No. Enlighten me.” His tone was warning, eager to see how Uraume would toe the line between politeness and honesty. 

“Why haven’t we acted yet?” They asked simply. “You’ve done what was necessary, so let's kill her.” 

“Not yet.” He hissed. “The time isn’t right.” 

His gaze moved down to his phone, the screen illuminating with a message from you. You were asking what he’d like to eat that evening, suggesting that you could grab a couple of steaks to cook up for the two of you. You knew that it was his favourite, always going out of your way to appease him. It was almost frustrating - the amount of care that you put into your actions surrounding him. 

Stupid. 

You were stupid. 

But he wasn’t going to kill you just yet. 

Not only was he still a way off from maximising the emotional devastation, but this whole thing could still just be a set up - you could still be one step ahead of him. He needed to spend more time gathering recon, getting a lay of the land to ensure that everything could be executed perfectly. If he came all this way just to fail that would be a terrible use of time. It wasn’t a crime to be cautious. 

That was what he explained to Uraume, who was staring down at him as if he was a total idiot - a sentiment that he didn’t particularly appreciate. 

“If you don’t do it within the next month you’re never going to do it.” Uraume said frankly. “In fact, if you don’t do it at that time, you’ll probably end up married or something ridiculous like that.” 

“Bold words for you to say to your master.” 

“Then kill me.” Uraume said simply. “I’ll always serve you well, but right now I think that you’re heading down a bad path.” 

Sukuna rolled his eyes, not keen on being lectured by his lesser. There was no way that he was actually going to kill Uraume for anything though - they’d stuck with him through thick and thin and did all the chores around the house that he couldn’t be bothered with. His life would be a nightmare without them. 

Not that they needed to know that, because he really didn’t want to encourage this behaviour. 

“Noted. You just don’t get it.” 

“I think-”

“I’m deep behind enemy lines here, I’m getting the kind of information out of her that we could’ve only dreamed of before I put all of this in motion. It would be a waste to cut things short - that’s all.” 

Uraume hesitated, cool eyes narrowing as they composed themselves. It was clear that they wished to tread carefully. 

“I’m just concerned that you’re not really acting anymore.” 

“Then what I’m doing is convincing, and you’re falling for it just like she is.” He said nonchalantly. “Tell me, Uraume, do you really think that I’d ever genuinely buy into her bullshit? Really?”

“It looks like it-” 

“Of course I wouldn’t. Don’t be fucking stupid.” 

—

It was your two month anniversary, and you and Sukuna had opted to head over to a nice quiet park with a beautiful view of the city. You’d been meaning to venture there for a while now, but with how busy and beaten down you’d been over the last couple of years you’d never really found the chance. 

Your fingers were intertwined with Sukuna’s, letting him squeeze your hand softly as the two of you ventured up near to a hundred steps leading to a beautiful green plateau surrounded by flowers and trees. It was quiet up there, with only a handful of couples scattered about, so it was easy to find an ideal spot. 

Sukuna spread out a picnic blanket on the ground, putting the basket of food that you’d made down beside the two of you. It was only about midway through spring, so the weather wasn’t too warm, but the april breeze felt pleasant on your skin after the arduous hike up to your picnic spot. 

Settling down at Sukuna’s side, you preoccupied yourself with laying out food on the plastic plates you’d packed, filling them up with homemade onigiri, fruit, and various other snacks that you’d picked up from the convenience store on the way over. Sukuna poured wine into the colourful glasses that’d come with the picnic basket, his fingers brushing against yours as he handed it to you. 

“Can’t believe we’ll be having days like this all the time soon.” You commented, shading your face from the sun as you popped a grape into your mouth. 

“Mmm, we’ll have to go to the beach or something.” He agreed. 

His expression was almost wistful as he stared at the view of the city sprawled out below the two of you. You could never really understand these moments with him, those little instances where he seemed far away from you, like there was something plaguing his mind that you weren’t privy to. 

But it wasn’t like you could complain if he was keeping a secret from you, considering the major one you were harbouring. 

“I keep meaning to visit Okinawa but I’ve never found the time. Maybe we could go together in a few months? Have an actual holiday?” You suggested, your heart fluttering at the way his lips curved up into a soft smile, red eyes glistening in the spring sun. 

“Yeah, I’d like that.” He paused for a moment, taking a long sip of his wine. “Planning on staying with me for the foreseeable future then?” 

A frown creased your forehead, caught off by his question. It felt like an odd thing to bring up so suddenly, but you supposed that you were the one so callously making plans for the future when the two of you hadn’t really discussed what your hopes were for the relationship yet. 

In your mind it was obvious - you liked him a lot, you’d even go as far as to say that you were falling for him. There was no plan in your mind to put an end to what was happening between the two of you, and you hoped that he felt the same.

“Yeah?” You offered cautiously, the worry clearly seeping into your tone based on the way that he laughed. 

“It wasn’t a trick question or an attack.” He clarified with a grin. “I was genuinely asking. I like to know where I stand.”

“I like you.” You said plainly. “I want to keep doing this for as long as possible.” You gestured vaguely to the two of you and the picnic, aware that your wording wasn’t as eloquent as it could’ve been, but certain that he’d understand your point all the same. 

“Me too.” He didn’t miss a beat, his hand reaching for yours, the warmth of his fingers sending electricity pulsing over your skin. “But I suppose there are things that I wonder about.” 

The elation of his touch dulled quickly, leaving you feeling like you’d been doused with a jug of water. Your mind started racing, the weight of his tone leaving you jumping instantly to the worst case solution. Did he know your secret? He’d seen your amulet, had he made the connection in his mind over where he’d seen it before? 

“It just feels like you’re holding things back.” He continued, releasing your hand carefully and pulling back so that he could look at you more clearly. “Like you’re afraid for me to see certain sides of you for fear that I’ll leave.” 

You chewed your lip silently, waiting for him to continue. You weren’t going to offer up a truthful explanation until he revealed more about his own suspicions, if he had an incorrect assumption it would be foolish of you to jump the gun and tell him the truth of the matter.

“You just seem so lonely, and you don’t talk about it.” Sukuna’s remark came out of the blue, a twinge of pity present in his crimson eyes. It caught you off guard - a statement that cut you right to your very core, no matter how hard you tried to hide it. It was a relief to realise that his intuition had nothing to do with your secret identity, but that observation almost cut you deeper. 

For the last two months he’d watched and taken note of the fact that the only person you ever interacted with outside of work was him. He was probably wondering what horrific personality trait you had to lead to you having absolutely no one hold a position in your life. 

You were aware that with how perceptive Sukuna seemed to be that he’d notice at some point, but a part of you had been hoping that he’d be polite enough not to outright bring it up. You knew you were lonely, you hated to think that other people saw you that way too. Despised the idea that he was drawing his own conclusions on the reasoning, wondering if you were some narcissist who had driven all your friends away. 

“I guess I am lonely.” You said listlessly, trying not to sound too upset. “But it is what it is.”

“I didn’t mean anything negative by it.” Sukuna clarified. “It was more of an observation than anything else.” He chewed on his lip, thinking carefully before continuing. “I like you, I enjoy spending time with you, so I suppose it's hard for me to understand why you seem so isolated from everyone else.”

You shrugged, trying to think of an answer that sat somewhere between you sounding like a pathetic loser and outright just confessing to the big secret you were hiding from him. But he went on before letting you speak. 

“I kinda wondered if it was a me problem? Like, as if you don’t trust me enough to really let me into your inner circle or introduce me to your friends and stuff? Like I mentioned before, it just feels like you’re keeping something from me.” He said.

Your lips parted in surprise at his suggestion, guilt rising up in your chest at the idea that he’d be the issue here. That wasn’t what you wanted him to think at all - if you had anyone in your life worth introducing him to, you would’ve done it straight away. You’d rather he think you were a loser than believe that something was his fault. 

“Its a bit embarrassing, but I suppose I don’t really have anyone.” You said honestly.

Your hands were pulling at the grass at the edge of the blanket, idly removing blades from the ground as you tried not to think too hard about how pathetic that sounded. 

He hesitated for a second. “No one? What about your family? Or friends, maybe?” His red eyes were fixed on you, no doubt in deep set judgement. He didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would ever be lacking in company, he probably couldn’t relate to the way you felt. 

“No one.” You answered. “My parents moved away when I went to university, and haven’t been back to Japan since. I haven’t had an actual boyfriend like, ever, and the close friends that I had are all gone now.” 

Sukuna frowned at your answer. Chewing on the inside of your mouth, you hoped he didn’t delve too hard into that statement, because your lack of a social circle all ultimately came back around to the one secret that you couldn’t share with him. 

Your parents were forced to leave on account of your contract - not that they were aware of that. And your missing friends? Well, that was even more complex to explain. 

“What do you mean by gone?” He asked. “Like, you just don’t talk to them anymore?” 

“No.” You said carefully, staring down at the blades of grass occupying your fingers. “I had two close friends, but both of them passed away a few years ago.” 

“Oh. So everyone who knows you either disappears or dies? That’s not a great sign.” He let out a low chuckle, a clear sign that he was simply telling a joke, one that you laughed along with despite the heavy sensation in your chest. Because in a sense he was right, it was dangerous to be someone close to your side, impossible to live a truly normal life. 

Though your deceased friends hadn’t been living a normal life anyway. They’d been magical girls just like you, and had met the fate that you’d no doubt encounter one day. 

“Just bad luck I guess.” You mumbled, feeling something of a need to explain yourself. “One of them was kind of like me - she was sick. But unlike my situation, no miracle came her way and she just kind of…withered away.” 

Not technically a lie, but not the whole truth either. 

Shoko, a magical girl who had gotten her start a few years before you, died from the sickness that magical girls would become afflicted with should they not act in line with their contract. In her case, she’d grown tired of the constant need to fight monsters, the never-ending duty thrust upon her. 

She’d ignored the call to arms for months, her body rotting with each passing day, until she finally faded away into nothing. 

You’d tried to get her to act, to get her to do anything to stop the slow decay, but she’d already made up her mind. If the rest of her life would be spent fighting those creatures every night until her eventual death - why drag things out? Better to end things sooner rather than later. 

Back then you hadn’t understood it - still all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as a new magical girl. You got it now - you could understand the exhaustion that had seeped into her bones. 

“Another cancer patient?” He asked. 

You nodded. That was an easy way to wave away any further explanation.

“Was that the case with your other friend too? I suppose making friends on a cancer ward leads to relationships with a high mortality rate.” 

“No, actually. I met her after I’d recovered.” You said. 

Yuki. 

While you’d only known Shoko for a short while, your friendship with Yuki had been much longer and deeper. She’d been the first magical girl that you’d met after signing the contract, the person who had taught you essentially everything that you knew now. 

Much like Shining Star, she’d been something of a celebrity to the people, the type of person that everyone had faith in. And unlike you, in your total exhaustion and cynicism for the magical girl life, she believed in the whole thing. 

She was happy, she genuinely liked being a magical girl, even after years of duty.

She was something special. 

Until she was reduced to nothing. 

“She was a friend I made at university. She really helped me sew my life back together after everything that happened to me as a teenager. I’d spent so long preparing for the end that I didn’t really know how to live, but she showed me the way. She was my best friend.” 

“But?” 

“But,” you said with a heavy sigh, “there was this guy who was like, totally obsessed with her. A stalker, I guess. He was desperate for her attention, would never leave her alone, had this insane jealousy towards anyone else who had her affection. And one day, he just decided that if he couldn’t have her, then no one could.” 

Sukuna was silent for a moment, peering over at you with an unreadable expression. “He killed her?” 

“Yeah.” 

Once again, your explanation wasn’t a lie, but it was leaving out a few key details. Her stalker had been the last major villain that you’d been faced with - a man named Kenjaku who had come before the King of Curses. It was true that he’d been obsessed with her, desperate for Yuki’s attention in a way that he didn’t care for yours, but obviously it wasn’t as simple as some mere incel killing a university student. 

Yuki had put up a good fight and Kenjaku had prevailed. He’d worked hard to specifically break down your friend in a way that she couldn’t defend against. You could still remember the sight of that accursed man standing victorious, hands all over the lifeless body of the one person that you genuinely trusted. 

“So, what happened to him?” 

“He’s dead.” You said swiftly. “Justice was served.” 

“Justice?” There was a sly grin on Sukuna’s face, one that you couldn’t quite understand, because as far as you were concerned, this topic was far from amusing. But you answered all the same. 

“Yeah. I don’t know who, but someone who heard about the situation ended up putting him down.” You shrugged. “Good riddance.” 

You knew exactly who’d put him down, since Kenjaku’s blood was stained on your hands, but there was no way that you were going to tell Sukuna that. You had very little remorse for the man that you’d killed, he deserved worse for what he’d done to Yuki. His soul had been corrupted by hatred just like that of a monster, and for that reason he had to be put down. 

Magical girls existed to protect humanity, and he was far from human. 

“I wonder why he was so obsessed with her?” Sukuna asked. 

You imagined that it was just because she was a magical girl, that she shone so brightly that he couldn’t withstand it. Monsters always tended to stray towards their opposites, their darkness so deep that they’d automatically stray towards something so bright. Though, that was just your theory, and not one you’d put too much thought into. You had no real interest in mulling over the motivations of villains, it just wasn’t worth your time. 

“She was the type of person who everyone was drawn to, the type of girl who everyone wants attention from. I guess he just couldn’t take not being noticed by her.” 

Sukuna hummed, as if deep in thought, before turning to you with a wry smile. “The way you describe her, she almost sounds like that magical girl - what’s her name…shimmering light or something? Maybe she just faked her death and now she’s off gallavanting around as the city’s hero?”

For a moment you froze up, not expecting him to mention your alter ego so candidly. But you were quick to force yourself to relax. This was just a normal conversation, there was no need to make him suspicious by acting weird. 

“Shining Star, you mean?” You offered. 

“Yeah, that’s the one.” 

“I guess that’s a nice thought.” You tried to sound hopeful, even if you were the one person that knew for sure that Sukuna was wrong in his suggestion. Not that you could argue with him on it without exposing yourself. 

“Do you like her? Shining Star?” 

Biting on your lip, you studied Sukuna for a second. You weren’t sure what had pushed him onto this line of questioning but you couldn’t exactly escape it without looking strange. He didn’t know something, right?

No, that would be impossible. 

“I’m not really bothered about her, to be honest.” You said nonchalantly. “She seems like a nice girl and all but I’d never be like one of those fans she has - if I cared about seeing superheroes do cool things I’d just watch one of those Marvel movies.” You brushed him off with a wave of your hand. 

“Mmm, fair enough.” 

You tried to hold yourself back from asking the next question that fell from your lips, you really did. But your curiosity got the better of you. 

“Do you like Shining Star?” 

“Not really.” 

The answer was delivered quickly, confidently. There was no moment of deliberation, an opinion that was already solidly formed in his mind. Perhaps it should’ve hurt your feelings, the revelation that he held no love for the other version of you, and yet you found yourself flooded with nothing but relief. 

Because you hated that side of you, despised everything about it. If you could remove Shining Star from this universe entirely without erasing yourself you would’ve done it long ago. 

You were so used to people loving her without a shred of regard for you. It was as if Shining Star was some sort of imposter who had stolen the limelight of your own life, leaving you hidden in the shadows. 

For Sukuna to recognise you rather than her meant everything. 

Not that you could tell him that. 

Maybe one day you’d be able to divulge your great secret, but not right now, not when your relationship was still so fresh. There was a time and place. 

“That’s a rare opinion these days.” You said as nonchalantly as possible. 

He shrugged easily, leaning back on his forearms as he eyed you carefully. 

“What’s the point of caring about some stupid magical girl when I’ve got a much brighter light sitting right in front of me?” 

Lips parting softly, you felt the blush creep up your neck at his blatant flattery. You dropped your gaze down the floor, struggling to maintain eye contact with the way that his red eyes were fixed so intensely on you.

“Thanks.” You choked out quietly, your murmur received by a warm chuckle. He shifted closer to you, his body radiating warmth, muscular thigh brushing against yours. A hand slipped around your waist, pulling you against his side, his lips grazed your cheek as a hand reached below your chin, tilting your face up to allow him to capture your lips. 

Even though you’d kissed him hundreds of times in the last few weeks, it never stopped feeling all-consuming, as though he was devouring you with each careful flick of his experienced tongue. You’d allow yourself to be devoured, to sink into the pleasure that he gave you, eager to allow him whatever he wanted. 

That was just the effect he had on you. 

You wanted to be his, wanted to dedicate your whole life to him. If you could sign a contract of your life over to him and forsake the foolish one you’d accepted as a teenager you’d do it in a second. He would no doubt be kinder on your life than that damn magical girl contract ever was. 

If only your life was still your own to sign away.

—

Later that night, the two of you went back to your apartment. 

That evening was just like one of many that you’d spent together: huddled up on the couch, watching some slasher movie that Sukuna had decided on, exhausted from your afternoon out in the sun, drinking and putting the world to rights. 

You were half asleep when his phone rang, barely acknowledging the sound of talking as you leant heavy against his side. 

He was always getting calls from someone or other. It didn’t come as much of a surprise to you, considering that he had such a high profile role in a big company. If it wasn’t work, it was his private butler asking him if he’d be coming home that night, and as such, you had very little interest in really listening in on whatever he was talking about. 

Today he seemed particularly agitated though, the sharp tone of his voice drawing you back from where you were teetering in dreamland. 

“Soon.” He huffed with annoyance. “I already told you, we’re not quite there with all the preparations for the moment, so hold off for now.” 

You couldn’t quite hear the reply, the curt tone of whoever was on the other end of the line completely unintelligible to you. It was clear that Sukuna didn’t like what he was hearing, letting out a deep sigh and running a hand through his salmon hair. 

“Fine. Enough. I get it.” He hissed. “Tomorrow. We’ll do it tomorrow.” 

There was an air of tension that surrounded him, a clear displeasure for the conclusion that had been reached. You were surprised that he was so willing to go along with anyone else's suggestion, always giving off the impression of being utterly in charge. But you supposed that even he was beholden to outside forces. 

Your hand ran against the cotton of his shirt as he hung up the phone, tossing it further down the sofa, as if he couldn’t bear to have it near to him for a moment longer. It was a Friday night after all, no wonder he was angry if he had to get something done on a weekend. It would really ruin the plans you’d made to go strawberry picking. 

“Everything okay?” You mumbled sleepily, gazing up at his handsome face with tired eyes. 

There was a flicker of something unreadable before he smiled softly, his hand rubbing circles reassuringly into your back, encouraging you to settle back down at his side. 

“Yeah, baby. I’ve just gotta get some stuff done in the morning. Don’t you worry your pretty little head about a thing.” 

a/n: sukuna about to ruin his own life LOL

hope you guys enjoyed this chapter, can't wait to share more with you all! reblogs and comments are appreciated! let me know if you want to be added to the taglist <3

taglist (open): @starmapz @feyrinnn @riri-1234 @cherrycokeline @4shrimps @dogggggggblog-kaye @winkii @keikeisuke @feyrasworld @sukubusss @motel6killer @yeagersss @gegeeeeeeeeeeex @autwizzy @adettee @himezoro @juiceboxluvr @sugrfairie @lmaogottazayn @pwd54gr54 @maya2848 @irislostinyouriris @anothergojostan @bam-boozledx @360seas @plaguecxlt @leave-rae-alone @daburasdoll @nicerthanu @monic19 @ankotaiyakii @aiive @indiewritesxoxo @throwmethroughawindow @wackywhip @seellove @kariatenoh @hashahasha @r0vena @dawnsoblivion @luvleixo @venettahaven @powerhayakawaa @dollienanaaa @justfiq @kaagrwl @yourfavkaur @martianzmars @jjkfannn34 @cupidstrace

© sukunahs

[mcybank]

Those Days Are Over (Don’t Worry, Baby) — Steve Harrington (2)

pairing — ex!steve harrington x fem!reader

word count — 16.9k

summary — Four years ago, Steve Harrington had chosen his future and it wasn’t you. You’d chose to leave Hawkins entirely and that worked out fine until it didn’t. Now you’re sleeping in your sister’s guest room and picking up your nephew from baseball practice where Steve Harrington is teaching kids how to slide into home. Some things, it turns out, you can’t outrun.

warnings — (18+ Minors DNI!!!) sexual content, no intercourse, fingering, me also being really bad at writing smut, heavy making out, crying, SO much crying, both of them, multiple times, breakdown during intimacy, ongoing emotional trauma, public emotional moments, alcohol mention, intimacy while intoxicated, breakup scene, second chance romances, he fell first AND he fell harder (eventually), right person wrong time -> right person right time, small town, forced proximity (??), jealous steve. yearner steve. like so badly yearning i’m sorry i got so carried away.

author’s note — this was probably the worst Almost Hookup aftermath. i also got so carried away writing this and i know i’ll look back on it and realize how bad it was lmao but steve is such a yearner in this. i also would loveee to write an epilogue or something for this + drabbles because i’m thinking so much about them and don’t wanna let them go just yet so lmk if that’s of any interest !! ♡

part one

"Hi," he breathed against your lips.

"Hi, Steve." Your hands found the hem of his shirt, fingers slipping beneath to find warm skin. He took in a sharp intake of breath he tried to hide. 

He shuddered, the tremor beginning in his shoulder and rolling down through his chest, his stomach. His hands left your face and slid down to your waist, then lower, fingers digging into your hips so hard you’d feel it tomorrow as he hauled you against him.

“Fuck.” The word punched out of him and he pressed his hips forward, letting out a low groan as he said, Been thinkin’ about this all night.

“Just tonight?”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, and you could feel strands of his hair—softer than it used to be, less product—brushing against your forehead as he lowered his head. His pupils were blown so wide you could hardly see the hazel. His expression was so open it made your chest ache. “Longer.”

Your breath caught. For a second neither of you moved, and you let his eyes bore into your own. “Steve—” 

“Since you showed up again.” His thumb found the sliver of skin where your jeans, the Levi’s you’d found in a thrift store near college, sat low on your hip. “Maybe longer. Maybe I never really stopped.” 

You should probably tell him not to say things like that. Yes, you should remind him—so you can remind yourself—that this was just scratching an itch, just getting it out of your system. But his forehead was pressed to yours and his hands were warm and solid on your hips and you couldn’t get yourself to care about should. 

“Kiss me again,” you said instead.

He wasted no time. His tongue slid against yours and you made a sound you’d be embarrassed about later, pulling him closer by the shirt. The fabric bunched in your fists and you could feel his heart beating against your palms. 

“Bed?” you managed to say when you pulled for air. 

He kissed along your jaw, down your neck, finding that spot below your ear that made you gasp. "Just give me a second."

"We're still by the door."

“‘m aware.” His hands were pulling your sweater up, impatient in a way that made you smile against his mouth because that was familiar; Steve wanting too much too fast, Steve getting ahead of himself. You lifted your arms to help him and the sweater caught on your necklace—the delicate gold chain with your initial you never took off, the one your mom gave you for graduation —before it came free and dropped to the floor next to your bag. Your keys were probably tangled in the strap and your lip gloss was definitely getting crushed.

Then his hands were on your bare skin, thumbs brushing the underside of your bra. 

You pulled at his shirt and he helped you, yanking it over his head in one motion that messed his hair up even more. And then you were both breathing hard, pressed against the door, and you couldn't remember why you'd wanted to move in the first place.

Your eyes traced over him in the dim light from the window. He really had filled out, shoulders broader, arms more defined, the suggestion of actual muscle instead of the lanky basketball-player frame he'd had earlier. 

“Hey,” he said, softer this time. His hands cupped your face again as he stroked your cheekbones. 

"Hi." You traced the line of his collarbone with your finger, watching goosebumps rise in its wake. "You got broader."

He laughed, surprised. "What?"

“Your shoulders. They’re—” You ran your hands over them, feeling the muscle there. “You filled out.”

"Four years of actually working out instead of just pretending to for basketball will do that." His hands slid down your sides, settling on your waist. "You got—"

"Careful how you finish that sentence."

"—even prettier." He said it simply, like it was obvious. Like there was no other possible word. "I was going to say even prettier."

Something in your chest cracked wide open. "Steve—"

"This is new." He mused as he hummed while his thumb traced the outline of the black lace. "Pretty girl,” he murmured.

“You don’t know that.” 

His eyes flicked up, dark and a little smug. “Yeah. I do. I remember all of them.” His thumb dipped beneath the lace, brushing bare skin, and he kept his eyes on your face. “The pink one. The white one with the flowers. The red one you wore for—”

“Okay, okay,” you cut him off, face heating. “Point made.”

“Just saying,” he said, tilting his head as he grinned, that cocky smile that used to drive you crazy. “I paid attention.”

“Clearly.”

“Had to.” He hummed as his fingers came up and around your neck, warm and possessive. “You were my girl.”

Were. God. The word hung between you for a second before he was kissing you again, erasing it, swallowing it, taking it back. His tongue slid against yours and you forgot what you were thinking about, forgot everything except the way his hands were moving you, confident now. Like he was more sure.

“Bedroom,” you said against his mouth. “Steve, we gotta—”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” But his hand was already sliding higher, thumb brushing the underside of your breast, and you gasped. “Fuck, you sound—”

“Steve.” Your voice was firmer now. 

“Bossy,” he said, smirking as he pulled away from you. 

He grabbed your thighs and lifted you. Your legs wrapped around his waist automatically and his hands gripped you tight, fingers digging into your ass as he he walked off. “Show off,” you murmured against his neck.

“You love it.”

“Maybe.”

He let out a throaty laugh. “Definitely.” He squeezed and you bit his shoulder in retaliation, which only made him laugh harder. “Careful. Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

“Who says I can’t finish it?”

His laugh was cut off by a groan you felt vibrate through his chest. “Okay, yeah. We’re—let’s go, before I drop you.”

"I might." But his grip tightened, hands flexing against your thighs as he navigated through his apartment. You could feel every step, the way his muscles shifted, the controlled strength in how he held you. He'd always been strong—basketball had seen to that—but this was different. Deliberate. Like he wanted you to feel exactly how easily he could carry you.

You kissed along his jaw, his neck, finding that spot behind his ear that used to make him crazy. Still did, apparently, because he stumbled slightly, shoulder hitting the doorframe.

"Jesus—" He course-corrected, finally making it through the doorway. "You're the worst."

"You love it."

"Maybe," he said, throwing your words back at you, and then he was setting you down on the bed. Not gently—with enough force that you bounced once, twice, and had to catch yourself on your elbows.

"Smooth," you said, grinning up at him.

"Shut up." But he was grinning too as he braced his hands on either side of you, leaning down until his face was inches from yours. Close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the way his pupils were blown wide. "Hi."

"Hi."

His knee pressed between your thighs, and the grin faded into something more serious and intense. "You good?"

"Yeah." Your hands found his shoulders, sliding down to his chest. You could feel his heart racing under your palm. "You?"

“Yeah. Really good. Just—” He stopped, and something flickered across his face, something more vulnerable. “Can’t believe you’re really here.”

“Where else would I be?”

“I don’t know. Anywhere but here.” He said it like he’d truly thought you’d change your mind somewhere between the bar and his bedroom. “With me.”

Your throat felt tight. “Steve—”

He kissed you before you could finish. His knee pressed between your thighs and you gasped into his mouth. He shifted his weight, pressing closer, and the friction made you both groan. His hand found the button of your jeans. "Can I?"

"If you don't, I'm doing it myself."

He laughed, pleased. "Bossy girl." He was already working the button open, sliding the zipper down with maddening slowness. His knuckles brushed your stomach and you sucked in a breath.

"So sensitive everywhere," he said, more to himself than to you. He traced the path his knuckles had made, watching your face. "I remember that. How you'd get goosebumps when I—" He did it again, firmer this time, and you shivered.

"Steve—"

"Yeah, baby?"

The endearment made your stomach flip. "Keep going."

"So demanding," he said, but hooking his fingers in your jeans, tugging them down over your hips. You lifted to help and they joined the growing pile on his floor. He sat back on his heels, just looking, and you fought the urge to cover yourself.

“What?” you asked when the silence stretched on.

“Nothing. Just—” His hand settled on your thigh, thumb tracing idle circles. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty like this. I mean—” His hands slid higher, fingers running over the edge of the lace of your underwear. “So pretty,” he murmured, this time more to himself. His touch went from teasing to reverent. “Can I take these off?” 

He pulled them down slowly, pressing kisses to your hip, your thigh, the inside of your knee. By the time they were gone, you were breathing so hard you felt dizzy.

"Okay?" he asked, settling between your legs again.

"Yeah. Yes. Very okay." You reached for his belt. "Your turn."

"Impatient."

"You're one to talk."

He helped you with his belt, both of you fumbling with the buckle until it came free. Then his jeans were open and you could feel him, hard and hot against your hip through his boxers.

"Fuck," you breathed.

"Yeah." He kicked his jeans off the rest of the way. "That's—yeah."

You laughed despite yourself. "Eloquent."

“Shut up.” He smiled as he kissed you and his hand slid up your ribs, as his thumb found your nipple through the lace and you arched into the touch. “You make me stupid.”

"Pretty sure you were stupid before me."

"Definitely." His mouth found your neck, that spot below your ear. "But you make it worse."His words were muffled against your skin. 

His hand moved lower, between your legs, and you stopped caring about conversation entirely. His fingers found you and you gasped. 

A corner of his lips kicked up at your sound. “That good?”

“Yeah.” 

“Tell me.” His fingers moved in slow circles. “C’mon, baby. I wanna hear you say it.”

“It’s—good—” His fingers kicked up the speed a notch. “Good. Fuck, Steve—”

“That’s my girl.” His voice had gone rough. “Let me make you feel good. That’s all I want.”

His fingers moved faster and you grabbed his shoulder, nails digging into his skin. The tension was building low in your stomach, and you shifted your hips but he held you down with one of his palms.

"Steve—"

"I know. I've got you." His mouth was on your neck, your collarbone, your chest. "Just let me take care of you, baby. I've got you."

Your eyes squeezed shut and your head tilted back and—

And that's when you saw it.

Your eyes had drifted in a haze without meaning to, unfocused, looking for something to ground yourself, and there it was. On the dresser, three feet away. A picture frame catching the amber streetlight that filtered through the closed blinds. There were five people, but the only one who you could focus on was Steve, with his arms around Nancy Wheeler. Nancy was laughing at something, head tilted back, looking carefree and perfect right next to Steve. Nancy, who belonged in that picture. Nancy, who belonged in Steve’s life, on a picture he wakes up to every morning—

Your body went rigid without meaning to. Every muscle locked; your breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat. The heat that had been building in your stomach—the want, the need, the almost—all of it just stopped, went cold. Like someone had thrown a bucket of ice water over your entire body. 

Steve noticed. Of course he did, the switch was so crystal clear he couldn’t have ignored it even if he wanted to. His hands stilled between your legs and he looked up at you, breathing hard. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

You couldn’t answer. You couldn’t even look at him. Your eyes were still fixed on the dresser. Or maybe they weren’t, you couldn’t really process the information from your eyes to your mind all that well. 

It’s fine, you told yourself desperately. It’s just a picture. A picture that tells you nothing about yourself. This is casual anyway. This doesn’t matter. It doesn’t— But your throat was getting tight and your eyes were burning. 

“Baby?” Steve’s voice had changed, gone from rough and wanting to worried. “Did I hurt you? Was it too much?”

You shook your head but still couldn't speak. Couldn't look away from the picture.

Just close your eyes. Just ignore it. Just let him keep going. You can do this. You can be normal about this.

But you couldn't. Because Nancy was right there. Nancy who he'd chosen. Nancy who'd been worth leaving you for. Nancy who was still here, in his bedroom, in his life, looking perfect and happy while you were—

“Talk to me.” You didn’t know when he’d retracted his fingers, but his hand was on your face, trying to turn your head towards him. “Please, baby. You’re scaring me.”

The concern in his voice—the genuine fear—was what broke you. A full-body sob came from somewhere deep in your chest, and it sounded like you’d been holding it for four years. The kind that made your shoulders shake and breath come in gasps. 

“Shit.” Steve pulled back slightly. “What did I do? What do I do? What happened?”

You pressed your palms to your eyes but the tears kept coming, hot and fast and unending. “I’m sorry,” you choked out between sobs. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry—”

"Why are you apologizing?" He was hovering over you now, hands fluttering near your arms, your face, like he wanted to touch but didn't know if he was allowed. "Just tell me what's wrong. Please. Did I do something? Did I hurt you?"

"No." You shook your head frantically. "No, you didn't—"

"Then what?" His voice cracked. "What happened? Two seconds ago we were—and now you're—"

You tried to stop crying. You tried to get control of yourself. But every time you almost had it, you'd think about Steve's arm in that picture, about how easy they looked together, and the sobs would start again.

"I'm sorry." You couldn't stop saying it. "I'm sorry. I thought I could do this. I thought—"

"Do what?" He was sitting back now, running his hands through his hair. "I don't understand what's happening."

"This." You gestured between you with shaking hands. "I thought I could—I told myself I could just hook up casually. Just get it out of my system but I—" Your voice broke completely. "I can't. I can't do this."

Steve went very still. "What?"

“I can’t.” You were trying to clutch your face and cover your eyes again. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You wanted—we were supposed to—and I messed it up by getting emotional—I feel crazy—”

“You’re not crazy—”

“I am.” You finally looked at him and his face was stricken and pale, like you’d said the worst things he could imagine. “I’m crying in your bed about something that happened four years ago and that’s crazy.”

“What—” His voice broke. “What—what are you saying?” he asked carefully, like he was afraid of the answer. 

You looked back at the dresser, at the picture. And even through the blur of tears, you could see it perfectly. Nancy's smile. His arm around her. The way they fit together. You’d seen it everyday at school, and now…

Steve followed your gaze. You watched him see it. And you watched understanding start to dawn on his face.

"That's—" He stopped. "That's from Robin's birthday. Last summer. It's everyone."

“Okay.” Your voice was barely a whisper.

“So what’s—” He stopped, then dug his teeth into his lower lip. “It’s Nancy?”

You nodded slowly, fresh tears slipping over. 

“We’re friends,” he said slowly. “We’ve been friends for years. That picture is just—it’s all of us. I don’t even really look at it anymore. It’s just there, it’s just been there so long—”

“I know.” You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to cover your body as much as possible. “You don’t have to explain. This wasn’t supposed to mean anything.”

“Hey, what—” His face changed. “What does that mean?”

You couldn't answer because you couldn't tell him that you'd been lying to yourself all night. That nothing about this felt casual. That being in his bed, under his hands, hearing him call you baby, it all felt like falling back in time. Like being seventeen and in love and believing in forevers.

"Look at me." His voice was gentle but insistent. "Please."

You lifted your head and he was right there, close enough to touch. His eyes were red now too. Wet.

“I didn’t think this was casual,” he said quietly, his head tilted down to look at his bedspread, as he shook his head. “Why would it be?”

“Because—” you started, voice rising. “Because it can’t be anything but casual. It can’t mean anything—”

“Why?” he asked, like there was a point he knew he was completely blind to.

“Because I fucking can’t—” Your breath hitched. “Everytime I close my fucking eyes I see you choosing her. And I know it was so long ago and I should be over it but I’m not.” Fresh tears spilled over. “I’m still the girl who wasn’t enough for you to stay.”

Steve was shaking his head the entire time as you spoke, and you barely caught all the emotions that ran through his features. The pain, the realization, the grief. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. He just stared at you and you watched something crack behind his eyes as they glazed over with dampness. 

“Stop saying things like that.” Steve parted his lips, staring at you with unguarded hurt covering his face. “Please.”

“I won’t because I know I wasn’t.” You wiped at your face with the back of your hand. “I know I wasn’t, and I know it now, too.”

"That's not—" His voice broke completely. He pressed the heel of his hand to his chest like something hurt there. "That's not true. That's not what happened."

“Then what did happen” Your voice came out desperate and sharp. “Because from where I’m standing, Steve, you met Nancy Wheeler in AP English and suddenly I wasn’t—”

He was quiet for a moment, and you watched him struggle with something. His jaw worked, his hands flexed, and when he finally spoke, his voice was different. Smaller. “I don’t know.”

You stared at him.

“I don’t—” He pressed his palms to his eyes. “I’ve spent all this time trying to figure it out and I still don’t know. I just—one day, I was with you and everything was good. And then I—” He dropped his hands. His eyes were red. “I started thinking about her. And what it would be like. And I couldn’t stop.”

The honesty of it was worse than any excuse he could’ve given you. Isn’t this what you wanted?

"I tried," he continued, voice cracking. "I tried to stop. To just—focus on us. But it was like—I don't know. Like I'd already fucked it up just by thinking about someone else. And I felt so guilty and I thought maybe—maybe if I just ended things it would be cleaner. Better for both of us."

"Better for both of us," you repeated flatly.

"I know how that sounds—"

"Do you?" Your voice was shaking. "Because it sounds like you got bored. Like you wanted something new and exciting and I was just—what? Comfortable?"

"No—"

"Then what?" You were crying harder now. "What was it about her? What did she have that I didn't?"

"Nothing." He shook his head frantically. "It wasn't about you not having something. It was—I don't know. She was different. New. And I was seventeen and stupid and I thought—" He stopped. "I thought maybe I didn’t need to decide forever. Nobody was—" His voice broke. “And that’s so fucked up. I know that’s fucked up. But that’s what I was thinking.”

The words hit like a physical blow. You couldn’t process what he was saying. You didn’t fucking want to. You couldn’t breathe.

“I know I made the biggest mistake I could’ve,” he said, and he had his hands in the air gripping on nothing as he spoke.

“The only mistake was me loving you too much, Steve,” you said quietly. He opened his mouth to respond, but you continued, “Don’t say it isn’t true. I loved you so much I couldn’t see you didn’t—that you weren’t—” You stopped, trying to hold back another embarrassing sob building up in your chest. Then, you breathed in, then out. “I should’ve known. I should’ve seen it coming earlier.”

“There was nothing to see,” he said, shaking his head frantically. “I loved you. I did. I just—” 

“Just not enough to say,” you said through a bitter, final laugh. 

He parted his lips, breaths growing faster, and you could see his chest going up, down. Up. Down. He looked like he was running through everything he could say, but nothing came out. “Please.”

The corners of your lips curved downwards, frowning. “It’s okay, Steve,” you said, trying to keep your voice even. You stood up, grabbing your underwear off the bed, putting them on, then standing up to pick up the jeans in the pile on the floor. You moved around without meeting Steve’s face. 

As you were buttoning up your jeans, you looked at him from the corner of your eye. There was a single tear running down his cheek and he was frozen to the spot on the bed. 

You clipped on your bra quickly. Your sweater was by the door outside, so you’d have to grab that. 

You cleared your throat, then turned to look at Steve finally, an arm hugging your torso because you felt just too exposed. “It’s okay, Steve,” you repeated, voice cracking. 

“Please don’t go,” Steve said, voice cracking completely. “Don’t—leave like this.” He stood up, hands shaking. “I’ll do anything. I’ll—tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”

“Steve,” you said, and this time there may have been something in your voice that reached all his neurons because he walked closer to you immediately, hurried. 

His palms closed over your shoulders as he tipped his head down to look at you. “Hey, hey. Please. Just not tonight. Not right now. It’s late, I don’t want you walking out of here like this.”

You looked up at him and his face was so close. Close enough that you could see every tear track, every red rim around his eyes, the way his bottom lip was trembling slightly like he was trying to hold back more tears.

"I can't stay here." Your voice came out broken. "I can't—I can't be in your bed and pretend this doesn't—"

“I know.” His thumb pressed into your shoulder, grounding. “I know it hurts. But it's—" He glanced toward the window where the darkness pressed against the glass. "It's late and you've been drinking and you're upset and I just—" His voice cracked. "I can't watch you leave like this. I can't."

"Steve—"

"Please." The word came out desperate. "Just—just until morning. That's all I'm asking. Just stay until morning and if you want to leave then, I won't—I won't stop you. I promise."

You wanted to argue. Wanted to push his hands off and walk out anyway because staying felt dangerous. It felt like crossing a line you couldn't uncross.

But you were exhausted. Your whole body ached—from crying, from tension, from holding yourself together when all you wanted to do was fall apart. And the thought of getting dressed, walking home, facing your sister's questions—

"Okay." It came out barely above a whisper.

His eyes closed briefly and you watched relief flood his features. His shoulders sagged and his grip on you tightened for just a second before he seemed to catch himself. "Yeah?"

"Just tonight." You had to make that clear. Had to protect yourself somehow. "And you're—you're sleeping on the couch or something."

"Yeah. Yes. Of course." He was nodding quickly, hands still on your shoulders like he was afraid if he let go you'd change your mind. "Whatever you need. I'll sleep on the couch. You take the bed."

You looked down at yourself. At the bra and jeans that suddenly felt too tight, too constricting. "Can I—" You gestured vaguely. "The sweater?"

"Yeah. Here." He finally let go of you, moved at lightning speed grab the t-shirt from earlier off the floor in the hallway. He held it out. "Take whatever you need."

You took it, pulled it over your head. You were suddenly hyperaware that Steve was still standing there. Watching you with red eyes and shaking hands.

"I'll just—" He seemed to realize the same thing. "Let me grab some stuff and I'll give you privacy."

Steve had stopped at the doorway, pillow and blanket clutched to his chest. He was looking at you with this expression you couldn't quite read. Something between grief and longing and regret.

"Bathroom's right there if you need it," he said, nodding to a door you hadn't noticed. "And uh—there's a spare toothbrush in the drawer under the sink. Never been used."

"Okay."

He stood there for another moment, like he was waiting for something. Or maybe working up the courage to say something else.

"I'm sorry," he finally said. "I know that doesn't—I know it doesn't fix anything. But I'm sorry. For tonight. For all of it."

Your throat felt too tight to respond. You just nodded.

He nodded back, wiped at his face with the back of his hand, and turned to leave.

"Steve?" The word came out before you could stop it.

He froze in the doorway, turned back immediately. "Yeah?"

You opened your mouth, then closed it. You didn't even know what you wanted to say. Just that him leaving felt wrong somehow. That the thought of being alone in his bed while he was on the couch felt—

"Nothing," you said finally. "Never mind."

His face fell slightly but he nodded. "Okay. Well—I'll be right out there. If you need anything. Anything at all."

The door closed softly behind him.

Steve hadn’t been sleeping. Not really. The couch was comfortable enough. The only thing uncomfortable about it was knowing that you were only a few footsteps away, in his bed, and he could do nothing about it. It felt worse from when you were hundreds of miles away for some fucked up reason. It made it impossible for him to relax. Every creak of the floorboards, every shift of the mattress springs through the wall, he heard it all. He was hyper-aware of your presence in a way that made his chest ache.

He’d been staring at the ceiling for hours, watching the shadows shift as maybe three or four cars passed outside. Replaying everything. The picture. Your face when you saw it. The way you’d looked at him like he’d destroyed you all over again. 

But he hadn’t, had he? All over again. No, he’d made you hold onto it and carry it for four years like some fucked up souvenier of his cowardice. And tonight, he’d just reopened the wound. He had reminded you exactly why you’d left, why you had to leave this place, why you’d spent four years becoming someone who didn’t need him.

Except you’d come back. You’d walked into the baseball field all those months ago and his entire world had flipped all the way fucking sideways. He’d been picking up bases and thinking about what to make for dinner, and then he’d looked up and there you were. Steve’s brain had entirely stopped working.

You’d looked the same. Different. The same. Your hair was longer, falling past your shoulders instead of the collarbone length you’d had junior year. You held yourself with your shoulders back and chin up. But your eyes were the same. They were the specific shade of colour he’d tried and failed to describe to Nancy once, back when he’d been stupid enough to think talking about you would make it hurt less. It hadn’t worked. Nothing had.

And tonight it happened. Tonight, when you showed up to the bar in that sweater, the cropped one that showed just a sliver of skin when you moved, he’d known that the careful restraint he’d been practicing would dissolve the second you looked at him like you did at the pool table. Like you still wanted him.

And then everything had fallen apart. Because of course it had. Because he’d been living in his apartment for one year and he saw that picture every single day and it had never occurred to him—not once—that you might see it too. That you might see his arm around Nancy’s shoulder and remember. 

He pressed the heels of his hand to his eyes until he saw stars. 

A sound from his bedroom made him freeze. Soft footsteps and the quiet creak of his bedroom door opening. 

His heart jumped like it had its own silly, uncontrollable mind. Maybe you couldn’t sleep either. Maybe you’d come out here to, what? Talk? Yell at him? But the footsteps weren’t heading toward the living room where he laid, they were heading towards the door.

You were leaving.

The realization hit him like a punch. Of course you were leaving. Of course you couldn't even wait until morning like you'd said. Why would you stay with the guy who'd—

His throat felt tight. His chest felt like something was sitting on it.

You'd promised. You'd said you'd stay until morning and you were leaving anyway and he was going to lose you all over again and this time he couldn't even blame you because he'd done this, he'd caused this, he'd—

“You just gonna sneak out?”

You froze by the door, and Steve realized just how naive he’d been all this time. What had he expected? For you to wake up the next morning and have breakfast with him? For you to sleep on it all and come out on the other side forgiving?

You cleared your throat as your palms settled flat against your upper thigh. “I think—” You stopped yourself, letting out a small exhale he could hear from his spot on the couch. “We should pretend like tonight didn’t happen.”

And Steve had faced consequences in life, so much that after skating half his life without them, he was bombarded with a slew of the aftermath of his decisions that were sure to haunt him till time. But this, you. God, Steve had never felt anything that cut through him quite like this did. 

“Pretend,” he echoed, like the word was foreign to him. 

“Yeah.” You still weren't looking at him, and your hands had moved to grip the doorknob now like it was the only thing keeping you standing and reminding you of your decision. “We just… We forget about it. Move on.”

“Move on.” His voice sounded so hollow. “How—how am I supposed to do that?” His voice cracked. “It was all going so well. We were—”

“I know,” you said, cutting him off, as your voice shook. “I know. That’s why we need to forget about it.”

“I can’t do that,” he said, voice going softer now, as he pushed himself off the couch. You gripped the doorknob tighter. “I’ve spent so long trying to forget you and I can’t. I can’t fuckin’ do it. So how am I supposed to forget tonight?”

“Well, that’s how it works, Steve,” you said, the sharpness of your voice cutting through the thickening air instantly. You turned to look at him, the streetlight from outside catching your face, and he could see the fresh tracks of tears on your cheeks and he just wanted to—he just wanted to fucking help. Do something. But your voice held him back. “That’s how it works. If you could throw away three—three years so quickly, then you can forget about one night now.”

The words hit him like a ton of bricks. He staggered back a step, feeling something twist inside his chest.

“That’s not fair,” he said quietly, shaking his head.

“Fair?” You laughed, and it was the worst sound he’d ever heard, all bitter and broken. “You wanna talk about fair? Was it fair when you left me for someone else? Was it fair when I had to see you everyday after with someone else? Was it fair I had to spend years thinking I wasn’t—” Your voice cracked completely, like the sorrow had manifested into a physical thing and swallowed your words whole. “Don’t talk to me about fair.” 

“You’re right.” He held up his hands. 

“Stop—stop looking at me like you’re the one this is hurting.” He opened his mouth, hands shaking beside him, but you continued, “Don’t act like I’m breaking your heart when you—when you—”

You couldn’t finish, only stood there swallowing back sobs, shoulders shaking. Steve had never felt more helpless in his entire life. 

He shook his head, lips trembling. “I just want you to know how I feel.”

You dropped your hand. “I don’t want to know how you feel. I don’t want to hear about how you missed me or how sorry you are. Or how tonight meant so much to you. None of it matters because you left. You still chose her. And I—” Your voice broke. “I can’t unhear that. I can’t fucking unknow that.”

Steve raised his arms, then dropped them to his sides. You tracked his movement and your palm turned the doorknob. It was like he’d blinked once and you were gone, the door closing softly behind you.

March. Junior year. His BMW was in the parking lot behind the football field.

You’d known something was wrong for weeks, maybe longer. He’d started saying “I’m tired” when you asked him to come over. His hand felt looser in yours when you walked through the hallways. He’d stopped calling the phone in your room before bed. He’d stopped showing up to your locker between classes with a stolen cookie from the cafeteria because he knew you always woke up too late to eat your full breakfast.

Small and tiny things. All things you told yourself you were imagining because Steve loved you and you loved him and that was enough. That had to be enough. 

But then he’d asked you to meet him after school in between classes and his voice had been so careful when he said it, like he was testing each word before saying it.

You’d gotten into his car and the heat was too high. It was always too high because Steve ran cold and you ran warm, and usually you’d reach over and turn it down while he protested and you’d compromise on a temperature that made neither of you happy but at least you were together. But that day you just sat there and let the heat blast your face until your eyes watered. 

You’d sat in his passenger seat hundreds of times. There were dents left in the leather from the studded jeans you wore. Your perfume was embedded in the fabric. There was a scrunchie of yours in the cupholder. A study guide you’d left in the backseat last week. Evidence of you, it was everywhere. 

What confirmed it was him not looking at you. Steve looked at people when he talked to them. It was one of the first things you’d noticed about him, back in eighth grade when he’d asked to borrow a pencil and actually looked you in the eyes. That was probably the first example that stopped translating eye contact as a concept in your mind. But now his hands were on the steering wheel even though the car was stationary, and he was staring at the brick wall of the gym.

There was a coffee stain on his jeans. The dark roast you'd bought him that morning because you'd gotten to school early and wanted to surprise him. You'd drawn a terrible heart on the cup in Sharpie and he'd laughed, real and bright, and kissed you in front of his locker. That had been six hours ago. It felt like a different lifetime.

“Steve,” you said, and your voice came out steady even though your hands were shaking in your lap. You pressed them flat against your thighs. “Just say it.”

“Say what?”

“Whatever you asked me here to say.” You were still looking at him even though he wouldn’t look at you, or couldn’t look at you? “Come on, Steve,” you urged, but your voice was hollow, probably because you didn’t want to hear it. “We’ve been together for three years. You owe me a clean break, at least.”

Steve flinched like you’d hit him. “I don’t—” He breathed through his nose. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”

“Then don’t leave me.”

God. It came out before you could stop it. It was desperate and completely raw. It wasn’t how you’d practiced it. You’d meant to be collected and easy, make this easy for him so he wouldn’t call you dramatic. But your voice betrayed you, cracked right down the middle, and now he was finally looking at you. His eyes were red.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Your chest felt like something was sitting on it. You pressed your palms flat against your sternum and felt your heart racing underneath. The heating vents were blasting recycled air. 

“Is it Nancy?”

You shouldn’t have asked. You shouldn’t have said her name. But it had been sitting in your throat for three weeks, choking you, and now it was out. 

His face almost looked relieved and guilty, like you’d said it before he could, taking the weight off his shoulders. That was answer enough, wasn’t it? But he still said it.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah, it’s—I met someone.”

Your body knew before you brain caught up; your stomach dropped, your hands went numb, your vision went blurry until you could only see his profile, not facing you. Your hand pressed to your chest and you realized you were trying to hold yourself together physically. If you pressed hard enough, you could keep from falling apart. 

“How long?” Your voice came out steadier than you expected.

“We haven’t—nothing’s happened—” he said quickly and desperately. “I wouldn’t do that to you. We’ve just been working on this project and talking and I—”

His jaw worked. You watched a muscle jump in his cheek, watched him dig his teeth into his bottom lip the way he did when he was working up the courage for something. You'd seen him do it before free throws, before asking his dad for the car keys, before telling you he loved you for the first time at the quarry with the radio playing and his hands shaking worse than yours were now. 

“You what?” You needed him to say it.

“I think I like her.” He said it so quietly, like if he whispered it, it wouldn’t hurt as much. “I didn’t mean to. I swear, I didn’t mean to. It just—happened. I tried to ignore it. I tried to just focus on us, but I can’t—” His voice cracked. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

You were nodding. Why were you nodding? Maybe because your body needed something to do to process what was happening. 

“Okay.”

“Okay?” He finally turned to look at you, confusion cutting through the guilt on his face.

“What should I say, Steve?” You were surprised by how calm your voice sounded. “Should I ask why? Because I know why. She’s smart and pretty and she probably makes you feel different than I do. Should I ask when you realized? Because I felt it weeks ago. I just hoped I was wrong. Do you want me to ask what she has that I don’t? Because I don’t want to know the answer to that”

“You didn’t do anything wrong—this isn’t about you being—”

“Enough,” you finished for him. “Everyone says that. ‘It’s not you it’s me.’ But it is me, isn’t it? Something about me—” Your voice wavered, and you pressed your lips together for a moment. “Something about me made you look somewhere else.”

“No—” He reached for you, like his palms were going to cup your face, and you pulled back. His hand hung in the air for a moment before dropping. “No. That’s not—you’re perfect. You’ve been perfect. That’s almost what’s—” He stopped himself, physically reeling back as he ran his hand through his hair. He pressed his head against the headrest, eyes focused on the roof of the car. “That’s almost the problem.”

“I don’t understand,” you said quietly, shaking your head.

“I don’t understand either.” He pressed his palms against his eyes. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what I want. And I thought I did. I thought—” He looked at you, and the small crinkle between his brows and the desperation in his eyes made your chest tight. “I thought I wanted forever with you. I really did. But then I met—” He skipped over saying her name. “—I don’t know anymore. And it’s not fair to you. To keep dating you when I don’t know.”

“So you’re breaking up with me because you’re confused,” you said flatly.

"I'm breaking up with you because you deserve someone who's sure." His voice broke completely. "You deserve someone who doesn't have doubts. And I—" The words seemed to cost him something. “I’m not sure anymore.”

You never thought you could do the same things as someone, be in the same position as someone, but be so far apart in your minds. He genuinely thought he was doing you a favor. Thought he was being noble by letting you go instead of stringing you along.

“We had plans,” you said quietly. “We were gonna—we circled schools together. We talked about getting an apartment in a few years.”

“I know—”

“We picked out colors, Steve.” Your voice cracked on his name. “We have a whole folder of apartment listings I printed at the library. You organized them by price.” You breathed through your nose because your chest was getting tight. “You said you wanted to wake up next to me every morning. You said that. Do you remember?”

His face crumpled. “I remember.”

“Then what changed?” You weren’t crying but your eyes were burning. “What changed between then and now? Between you saying you couldn't wait for our future and you not being sure you want one with me?”

“I don’t know—”

You twisted to face him fully. The seatbelt dug into your shoulder but you couldn’t care about it. “Are you scared? It sounds like it all got too real and now you’re looking for an exit.”

“Maybe I am scared!” His voice rose to match yours. “Maybe I am. We’re fucking seventeen. We’re seventeen and you’re talking about apartments and forever and—and you expect me to marry you!” 

The words hung in the air like something sharp and jagged that cut both ways. 

You stared at him, chest rising and falling through your top. “What?”

He pressed his palms against his eyes again. “I didn’t mean—”

“You expect me to marry you,” you repeated his words slowly. “Like—like that’s a bad thing?” 

“That is not what I meant—”

“No.” Your voice had gone quiet. “You said it like it’s some sort of—what? Burden? Like I’ve been forcing you? Trapping you?”

“No—”

“I never asked you to marry me, Steve.” You were shaking now. You could feel it in your hands, legs, voice. “You’re the one who gave me this.” Your index brushed over the promise ring on your left hand as you raised it. It caught the light, the tiny diamond chip throwing a rainbow across the dash. “You’re the one who gave me this eight months ago in front of everyone we know. Your family. My family. You said you’ll replace it with a real one. Not me.”

His face had gone pale as you talked. “I know.”

You were twisting the ring around your finger now, yanking it. It caught on your knuckle. You’d worn it every single day since he’d given it to you and your finger had slightly swelled around it. “Do you know what you did? You made a promise. You looked me in my eyes and you promised me a future. And now you’re acting like I’m the one who made it all up in my head?”

“I’m not saying that.”

“Then what are you saying?” The ring came free suddenly, painfully. You gasped and something lodged in your throat at the empty finger, but you just held it in your palm. This tiny piece of silver and stone that had meant everything. The thing freshman girls would look at and swoon over. “Was I not supposed to expect all of it?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. 

“You know what?” you said, sweat prickling through your skin. “Take it.” You held it out to him. It sat there between you for a moment, tiny and meaningless. Just a piece of jewelry. 

“I can’t.” He shook his head, eyes focused on the logo on the steering wheel.

“Take the ring, Steve.” Your voice was steady now. “You’re giving back the promise. So, take the ring.”

“Please—” His voice cracked, shaking his head more forcefully. “Just keep it. Please.”

“I don’t want it.” You pushed your palm toward him, and your arm was starting to feel heavy now. He turned his neck to look at the ring in your palm. “Take it. Take it or I’m throwing it out the window. It’s your choice.”

His hand shook as he reached for it. The movement was so slow and so reluctant, like he was hoping you’d change your mind. But it was happening. His fingers closed around the ring. When his skin brushed yours, you felt nothing. No spark. No electricity. Not even a ghost of what his touch made your whole body light up. The only thing you could feel was the absence of what used to be there. 

He pulled his hand back and stared at the ring in his palm. Small compared to his hand. His shoulders were shaking like he was trying to hold something back, and you almost wanted to reach out to comfort him and make this easier. 

But you didn’t because he’d done this. He’d chosen this. 

“I should go,” you said quietly.

“Wait—” he said as your fingers curled around the door handle. “I—I really hope you find someone. I know you will.”

You smiled bitterly. By tomorrow, everyone would know. By Monday, you’d walk through the hallways and feel their eyes on you filled with pity and curiosity. You didn’t want to tell Steve you weren’t sure you’d ever find anyone again, not when right now, it seemed all the love you had, you’d already given to him. He had become the only person you knew how to love, and that had never, ever been a problem before because you never thought it would be. 

“Yeah,” you said, voice hollow. “Sure.”

You pushed the door open. The cold March air rushed in and hit your overheated face like a slap. You could hear the squeak of sneakers from basketball practice, the distant sound of someone's car stereo playing too loud, the ordinary sounds of an ordinary day where your entire world had just ended.

You stepped out. Your legs were shaking so badly you had to grip the car door to stay upright. Through the window you could see Steve still sitting there, the ring clutched in his fist, his shoulders shaking with sobs he was trying to hold back. His other hand was pressed against his mouth like he was trying to keep something in.

You wanted to say something else. Something cutting or final or profound. But there was nothing left to say. He'd made his choice. It was over. So you just slammed the door.

You showed up late on purpose. The plan had been to arrive right as practice ended—5:45 PM—grab Carter, and leave before Steve could do more than wave across the lot. Clean and simple with no prolonged interaction required. Except you’d forgotten how Steve always ran practice five minutes over because the kids never wanted to leave, and he was too nice to cut them off mid-enthusiasm. 

So when you pulled into the parking lot, practice was still very much happening.

You could see them on the field, a cluster of middle schoolers in various states of athletic coordination, and Steve in the middle of them with a baseball bat, demonstrating something. His backwards cap was crooked. His coaching jacket had dirt smudged across the shoulder. He was laughing at something one of the kids said, head thrown back, completely unguarded.

Your hands tightened on the steering wheel. You could leave and come back in ten minutes. You could pretend your shift had run late or traffic had been bad or literally any excuse that didn't involve admitting you'd timed this specifically to avoid him.

But Carter had already spotted your car. You watched him point, say something to Steve, and start jogging toward the parking lot.

Steve's head turned. His eyes found your car.

Even from this distance, you saw it happen. The way his whole face lit up for half a second—hope, raw and unguarded—before reality crashed back in and the light died. His expression smoothed out into something carefully neutral. Carefully friendly.

You got out of the car because there was no choice now. Your legs felt unsteady. You'd slept maybe three hours last night, kept waking up with your hand pressed to your chest, trying to breathe through the tightness there.

Carter reached you first, sweaty and grass-stained and completely oblivious to the fact that your entire world had imploded five days ago. “Can I get ice cream? Please? I've been so good and I haven't asked all week—”

“We'll see.” You ruffled his hair, grateful for something to do with your hands. “Go grab your stuff. We gotta get home for dinner.”

“But ice cream could be dinner—”

"Carter." Please.

Fine." He groaned dramatically and jogged back toward the dugout where his water bottle was probably lying abandoned in the dirt.

Which left you standing by your car, very aware that Steve was walking over.

He'd taken his cap off and was holding it in both hands, turning it over and over like he needed something to do. His hair was a mess from the hat, sticking up at odd angles the way it always did. You used to fix it for him. Would reach up without thinking and smooth it down while he smiled at you like you'd done something miraculous instead of just touching his hair.

Your hands stayed firmly at your sides.

"Hey," Steve said when he got close enough. His voice was careful.

"Hey."

The silence stretched out. Two syllables and you'd already run out of words. Four years of not seeing each other, then months of cautious rebuild, then one night that had blown it all apart, and now you were back to hey.

Carter was taking his time gathering his things. Probably trying to negotiate five more minutes of playing catch with another kid.

“How was your day?” you asked, because someone had to say something.

“Good. Yeah. Good. Everyone’s really excited for the game soon.” Steve turned the cap over in his hands. “Think Carter might start that game.”

“That’s great.”

“Yeah.”

Another stretch of no words. Another silence. You could hear everything else. the other kids shouting, a car door slamming in the parking lot, a bird making some kind of aggressive territorial call from a nearby tree. All of it too loud in the space between you and Steve.

“Work?” It sounded like he pushed out the word.

“Fine.” You shifted your weight and crossed your arms, then uncrossed them because that looked defensive. “Benny Ward’s mom came in today, so that was—” You let out a forced laugh at the mention of the boy from your high school year.

Steve sucked in a breath, pressing his lips into a thin line as he shook his head. “Must’ve been a blast.”

“Mhm.” You nodded slowly. “A real ball.”

Carter was finally heading back over, water bottle in hand, chattering with another kid about something. You had maybe thirty seconds before he reached you.

"I should—" you started.

"Yeah, of course—" Steve said at the same time.

You both stopped. The silence was worse now because you'd spoken over each other, created a weird overlap that felt like a physical thing between you.

"You go ahead," Steve said quietly.

"I was just gonna say I should get him home. Devon's probably wondering where we are."

"Right. Yeah. Of course." Steve took a step back. Then another. Creating distance that felt both necessary and completely wrong. "I'll see you Thursday?"

It was framed as a question. Like you might say no. Like you might decide that picking up Carter wasn't worth this—standing in a parking lot making painful small talk with your ex-boyfriend who you'd almost slept with five days ago before having a complete breakdown in his bedroom.

"Yeah," you said. "Thursday."

"Cool. That's—yeah. Cool."

Carter crashed into your side, immediately launching into a detailed play-by-play of every single thing that had happened during practice. You made appropriate noises, nodded in the right places, let him talk while you very deliberately did not look at Steve.

Emily was the only one who'd stayed late.

Most of the kids had filtered out twenty minutes ago, grabbed by parents or older siblings or carpools, chattering about homework and dinner plans. But Emily had asked—voice tentative, hopeful—if she could stay and practice the turn sequence one more time. She almost had it, she'd said. She just needed like fifteen more minutes.

You'd said yes because of course you had. Because she reminded you of yourself at that age, determined and perfectionist and so afraid of letting anyone down.

So now it was just you and Emily in the gym at 6:15 on a Wednesday, the overhead lights humming, the sound system playing the same eight bars of music on repeat while Emily turned and turned, trying to nail the timing. 

When the gym doors opened, you expected it to be Mrs. Stone coming back for something she’d forgotten. Instead, it was Steve. He stopped just inside the doorway, one hand still on the handle, like he was already second-guessing this decision. “Mrs. Stone asked if I could move these tomorrow before the assembly. But if you’re still—I can come back—?” 

“It’s fine,” you said even though your stomach dropped at the sight of him even though everything had been going perfectly normal between the two of you for the past week. Back to square one, yeah, but normal. “We’re almost done anyway.” 

“Cool. Yeah.” He walked in and let the door close behind him. The sound echoed. 

Emily had stopped mid-turn, was looking between you and Steve with barely concealed interest. You could practically see the wheels turning in her head. She'd definitely heard things. The whole school had heard things. Everyone know everyone, and someone’s someone must’ve known you and Steve way back when. 

“Keep going, Em,” you said firmly. “Show me what you’ve got so far.”

She spun back, but you caught her eyes flickering to Steve. 

The music kept playing. Emily turned. You called out corrections—"Spot! Hold your core! Good!"—while Steve very deliberately started moving gym mats across the gym.

It shouldn't have been weird. It was a big space. Plenty of room for both of you to exist in it without interacting. Except you were aware of exactly where he was at all times. You could track his movement in your peripheral vision; lifting a mat, carrying it across the gym, stacking it by the door. The muscles in his shoulders and back flexing under his t-shirt. The way he'd push his hair back when it fell into his eyes.

"I think I got it!" Emily's voice broke through your spiral. She was grinning, slightly out of breath. "Can I show you one more time? For real?"

"Yeah, of course." You reset the music. "From the top."

Emily took her position. The music started.

And she did it, the full turn sequence, properly spotted, held through the end without wobbling. When she finished, she looked at you with this expression of pure joy, the kind that made your chest ache because you remembered exactly what that felt like. The first time you'd nailed something you'd been working on forever.

"That was perfect," you said, and meant it. "Em, that was so good. You've been working so hard on this."

"Really?" She was bouncing on her toes now. "It felt good but I wasn't sure if—"

"Really. I'm proud of you."

Her whole face lit up.

The gym doors opened again.

A man in scrubs walked in, looking apologetic and slightly harried. He was tall, athletic build, probably mid-twenties. He had the same nose as Emily.

“Hey, Em. So sorry—” He stopped when he saw you. “Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt. Is practice still?—”

“We’re done,” you said quickly. “You’re good.”

Emily grabbed her bag and was shoving her water bottle into the side pocket. “I finally got it,” she said to him. 

“That’s awesome.” He smiled at her, then looked at you and extended his hand. “Tyler Bennett. I’m Emily’s brother. Sorry I’m late—we had this thing at the hospital that ran over and traffic was—anyway. Sorry.” 

You shook his hand. His grip was firm and warm. “It’s okay. She did great today.”

“She can’t stop talking about this.” He ruffled her hair and she swatted him away. “I think I’ve heard the soundtrack approximately nine hundred times.”

“It’s good.” 

“I didn’t say it wasn’t. I said I’ve heard it too much. There’s a difference.” 

You laughed slightly, eyes bouncing between them. Behind Tyler, you could see Steve. He'd stopped moving gym mats. He was standing there holding one, just watching. His face was very carefully neutral but his knuckles were white where he gripped the mat.

"Well, we're all done for today," you said, forcing your attention back to Tyler and Emily. "Same time Friday, Em. Don't forget to practice at home."

"I won't!" She was already heading toward the door.

Tyler lingered for a second, that apologetic smile still in place. "Thanks for staying late with her. I know she’s a bit of a… perfectionist?”

You smiled slightly, shrugging one shoulder. “She’s a hard worker. Makes my job easier, honestly.”

“Well, I appreciate it.” He shifted his weight, hands going to his pockets. “I’m Tyler, by the way. I don’t think I said—I mean, I did—” He laughed slightly, self-deprecating, and shook his head before meeting your eyes again. “Sorry, it’s been a long day.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve seen it before. I’m a receptionist at the dental office.”

He quirked up a brow. “Yeah? Which one?”

“Dr. Feldman’s. Over on—”

“Tyler!” Emily’s voice echoed from the doorway. “Come on, I’m starving.”

“I’m coming!” He turned back to you, still smiling. “Sorry. High schoolers. You know how it is. Thanks again.”

“No problem.”

He started toward the door. Emily was already halfway down the hallway, her voice carrying back as she launched into a detailed explanation of her entire day.

Tyler paused at the door and turned back.

"This is—god, Em's gonna kill me for this, but—” He laughed and ran a hand through his hair. “You seem really nice and I just got out of this thing and I’m apparently horrible at this now, but—would you maybe want to get coffee sometime? Or dinner? Or literally anything that doesn’t involve being at a high school?”

You froze in your spot. You were aware of several things happening at once, from Tyler’s hopeful expression to Emily’s delighted gasp from the hallway, and also the sound of something hitting the floor across the gym. 

You looked over and pursed your lips. Steve had dropped the gym mat and it had landed directly on his foot. 

“Shit—” He stumbled back, hand shooting down to grab his foot. “Fuck.”

Your eyebrows furrowed at the sight. His face was bright red. He was looking at everything else but you. 

Tyler turned at the noise. “You okay, man?”

“Fine.” Steve’s voice came out strangled. He was bent slightly, hands still gripping his foot through his sneaker. “Just wasn’t paying attention.”

Emily’s voice broke the silence from the hallway as she sauntered back in and looked at you mischeviously. “You should totally say yes. Tyler’s like, super nice. He volunteers at the animal shelter on weekends and makes oreo pancakes and he’s been single for like six months, so he’s definitely ready to date—”

“Emily.” Tyler’s ears started turning red. “Oh, my god.”

“What? I’m helping.” She raised her brows like she was confused. “You’re always saying you wanna meet someone who’s not from work—”

“We’re leaving,” Tyler said, grabbing her arm and steering her toward the door. “Right now.”

“But—”

“Now, Em.”

“Fine, but just think about it!” Emily called back to you as Tyler physically dragged her toward the door down the hallway. “He’s got good insurance, too.”

"Emily, I swear to god—"

Their voices faded as they disappeared around the corner, leaving behind a silence so thick you could feel it pressing against your skin.

You were still standing in the middle of the gym. Steve was still standing by the pile of gym mats, favoring his left foot, not looking at you.

“Is your foot okay?” you asked before you could stop yourself. 

Steve bent down to pick up the gym mat, moving carefully. When he straightened, you could see him testing his weight on it. Trying not to limp. "Heavy mat. Should've been paying attention."

"Steve—"

"You should say yes." He said it to the gym mat in his hands, not to you. Then, he started walking it over to the pile by the door, that slight hitch in his step that he was trying to hide. "He seems like a good guy."

You watched him stack the mat with the others. Watched the way his shoulders were tight, the way he was moving with too much precision, like if he focused hard enough on the task he could ignore everything else.

"I didn't say yes," you said.

Steve's hands stilled on the mat. "You didn't say no either,” he said quietly, eyes looking down at the ground. 

You swallowed harshly, shaking your head. “He asked me out in front of you,” you said softly. “And his sister. I wasn’t going to—”

"You can go out with him." Steve turned around finally, and his face was doing that thing again. He looked carefully neutral and blank. Except his eyes were too bright and his jaw was too tight. "You don't need my permission or whatever. I'm not—we're not—" He stopped and shoved his hands in his pockets. "You should go out with him."

"Why do you keep saying that?"

"Because it's true." His voice was firm now. Almost too firm. "He's probably a good guy. He seems to have his shit together. He’s not—”

He stopped himself but you knew what he was saying. Not like me. Not complicated. Not carrying three years of history and a picture of his ex-girlfriend on his dresser.

You nodded because he was right.

The applause was almost deafening. You stood in the wings with your hand pressed to your mouth, watching the kids take their bows. Sarah’s ponytail had come half undone; Marcus was grinning so wide his face had to hurt; Emily was actually crying, actual tears streaming down her face as she held hands with the freshman next to her, both of them shaking with relief and joy and the adrenaline crash that came after six weeks of work culminating this. 

They had been perfect. Almost flawless—Sarah had still dropped her shoulder on the fifth count during the opening, and one of the boys been half a beat behind in the bridge—but they had been together. They’d moved as one organism and told the story exactly how you’d imagined it in your head at two in the morning when you couldn’t sleep, scribbling formations in your sketchbook. You’d done it. You’d actually done it.

Mrs. Stone materialized beside you, her hand warm and gentle on your shoulder. “Get out there, sweetie,” she said, giving you a gentle push toward stage left. “They want you.”

“I can’t—God, I’m not—” you tried to say through a choked up laugh.

“Yes, you can. Go.” 

Before you could form another protest, Sarah had spotted you in the wings. She was waving frantically, mascara smudged under her eyes, and then she was shouting your name. Suddenly, all fifteen of them were turning, reaching for you, and Emily was yelling, “Get out here!” and running into the wings.

“Come on,” Emily said, grabbing your hand with both of hers, tugging you hard enough that you stumbled forward. “You have to come out.”

“Em, I don’t think—”

But she was dragging you onto the stage and the lights were too bright, washing everything in white-hot brilliance that made you squint. You couldn't see the audience clearly—just dark shapes and the occasional pinprick flash of a phone camera, the red glow of EXIT signs at the back—but you could hear them. Still clapping, some standing now, and the sound was so big it felt physical.

The kids surrounded you immediately. Sarah crashed into your left side, Marcus your right, and then they were all there, arms around your shoulders and waist, a tangle of sweaty teenagers who smelled like hairspray and stage makeup and pure, undiluted joy.

"You did it!" someone was saying, maybe the freshman who'd been so scared of it all she cried on the first week. "We actually did it!"

“You did it,” you corrected, trying to hug all of them at once, voice thick. “You all worked so hard. I’m so—I’m so proud of you guys—”

Your voice cracked on the last word. You were crying now, too. Couldn’t help it, not a smidge. It was the kind of crying that came from somewhere deep in your chest where you’d been holding tension for years straight. 

When they finally released you—when the applause started to fade and the curtain began rolling down—you just stood there for a moment, center stage, trying to catch your breath, trying to hold onto this feeling before it slipped away. You gasped and hiccuped as you wiped your face slightly. 

You'd forgotten what this felt like. What it was like to work toward something and have it actually pan out. To put in the hours and the effort and have it mean something tangible, something you could point to and say I did that.

The kids were filing offstage now, high-fiving each other, already dissecting every moment in rapid-fire teenage chatter. You could hear them behind you—"Did you see when I almost fell?" "That was so good!" "My mom is going to freak out—"

Parents were starting to congregate near the front of the stage. Your eyes were scanning the auditorium, searching through the crowd filtering back toward the lobby.

Fourth row. Aisle seat.

Steve.

He was standing, hands in his pockets, and the second your eyes found him, his whole face transformed. The smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes and showed all teeth graced his face. The same smile he wore when he used to wait for you after practice, a cookie and juicebox in hand. The smile that said he was so proud of you, so proud he couldn’t contain it. It was a release from the careful one he’d been giving you for weeks, the one that never quite reached his eyes.

And something in your chest cracked wide open. Your feet were moving before you could make a conscious decision, down the stage steps—you nearly tripped on the second one but caught yourself on the railing—and through the small cluster of parents already making their way forward. Someone had touched your elbow, a congratulations you barely registered, and you mumbled thank you without stopping, without looking away from where Steve was standing. 

He'd taken his hands out of his pockets now. His expression had shifted from proud to confused, eyebrows drawing together as you got closer, weaving between seats.

"Hey, that was—" he started.

You crashed into him.

You threw your arms around his neck and hugged him with everything in you, so tight you could feel his surprise in the way his body went stiff and rigid, his breath catching sharply. For half a second, he just stood there, frozen, and your brain caught up with what you were—

Then his arms came up to your waist, pulling you closer, one hand splaying across your back and the other curling around your ribs, and he was solid and warm and completely real. You felt your feet lose hold of the ground as he tightened his arms around you, slightly lifting you in the air and rocking you back and forth for a couple seconds. 

Your face buried into his chest, the almost-dried tears probably leaving a stain on the baby blue sweater he was wearing. “Thank you,” you said, words muffled against his body. “Thank you, thank you, thank you—”

“Hey,” he said, voice rough and barely a whisper—you almost forgot there were people surrounding you—and his arms tightened around you even more like he was trying to hold you together. “You don’t have to thank me. You did all the—”

“You made this happen for me.” You pulled back just enough to look at him but didn’t let go, couldn’t let go yet. Your hands were still on his shoulders, his were still on your waist. “You told Mrs. Stone about me. You gave me this. And I just—” Your voice cracked as something lodged in your throat. “Thank you, Steve. For believing I could do it.”

Steve’s eyes had gone too bright, like he was fighting to keep his own composure. His smile had gone softer now, more gentle, and his thumb was moving in tiny circles on your waist, barely perceptible. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. One of his hands moved up to the back of your head and he pulled your face closer to his chest and pressed his lips against your hair, lingering for a moment.

“You earned it,” he said quietly against your head. “I knew you’d be incredible at it. I knew the second I remembered you in high school and when I saw you with Carter, breaking down the cartwheel for him, I just—” He stopped and swallowed hard, and you felt his body move with it. “I’m really proud of you.”

The words shouldn't have hit as hard as they did. Shouldn't have made your eyes burn all over again, shouldn't have made your chest feel so full it hurt.

"Steve—" You pulled your head back to meet his eyes. 

He smiled softly, hands shaking slightly as they ran over your hair. “You looked so happy up there,” he said, his voice going thick. His hand came to cup your jaw, a ghost of a touch, as his thumb brushed just under your cheekbone. “I remember you tapping your fingers on the desk doing counts. I remember you making me watch you run through combinations in the backyard even though I had no idea what I was looking at or how I could help. I remember—” His hand was still on your face, fingers gentle against your skin like you were something precious he was afraid of breaking. “I remember thinking you were going to do amazing things with it someday. And you did. You are.”

The observation was too much. It was too raw. It was too honest what the two of you were supposed to be now. You stood there for a moment that stretched too long, his hands on your face, your hands on his shoulders, too close and not close enough all at once. People were definitely watching now. You could feel their eyes like a physical weight, hear the whispers starting to ripple through the crowd still lingering near the stage.

But Steve was looking at you like nothing else existed. Like the auditorium had emptied and it was just the two of you in this bubble where history didn't matter and broken promises could be forgotten and four years hadn't passed since the last time he'd held you like this. Since before the breakup and college and all the ways you'd both tried and failed to move on.

“Auntie!” 

Carter’s voice cut through whatever moment you were having. You dropped your hands quickly, and his fell from your face and got shoved in his pockets, and the both of you looked to see your nephew barreling toward you through the crowd. 

He crashed into your side with enough force to make you stumble. Steve's hand shot out automatically to steady you, brief contact on your elbow before he pulled away. 

"That was so cool!" Carter was bouncing on his toes, words coming out in a rush. "All the dancing and all and the girl was so good and there was this part where everyone spun at the same time and it looked like—like a kaleidoscope or something—"

"A kaleidoscope?" You laughed, ruffling his hair even though you were still trying to catch your breath, still feeling the ghost of Steve's hands on your face. "That's a big word."

"We learned it in science. But seriously, that was awesome. Can you teach me how to do that? The spinning thing?"

"You want to learn that?"

"I want to learn how to spin without falling over. That seems useful."

“Hey, kiddo,” Steve said, voice warm and still a little rough from whatever emotion he’d been holding back moments ago. He'd taken a step back to give you space, hands still firmly in his pockets, but he was smiling at your nephew with affection. "Pretty cool what your aunt pulled off, huh?"

"So cool! Did you see it, Coach Steve? Did you see the part where they all jumped at the same time? How do they do that without crashing into each other?"

"That's what she does," Steve said, and you could hear the smile in his voice even though you weren't looking at him. You were very deliberately not looking at him. "Your aunt spent weeks teaching them how to move together like that. It takes a lot of patience."

"Weeks?" Carter's eyes went wide. "That's so long. I get bored after like five minutes of practice."

"Yeah, I've noticed." Steve's tone was teasing, affectionate in that coach way he'd perfected.

Behind Carter, your family was approaching. Devon with her knowing smirk already firmly in place, your mom dabbing at her eyes with a tissue that was definitely beyond salvageable at this point, your dad looking proud in that uncomfortable way he got when emotions were involved and he didn't know what to do with his hands.

But they all stopped short when they saw Steve standing there and noticed the careful distance you'd put between yourselves that somehow still felt too close. They saw the way you were both flushed, eyes too bright, like you'd been caught doing something you shouldn't.

Devon's smirk widened into something absolutely dangerous. "Steve Harrington. Been a minute."

"Hey," Steve's smile was polite, careful, but you could see the tension creeping into his shoulders, the way he straightened his posture like he was bracing for impact. "Good to see you."

"Is it?" Devon's eyes were doing that thing where they cataloged every detail with surgical precision. The way Steve's hair was slightly messed up on one side, from your hands, oh god. The way his sweater had a wet spot on the chest from your tears. The way you were both standing too carefully, maintaining distance that felt deliberate and obvious. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks pretty complicated."

"Dev," you warned, voice low.

"What?" She raised her eyebrows in mock innocence. "I'm just making an observation. The show was great, by the way. Really great." She turned back to Steve, and her smile had teeth now. "My little sister's talented. But you already knew that, didn't you?"

The emphasis on already made your face burn hotter.

"She is," Steve agreed, and his voice was steady but you could see the muscle jumping in his jaw, the tell he'd had since high school when he was uncomfortable but trying not to show it. "The kids were really lucky to have her. Mrs. Stone made a great choice."

"Oh my goodness." Your mom had finally found her voice, and when she spoke it was thick with too many emotions to name. She was staring at Steve like she was seeing a ghost. "Steve? Steve Harrington? Is that really you?"

And here it was. The moment you'd been dreading since you'd thrown yourself at him in front of half the town.

Steve's smile shifted when he saw your mom, became something more genuine despite the clear discomfort radiating off him. “Hi,” he said, addressing your mom. "It's really good to see you."

“I had no idea you were—” Your mom’s eyes were bouncing between you and Steve like she was watching a tennis match. “Are you two?—”

“No,” you said quickly. “No, Mom. Steve teaches at the high school and he coaches Carter’s baseball team.”

“Coach Steve is the best!” Carter interjected, still bouncing with leftover excitement from the show. “He taught me how to slide into base without getting hurt and he always brings orange slices even though they're kind of a pain to peel and he lets us have extra practice if we want and he doesn't even get mad when Toby throws his glove because Toby’s working through some stuff with his parents' divorce—”

"That's great, bud," Devon said, but she wasn't looking at Carter. She was still watching you and Steve with that expression that meant you were in for a very long, very uncomfortable conversation later. Probably in the car on the way home. Probably with her asking pointed questions while you stared out the window and pretended not to hear her.

Your mom stepped closer, and you watched recognition and memory and something complicated flash across her face. She'd liked Steve, back then. She’d invited him to family dinners every Sunday and asked about his college applications and genuinely believed you two were going to make it. She had bought into the fairy tale the same way you had. And then the breakup happened, and graduation, and you'd left for college six hours away, and your mom had spent the first month calling you every night to make sure you were eating and sleeping and not completely falling apart.

You'd lied every time. Said you were fine. Said you were adjusting. Said the breakup was for the best.She'd known you were lying but had let you pretend anyway because that's what mothers did.

Steve cleared his throat, eyes darting to you, wide. “Health,” he squeaked out. His hands were buried in his pockets. You could see him curling them into fists, then relaxing, then curling again. “Also some P.E. classes when the coach needs me to cover. And yeah, I coach middle school baseball.”

“That’s wonderful,” your mom said, smiling brightly. “That’s so different from—” So different from the basketball scholarship you used to talk about. So different from the party boy we all thought you’d be forever. 

"Yeah," Steve said simply, and he didn't elaborate. 

"And you recommended our daughter for this position?" Your mom's eyes were sharp now, focused. 

"I did." Steve glanced at you, and something in his expression softened despite the careful neutrality he was trying to maintain like he couldn't help it. As though his face just did that automatically when he looked at you. "Mrs. Stone was looking for someone to choreograph the musical and I remembered—" He stopped, corrected himself. "I knew she'd be perfect for it. And she was. The kids were really lucky."

Your mom’s face softened and hardened at the same time, if that was possible. She remembered, too. She was remembering Steve picking you up for your dates, promising your dad to have you home by 10:30 on the dot, Steve talking about apartment-hunting. And also the Steve at graduation who could hardly meet her eyes when she hugged him goodbye. 

Carter was looking between all the adults like he was trying to figure out why everyone was being weird. Devon was openly enjoying your discomfort now, smirking like this was the best entertainment she'd had in months. Your dad had appeared from somewhere—probably the bathroom, he always disappeared during emotional moments—and was now standing slightly behind your mom, looking uncomfortable and ready to escape.

"Well." Your dad clapped Steve on the shoulder, one of those firm pats that was borderline aggressive, the kind men did when they didn't know how else to communicate. "Good to see you, son. You look well. More grown up than last time."

Last time was graduation. Steve surprising your parents with a different girlfriend. You, with your college decision six hours away, like a lifeline. Your dad had shaken Steve’s hand and said, “Good luck with everything,” in a tone that meant do not ever come near my daughter again, even though the damage was catastrophically done. 

Your mom was still doing that thing where she looked between you and Steve, and you could practically see her mental notebook filling with observations.

She was your mother. She'd changed your diapers and taught you to read and held you while you cried over this exact boy four years ago. She knew.

"I should—" Steve gestured vaguely toward the exit, already taking a step back. "Let you guys celebrate. This is a family moment. Congratulations again. The show was—" He stopped, looked at you directly for the first time since your family had arrived. "You were incredible."

You smiled softly as you watched him retreat slowly, with all eyes on him. 

“So,” Devon said into the silence. “That was subtle.”

“Dev, I swear to god—”

“What? I’m just saying if you wanted to keep whatever this was a secret, maybe don’t do it in front of a crowded auditorium.” She was grinning now. “Pretty sure half the PTA saw you two basically—”

"We weren't doing anything," you cut her off, face burning so hot you probably looked sunburned.

"Mmhmm. Why your lipstick is smudged?"

“Whaaa—” Your hand flew to your mouth automatically. Devon laughed.

"Got you. Your lipstick is fine. But you should see your face right now."

"I hate you."

"No you don't." She slung an arm around your shoulders, still grinning. "But we are definitely talking about this later. In detail. With wine."

"There's nothing to talk about—"

"Honey." Your mom's voice cut through your protests, gentle but firm. "Can we not do this right now? Not here?"

You looked at her and saw understanding in her eyes. There was just concern. The same concern she'd had four years ago when you'd come home from college for Thanksgiving break and she'd found you crying in your childhood bedroom at two AM.

"Okay," you said quietly. "Yeah. Okay."

She squeezed your arm. "We'll talk tomorrow. Lunch. Just you and me."

"Mom—"

"Tomorrow," she said firmly, but kindly. "Tonight, we celebrate. You did something amazing today. You should be proud."

"I am," you said, and meant it. "I really am."

Carter tugged on your sleeve. "Can we get ice cream? I feel like this deserves ice cream. That was way cooler than my baseball games."

"Hey," your dad protested mildly.

"It was! There was dancing and costumes and the person sitting next to us cried real tears! When's the last time someone cried at one of my games?"

"Last week when you got hit in the face with the ball," Devon pointed out. “I cried because I thought your nose was messed up forever.”

"That doesn't count!"

“Hi, Steve,” you said as the door opened, hands flexing and unflexing by your sides. 

He looked like he’d been crying. His eyes were dry and his face was composed, but there was a redness around his eyes and a rawness to his expression that made your chest ache. He was still in the same sweater from the show. His hair was a mess, like he’d been running his hands through it over and over. There was a beer bottle in his hand, barely touched by the looks of it, condensation dripping down the glass.

He stared at you for a long moment, like you were a hallucination. “Hi,” he said finally. His voice was hoarse. 

You'd left dinner early and told your family you were tired, that the adrenaline crash was hitting you hard and you needed to sleep. Devon had given you a look that said she knew exactly where you were going, but she hadn't stopped you. Your mom had hugged you and told you to call her about tomorrow. Carter had made you promise to teach him the spinning thing next week.

And then you'd driven here—to Steve's apartment—without letting yourself think about it too hard because if you thought about it, you'd talk yourself out of it.

You'd sat in your car in the parking lot for fifteen minutes, engine off, hands on the steering wheel, trying to figure out what you were doing. What you were going to say. Why you'd come here instead of going home to decompress in your own bed like a normal person.

“Can I come in?” you asked and your voice came out smaller than you’d intended.

Steve stepped back immediately, opening the door wider. “Yeah. Yeah. Of course—yeah.”

You walked past him into the apartment and it looked different than it had a few weeks ago. Or maybe you were just seeing it differently now. The picture was gone from the dresser in the bedroom, you could see through the open door that the surface was bare except for a lamp and some spare change. There was a stack of graded papers on the coffee table, red pen marks visible from here. A half-eaten sandwich on a plate. The TV was on but muted, some late-night show with a laugh track you couldn't hear.

It looked like he'd been sitting here alone, grading papers and not eating. 

Steve closed the door behind you but stayed rooted in his spot, watching you.

“Sorry for just showing up,” you said, turning to face him. “I know it’s late. I should’ve called—”

"Don't apologize." He set the beer down on the side table with more force than necessary. "You can show up here whenever you want. I mean—not that you'd want to, I just—" He stopped and ran a hand through his hair which made it worse. "I'm glad you're here."

"Your family. They must be so proud. You should be celebrating with them."

"I was." You shoved your hands in your jacket pockets because you didn't know what to do with them. "We went to dinner. Got ice cream. Carter talked for forty-five minutes straight about the show. My mom cried three more times.”

“Good,” Steve said, nodding. “That’s good.”

"I kept thinking about—about you. About how you were the one who made tonight possible. How you believed in me when I didn't even believe in myself. How you've been showing up even though you didn't have to. How—"

You stopped because your voice was breaking and you weren't sure you could finish the sentence without falling apart.

Steve was staring at you with an expression that looked like hope and pain and disbelief all tangled together.

“I should’ve been there,” he said quietly. “With you guys. I should’ve—” He laughed, all bitter and self-depracating. “But I can’t be there. Because I’m not—we’re not—” He gestured helplessly between the two of you. “I fucked that up four years ago and I keep fucking it up.”

“Steve,” you said, voice trailing. 

He shook his head, more to himself than you. “Your dad looked at me like he wasn’t sure if he should punch me.” Steve’s voice was getting louder now, more emotion bleeding through. “Your mom looked sad and it was—like she barely knew me.” He stopped and pressed his palms into his eyes. 

You’d never seen Steve like this. Even at seventeen, when he broke up with you, he held it together. Even the night at his apartment, he hadn’t let this much show. 

"I sat here after the show," Steve continued, hands dropping from his face. His eyes were red now, wet. “And I thought about everything I missed. You going to college. Your sister’s anniversaries. Every Christmas and Thanksgiving and every birthday party. All those moments where I would’ve been there if I hadn’t just—” He stopped. “And I thought about the life we were going to have that I threw away because I was a stupid kid who didn’t realize how good he had it.”

“Steve—” You took a step toward him. 

“No, let—let me—” He held up a hand. “I—when you saw the picture that night, I should’ve told you that it didn’t work out between me and her. It never could. With her or anybody else.” He met your eyes, and your vision was beginning to get foggy. “Nobody I’ve met can be you,” he said quietly. “And I’ve spent so long trying to convince myself it was for the best. That you were better off without me.”

He laughed, and it almost sounded broken.

“But then you came back,” he continued. “And you were just, exactly the same and completely different all at once. And I thought maybe I could handle it all. Maybe I could be a friend. But tonight—when you hugged me—” His voice cracked as he went to lean against the wall. “I can’t be normal about you. I don’t know how to be normal about you.” 

You were crying now. You couldn't help it. The tears were hot on your cheeks and you didn't bother wiping them away.

“If I could go back,” he started, neck craning to look at the ceiling as he rubbed a palm over his neck, throat bobbing. “If I could go back, I would do everything we planned. I would follow you wherever you went. I would’ve—”

His voice broke completely and he stopped, hand still on his neck like he was trying to physically hold himself together. You watched his chest rise and fall too fast, watched him try to get control of his breathing.

Steve looked at you then, really looked at you, and his eyes were devastated. "I would've packed up my car and driven to whatever college you got into. Would've gotten some shitty apartment nearby and worked whatever jobs I could find just to—just to be close to you.” He pushed off the wall and started pacing. “I think about it sometimes, about what our apartment would’ve looked like. We probably would’ve gotten that place on Maple Street, no? The one we circled on the map, remember?”

You did remember. You'd circled it together during lunch senior year, sitting in his car, planning a future that felt so real you could taste it.

"I remember," you said.

“I thought—” He swallowed hard. “I thought you were living a whole life without me. I thought you’d done everything you’d wanted and living and doing exactly what you dreamed about. And I was—” He laughed shortly. “I was so happy for you. Even though it killed me.”

He moved toward you and his fingers clasped around your wrist as he meekly gestured to the living room. You followed him in as he walked, completely in a trance from everything that was coming out of his mouth. 

You sat on the couch, a short distance away from him, and watched his head lean back as he stared at the ceiling again. “I feel so stupid,” he said into the air. 

“Don’t,” you said, trying to get your voice out. “Don’t feel stupid. You—well, you weren’t wrong when you said it was all too much we were planning.” He turned his neck to look at you then, brows furrowing. “I was stupid to think it all could be a fairytale like we planned. It wouldn’t have worked, probably.”

“Don’t say that,” Steve said, voice so broken like you’d just slapped him in the face. “Don’t make what we had smaller just because I fucked it up. It would’ve worked.”

“We were seventeen—”

“I don’t care,” he said, shaking his head, jaw clenching. “I don’t care that we were young and that people say high school relationships don’t last. I don’t care about the odds or anything. It would’ve worked because we would’ve made it work. Because we loved each other enough to—” He stopped abruptly, like something was caught in his throat. 

Your mouth was parted, staring at him because you had no idea how to respond.

“I would’ve married you.” The words came out so raw, so desperate, and his eyes were locked on yours now like he needed you to hear the words completely. Your breath caught. “I would’ve married you and stood in front of everyone and promised to love you for the rest of my life. And I would’ve meant it. Every fucking word.”

Your chest felt like it was caving in, and you could feel seventeen-year-old you crawling through your body, shaking and letting the tears fall down your cheeks. 

“I know I said—I said it like it was a bad thing when I was breaking up with you but I didn’t mean it. I swear, I didn’t mean it. I’ve spent years wishing I could take it back and said what I actually meant instead of—instead of making you feel like loving me was too much. Like wanting to be with me was something to be ashamed of.”

You were crying now, full-on crying, tears streaming down your face faster than you could wipe them away.

"You made me feel like I was crazy," you said, and your voice was shaking with anger and grief and four years of hurt. "Like I was this—this desperate girl who was trying to trap you into something you didn't want. And I—" Your voice broke. "I spent so long trying to figure out why I was so afraid of wanting things. Of planning for the future. Of—of expecting anything from anyone. Because you made me feel like expectations were a burden.”

"I know." Steve's voice was wrecked. "I know and I'm—I'm so fucking sorry. I ruined that for you.And I—" He stopped, hand coming up to cover his mouth for a second. "I hate myself for that. For making you feel like you were crazy for wanting what we both wanted. For making you doubt yourself when you were—you were right. About all of it. About us. About forever."

"Steve—"

"I would've married you," he said again, and this time his voice was steady. "Fuck, I would've married you right out of high school and I would've been terrified and I probably would've fucked up a thousand different ways but I would've—I would've shown up. Every single day. I would've chosen you. And I'm so sorry I didn't."

Something in you broke completely. Four years of holding yourself together, of telling yourself you were fine, of pretending the breakup hadn't fundamentally changed who you were, all of it shattered.

You were sobbing now, the kind of crying that made your whole body shake, the kind you'd been holding back since the moment you'd seen him at baseball practice for the first time.

Steve moved closer, hesitant, like he wasn't sure if he was allowed. "Can I—?"

You didn't let him finish. You just collapsed against him, face pressed into his chest, hands fisted in his sweater. And he held you, arms tight around you, one hand in your hair and the other splayed across your back, holding you together while you fell apart.

“I’m sorry,” he said against your hair. “I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, baby.”

"I would've married you," Steve said again, and you could feel his tears in your hair now. "I would've married you and I would've been so fucking proud to call you my wife. And I threw that away because I was seventeen and stupid and scared. And I've regretted it every single day since."

You pulled back just enough to look at him, and his face was wrecked. Tears streaming down his cheeks, eyes red and swollen, expression raw and open in a way you'd never seen before.

“You really hurt me,” you said, your voice coming out broken and accusatory. 

"I know." He was crying harder now too. "I know. And I don't—I don't know how to fix that. I don't know how to give you back what I took. But I—" He stopped, hands coming up to cup your face, thumbs brushing away tears that just kept coming. "I want to try. If you'll let me. I want to spend however long it takes proving to you that I'm not going anywhere this time. That when I say forever, I mean it. That you can trust me again."

"I don't know if I can," you whispered.

"I know." His forehead pressed against yours. "I know. But can I—can I at least try?"

"I would've said yes," you said quietly.

Steve's breath caught. "What?"

"If you'd asked me to marry you. At graduation. Or after. Or—or anytime. I would've said yes." Your voice was shaking. "I would've married you in a heartbeat and I wouldn't have cared if we were too young or if everyone said it wouldn't work. I would've—" You stopped. "I would've chosen you. Every time."

Steve made a sound that was half-sob, half-something else, as he pressed his eyes closed. His arms tightened around you.

"I'm so sorry," he said again. "I'm so sorry I didn't give you that chance. I'm so sorry I made you feel like wanting that was wrong. I'm so sorry I—"

You kissed him.

Cut him off mid-apology because you couldn't hear him say sorry one more time, couldn't handle the weight of his regret on top of your own grief. You kissed him and he kissed you back desperately, like you were oxygen and he'd been suffocating.

It was messy and wet with tears and tasted like salt. His hands were in your hair and yours were fisted in his sweater and you were both crying and kissing and trying to get closer even though there was no space left between you.

When you finally pulled apart, you were both gasping for air.

"I don't know how to do this," you admitted. "I don't know how to trust this again."

"We'll figure it out," Steve said, and he sounded more certain than you'd heard him all night. "Together. We'll figure it out together. No more running. No more making decisions alone. We'll—"

"Actually talk to each other like adults?" you suggested, voice watery.

"Yeah." He laughed, and it sounded lighter now, almost hopeful. "That. We'll do that."

You sat there on his couch, wrapped in his arms, both of you crying, both of you acknowledging that this was going to be hard and messy and complicated.

But for the first time in four years, you felt like maybe—maybe—you could find your way back to each other.

“I love you so much,” he said, breaking the silence the two of you had build like a cocoon around you. His voice was soft, barely there. 

And your shoulders shook as you realized this was the first time you’d heard him say the words in so long. Because Steve Harrington was saying everything you'd needed to hear four years ago. Everything you'd needed to hear to know you weren't crazy for wanting forever with him. That your expectations hadn't been too much. That loving him the way you had wasn't something to be ashamed of.

You cried against his chest and he held you through it, murmuring apologies and promises and I love yous into your hair until the tears finally slowed, until you could breathe again, until you felt like maybe you could start to believe him.

[happy74827]

Hang Tight

[Steve Harrington x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: When a night goes wrong in the middle of nowhere, you call the one person you trust to come running—no questions asked. [Tagging: @ladybuggirl2002]

WC: 2556

Category: Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Distress, Protective!Steve, Comfort After Trauma [TW: Panic Attack, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault]

Actually insane how it has taken me till the END of the series to start writing st characters. Inspiration strikes when it wants to ig 😭

『••✎••』

The night air clawed at your skin like it had teeth, sharp and unforgiving, as you stumbled into the phone booth at the edge of the gas station lot. Your skirt was twisted around your thighs, streaked with dirt from the gravel you'd scrambled over, and your blouse hung open at the collar, one button popped loose in the chaos. Blood—his blood—smeared the cuff of your sleeve, sticky and cooling against your wrist. Your fingers trembled so badly you could barely grip the receiver, fumbling through your purse for quarters that scattered across the booth floor like spilled tears. The metal enclosure felt too small, the glass walls closing in, fogging with your ragged breaths. Outside, the junkyard loomed dark and twisted, a graveyard of rusted cars that mirrored the mess in your chest—everything broken, nothing fitting back together.

You snatched a quarter, jammed it into the slot, and dialed the number etched into your memory from a crumpled napkin. The rotary wheel spun slowly, each click echoing like a countdown:

Ring one. Ring two. Nothing.

"Please," you whispered to the empty line, pressing the receiver harder against your ear. "Please pick up."

A third ring dragged on, and then—finally—a groggy mumble, thick with sleep and irritation. "Jesus Christ—Dustin, it’s two in the goddamn morn—" He cut himself off. "What is it now? If this is about your radio again, I swear to—"

The voice stole your breath, but not in a bad way. It was him. And just hearing it, even pissed off and half-asleep, made the shaking in your hands ease a fraction.

"It's not Dustin," you managed, your voice cracking like thin ice. "It's me. I… I just—Can you come get me? Please, Steve?"

Silence stretched for a beat, the kind that lasted too long, and you heard the rustle of sheets, the creak of bedsprings as he bolted upright. Papers shuffled—his nightstand, you pictured it, the drawer yanking open with a bang. A pencil scratched frantically against something, probably that beat-up notebook he kept for work shifts.

"Whoa—hey, hey. Slow down. You’re freaking me out. Where are you?" His words tumbled out now, all the grogginess burned away, replaced by that edge you knew too well: worry, sharp as a switchblade. He was scribbling, you could hear the pencil scraping, the flip of pages. "Okay—okay. Tell me exactly. I’m grabbing my keys."

You rattled off the gas station name, the road number, the turnoff by the junkyard—your words slurring together in a rush, breath hitching on every other syllable. It wasn't coherent, just a jumble of panic spilling out, but he didn't interrupt. He just breathed heavily on the line, like he was holding himself back from yelling through the phone to come faster.

Before the line went dead, he assured you he’d be there within ten minutes, tops. You could tell by the way his voice dropped low and steady at the end, almost as if he was already halfway out the door, keys jingling in his fist.

"Don’t move. I’m on my way, alright? Just hang tight."

The receiver clicked back into place with a hollow thud, and you slid down the booth wall, knees buckling until you sat on the cold floor amid the scattered quarters. The metal bit into your back, but you barely felt it. Your mind went blank at first, then replayed it all in jagged flashes: his hands too rough, too sure, the way your shove turned into a swing that cracked something wet and final. The run through the dark, branches snagging your skirt like claws, heart pounding so loud it drowned out everything else. You pressed your palms to your eyes, trying to push it away, but the tears came anyway—hot, silent, soaking into the knees of your hose.

Time blurred. The fog on the glass thickened, your breath coming in shallow pulls that did nothing to warm the ache in your chest. Everything felt heavy, like you'd left pieces of yourself scattered back there in the dirt.

Then—a grip on your arm, firm but careful, yanking you from the haze. Your eyes flew open, a scream catching in your throat as you jerked back, hands flying up to shove whatever it was away. "No—get off—"

"Hey—hey, no, no. It’s me. It’s Steve. You’re okay."

Steve's voice cut through, low and urgent, his face filling the booth's doorway—pale under the buzzing light, eyes wide with his own panic. He was crouched low, one knee on the floor outside, his free hand raised like he was approaching a spooked animal. His hair stuck up wild from sleep, T-shirt twisted at the collar, like he'd thrown it on in the dark. You froze, the fight draining out as recognition hit, your body sagging against the glass.

He looked wrecked—brows pinched tight, mouth a grim line, scanning you like he was cataloging every tear in your clothes, every smudge on your skin.

"Jesus, you scared the shit outta me. I was yelling your name—you didn’t even move. I thought—" He cut off, swallowing hard, and squeezed in beside you, the booth too small for two. His hands found your shoulders, and he gently shook to pull you back entirely. "Hey. Look at me. You with me? C’mon—say something."

You nodded, jerky and small, but words wouldn't come. Instead, you lunged forward, arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him down until he was half-sprawled on the floor with you. He grunted in surprise but didn't pull away—instead, his arms banded around your back, strong and sure, hauling you into his chest. You buried your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the familiar mix of soap and faint cologne from his jacket, your fingers twisting into the soft cotton of his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you from falling apart. He held you just as tight, one hand stroking down your spine in slow, soothing lines, his breath warm against your hair.

"Shh, I've got you," he murmured, voice muffled against your temple. He rocked you slightly, like you were something fragile he was afraid might shatter if he let go too soon. "You're okay. Whatever it is, we'll handle it. Just breathe."

You clung to him, the world narrowing to the steady thump of his heartbeat under your cheek, drowning out the distant hum of the gas station's neon sign. But his words—we'll handle it—twisted something in your gut. He thought this was bigger than it was. Thought it was monsters or curses or the kind of nightmare that came with glowing red skies and vines snaking from another dimension. Not this. Not some asshole with wandering hands and a smirk that made your skin crawl.

"Steve," you whispered, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. They were dark in the dim light, searching yours with that fierce protectiveness you'd seen a hundred times—usually aimed at Dustin or the others when things got dicey. "It's not... It's not what you think."

He blinked, confusion flickering across his face as he wiped a tear from your cheek with his thumb, the touch so gentle it almost broke you all over again. "What do you mean? You call me at two a.m., sounding like the world's ending, from a goddamn junkyard payphone? And you look like—" He gestured vaguely at your disheveled state, his jaw tightening as his gaze snagged on the bloodstain on your sleeve. "Like you just fought off a demo-bat or worse. If this is some Upside Down thing again, you gotta tell me, okay? We’ll call Dustin, or Hopper, or—"

"No," you cut in, shaking your head, a watery laugh bubbling up despite everything. It sounded wrong, too brittle, but it eased the tension in his shoulders a fraction. "It's nothing like that. No monsters. No gates. Just a really shitty date."

He froze, his hands stilling on your arms. "A date?" The word came out flat, like he couldn't quite process it. His brows furrowed deeper, and he leaned back against the booth wall, pulling you with him so you were tucked against his side. "Wait, back up. You were on a date? Here? In the middle of nowhere?!"

You nodded, staring at the scattered quarters on the floor to avoid his eyes. Heat crept up your neck—embarrassment mixing with the lingering adrenaline. You'd been so excited earlier that evening. No one had ever asked you out before. Not really. High school had been a blur of awkward crushes and missed connections, and after graduation, with all the Hawkins weirdness, relationships felt like a luxury you couldn't afford. But when Mark—some guy from the video store down the street—had flashed that charming smile and suggested a drive-in movie, you'd said yes without thinking twice. You willingly dressed up, styled your hair... bought a new skirt, even. It felt like maybe things were finally turning normal for you.

"It was supposed to be fun," you mumbled, picking at a loose thread on your blouse. "He picked me up, and we went to the drive-in. But then he drove out here instead of taking me home. Said he wanted to 'talk.' But it wasn't… talking he wanted." Your voice cracked on the last word, and you swallowed hard, the memory flashing again: his breath hot on your neck, hands grabbing where they shouldn't, ignoring your protests until something in you snapped. Your fist connected with his nose in a sickening crunch, blood spraying as he yelped and reeled back. You'd bolted from the car, heart racing, not stopping until you hit the gas station.

Steve's face went through a whirlwind—confusion melting into realization, then hardening into something darker, angrier. His jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle tick under his skin, and his grip on your arms tightened just a fraction before he forced it to relax. "A shitty date," he repeated, like he was testing the words, his voice low and rough. He glanced down at the blood on your sleeve again, and his eyes narrowed, piecing it together. "That blood… he didn’t…"

It took you a moment to realize what he meant, your eyes widening as you shook your head frantically. "No, no—God, no. It's his. I punched him. Broke his nose, I think." You flexed your hand experimentally, wincing at the dull throb in your knuckles, the skin split and raw. It hurt like hell now that the adrenaline was fading, but in the moment, it had felt like nothing—just survival.

Steve's expression shifted again, a flash of surprise cutting through the anger, followed by something almost like pride—though it was quickly overshadowed by concern. He took your hand gently, turning it over in his to inspect the damage, his thumb brushing lightly over the bruised skin.

"Jesus," he muttered, his voice a mix of awe and exasperation. "Remind me never to piss you off." But there was no humor in it, not really. His eyes met yours, searching, and whatever he saw there made his features soften. It reminded you of the day you befriended him—how he, beaten and bloodied after that altercation with Jonathan and telling Tommy and Carol basically to go screw themselves, found you sulking on a random bench near the park. You thought no one would notice you that day, but he did, as he did now.

Speaking of, you were glad Steve didn’t ask who you were on a date with. You knew he'd have the guy’s job at the video store by morning, but you also knew Steve tended not to think things through when it came to the people he cared about. And as much as you’d like Mark to experience some sort of cosmic retribution, you didn't want it to be at Steve's expense. Especially not after witnessing how "skilled" he is at throwing punches.

"Let's get out of here," he said, already moving to help you up. His arm wrapped around your waist, supporting you as you swayed slightly, legs still shaky. He grabbed your purse from the floor, slinging it over his shoulder along with his own jacket, then steered you out of the now quarter-infested booth and toward the beat-up BMW parked at the edge of the lot. The car looked lonely under the streetlight, driver's door still ajar from when he'd bolted out.

He opened the passenger door for you, waiting until you were settled before closing it and jogging around to the other side. The engine roared to life with a comforting rumble, and Steve fiddled with the heater, blasting warm air at you before settling in to drive.

Just as his hand went to grasp the back of your seat, eyes flicking over his shoulder as he prepared to reverse out of the spot, you grabbed his wrist. The world tilted for a moment, but then, as his eyes met yours in the dim light of the dashboard, it made you realize something you hadn’t before. Maybe it was the adrenaline, or the fear, or the relief of seeing him, but you were seeing him. Really seeing him. Not just the high school jock he used to be, not just the babysitter for the party, but Steve. The guy who came when you called, the guy who held you while you cried, the guy who was ready to fight monsters for you even when the only monster was a guy from the video store.

You realized in this moment that you never needed to go out on that date at all, that you already had everything you were looking for when you said yes. He was right here the whole time. Sure, maybe he was just being a good friend, but as you watched him, the familiar lines of his face softening with concern, the way he bit his lower lip when he was worried—it was all right there.

"Steve," you whispered again, and he froze, his hand hovering just above the seat, his body half-turned toward you. "I—"

But you didn't know how to finish. How could you put into words the sudden, overwhelming realization that everything you'd been searching for, everything you'd foolishly hoped for on that disastrous date, was already sitting in the driver's seat of this car? That the safety, the care, the warmth you craved was in the touch of his hands and the worried lines of his face? So you did the only thing you could think to do: stare at him, hoping he understood.

His brows pulled together, confusion and concern warring in his expression. He must've seen something in your eyes, something beyond the fear and the aftermath, because his gaze softened, and he leaned in closer, the car's small space shrinking until all you could see was him. He let go of the seatback, and his hand came up to cup your cheek, before pulling you close enough that he could press a soft kiss against your hairline.

A soft, chaste kiss. Not like the one you had tried to push away earlier. This one was gentle, respectful, and filled with a warmth that spread through your chest, chasing away the last of the chill from the night air. And as he pulled back, his eyes searching yours, you knew. You knew he felt it too.

"Let's get you home, yeah?"

[chestharrington]

things can only get better || part one

Rating: Explicit (18+)

Word Count: 11k

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader

Chapter Warnings: SMUT (brief fingering/handjob, car sex, p in v sex), slow burn friends to lovers, miscommunication, one-sided (?) pining, language, period-typical slut shaming, minor character death

Chapter Summary: from childhood, you and steve were best friends, until your stupid infatuation with him ruined it. then you were something else, until he ruined that too.

Fic Summary: You and Steve can't stand to be around one another... but you have to learn to coexist and raise your goddaughter together in the face of the apocalypse.

Steve didn't know how you'd managed it. But there you were, sitting in front of your turntable with a copy of the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack. You held onto it like it was the holy grail, eyes wide with pure awe. There was still a scrap of candy striped wrapping paper taped to the back.

Just a few weeks prior, the two of you had gotten caught sneaking into the showing of the movie after buying tickets to Pete's Dragon. The manager at The Hawk called your parents, and both of you were dragged home by your ears.

"How the hell did you get this?" He asked, brows knit. At eleven, he'd only just started trying out swearing, and it didn't entirely feel right on his tongue yet.

You smiled and took it from the sleeve, the black vinyl glistening in the warm light of your room. "I asked my grandma," you explained as you placed it on the turntable to start playing it. Immediately, the familiar disco music began to play over the speakers. "She doesn't know about us getting in trouble at the movies. She just thinks John Travolta is cute"

Steve's face wrinkled. "John Travolta isn't cute, he's cool," he argued, but you weren't listening.

The door to the bedroom was closed, which neither of you thought about. The sounds of the Christmas party downstairs were muffled— boisterous laughter, the swing of an old Bing Crosby record, a bottle of champagne being popped. It was fine, you were to be seen and not heard, and Steve was right there with you.

You had met Steve at a party just like this a few years back, right after your family moved back to Hawkins. Another party where you and any other children were ushered into a room to entertain yourselves while the adults did their own thing. You bonded over a mutual love for The Muppets, and shared a plate of cookies away from all of the other snotty, bratty kids.

Steve, very quickly, became your favorite person in the whole world.

Without knowing it, you only had a few good months before your parents would step in and lecture you about what's proper and how ladies don't close the door when there's a boy in the room.

By thirteen, you'd have to stop letting him in your room altogether. He'd be relegated to the living room under your parent's watchful eyes. No sharing blankets, one cushion between you on the couch, stiff side-hugs only. He would go from walking through the woods to your window, to going up the path to your door. All formality.

But, for the time being, Steve was in your room, and Steve was your best friend. And you had the top item on your wish list.

You exchanged the small gifts you'd managed to buy each other from the dollar store. You got Steve a Muppet Show lunchbox, and he got you a stuffed bear. Steve snuck you slices of fruitcake, which you both hated, and cups of eggnog, which were disgustingly spiked. Everything was warm and nice and it felt like the best night of your life.

Next year, you'd start middle school. Steve would meet Tommy Hagan, who would steal away most of his attention. And the year after, you'd meet Carol Perkins, who would steal away most of yours.

"So, who do you like?" She'd ask, laying on your bed while her fingernail polish dried. Her parents had dropped her off with ten bucks for the two of you to spend at Melvald's, which you'd splurged on candy and makeup.

"I dunno," you replied with a shrug. Really, no one at school caught your eye. You'd rather spend time with friends than worry about dating. Even at fourteen, your mother was already belaboring the fact that you were a dreaded late bloomer.

Carol's expression lit up. "We can play MASH and figure it out," she suggested. She grabbed your precious Snoopy stationery and a ballpoint pen, and quickly scribbled out your future.

"Magic number?" She asked. You closed your eyes and tried to will the universe, or god, or fate, or whatever to speak through you.

"Ummm… Nine."

A few minutes later, Carol sat up with a smug grin. "Okay, the oracle has spoken," she said with all of the grandeur she could muster. "You're going to be a doctor, have a pet turtle, have two kids, and live in a house with… Steve."

The searing, gut wrenching heat of embarrassment flooded your system. Married? And to Steve? "That's so stupid," you replied, but Carol kept digging.

"Aw… you're totally blushing!" She teased, as your face grew hotter and hotter. If you could have, you would have crawled under your bed to die. "No, it's sweet! No wonder you don't have crushes on anyone. You're totally crazy for Steve."

You didn't think that was true. Steve was a gross boy. He spat on the sidewalk and puked up Slurpees on your shoes over the summer and when the weather turned he got really snotty and disgusting.

Sure, you hadn't really had any crushes yet, but that was because you were such good friends with Steve, and it was hard to find someone who you'd rather spend time with. What was a crush if not a really good friend? A friend who you'd want to kiss?

Had you ever wanted to kiss Steve? Had you wanted to kiss anyone yet?

"I don't want to have two kids with Steve either," you argued, but Carol just grinned.

"Do you even know how it works?" She questioned. At your silence, she laughed. It didn't feel mean, just that she was grateful to finally know something you didn't already. "Aren't your parents doctors, or something? They're totally sheltering you. It's fine, I can tell you. My sister told me all about it. She says it's the best thing in the world."

Freshman year, you discovered that you did want to kiss people. Steve. You wanted to kiss Steve.

Steve had gotten taller over the summer, and his voice was deeper, and just being around him had started making you dizzy. You stole your mother's Avon perfume and begged her to order you more after Steve commented on how nice it smelled. Carol snuck you makeup, which you had to put on in a tiny mirror hidden inside of your locker, and take off before your parents got home.

Because of the constant surveillance, you spent more time at his house. His parents didn't care if he brought over girls, and they figured since he'd known you since you were both in grade school, nothing would ever happen. You tried not to feel insulted.

So you sat in Steve's room and listened to your favorite records. And after all of this time, you still loved the Bee Gees. Steve still preferred Queen.

"What are you wearing to Carol's birthday party?" He asked from behind a copy of Sports Illustrated. "And what are you gonna get her? Girls are so hard to buy for."

You looked up from your spot by the window, where you had lost yourself staring out into the woods. "Uh… I bought her some eyeshadow and nail polish," you said absently. "It's kind of hard, she's so different than me."

Steve grinned. "That's 'cause you're still a baby," he said, and you hated the way your stomach twisted at the words. You knew he didn't mean anything hurtful by them, but it still made you feel a little pathetic. "Speaking of… Tommy said Brian's coming. And he told me that Brian thinks you're really pretty."

You fought back an expression of disgust. Brian was in your biology lab and got detention for tying the poor dissection frog's limbs to pencils and playing with it like a marionette. Brian was a stupid meathead, and he wasn't even very cute.

"Brian is disgusting," you said weakly. "And everyone Tommy tries to set me up with is a total dud. I wish he'd just stop trying.

Steve put the magazine down and sighed. "Tommy's just trying to help," he insisted. "He doesn't want you to feel left out."

There was a lump in your throat that you couldn't swallow down. "I'm not left out," you said, but it felt so defensive and pathetic. "The only people dating right now are Carol and Tommy. You're single too."

Steve made a face then, but you tried to ignore it. Baby, baby, baby. Your inexperience was beginning to feel like a scarlet letter, not that Steve would have understood the reference if you tried to explain.

You loved Steve, and Carol, and Tommy, but a lot of the time you felt like you were just dead weight around them. The baby of the group. The responsible one. The stick in the mud.

Carol's birthday was supposed to change that. Her parents were out of town, and her older sister, Debbie, bought her wine coolers since Carol had promised not to snitch the next time she snuck out to go be with a boy.

The wine coolers gave you a little liquid courage, Carol let you know that you'd all be playing seven minutes in heaven later, and she'd rigged it so you and Steve would go into the closet together. Foolproof, in her eyes. Terrifying in yours.

Steve went into the closet first, blindfolded because Carol thought it would be more fun that way. His cheeks were pink, and everyone jeered as Carol tied the bandana over his eyes.

She held up the next name silently, winking in your direction. There were giggles and snickers, but you stood, wiped your sweaty palms on your jeans, and stepped into the closet. This was it, you thought. You'd kiss Steve, he'd immediately realize it's you, and you'd be boyfriend and girlfriend.

The door shut, you took a shaky breath. You felt like you were going to pass out, or something. Your mouth tasted sickly sweet like the wine coolers, and you could hear a crowd gathering around the door. Footsteps and giggles.

"Aren't you going to say something?" Steve's voice cut through the dark of the room. You swallowed hard and leaned forward.

It was a simple, if not a little boring kiss. But you really didn't know any better. A chaste, prolonged peck. Mouths closed, hands at your side.

You pulled back, heart racing eyes wide in the dark of the room. You could barely make out the shape of him.

"Y/N?" He pulled off the bandana, brows knit. "You didn't have to do that. We can just talk."

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. Even in the dark, he was so handsome. You wanted to tell him that you wanted to kiss him, that you wanted to try again, if that was okay.

But Steve beat you to the punch. "Man, I wish I got paired with Lisa," he mumbled. "No, offense. I just mean, you're my friend, and we don't like each other that way."

Then softer, "Was that your first kiss?"

It was a miracle that the closet was dark enough that he couldn't see the sparkle of tears in your eyes. Humiliated, mortified tears.

There were five minutes left that you used to collect yourself, but everyone outside knew how it had gone. When Lisa giggled at your forlorn expression, Carol pulled her aside to bitch her out and send her home.

That was Carol— she'd never let someone hurt you. Not on purpose, at least.

By Monday at school, Carol told Tommy everything, which meant his expression held an amount of pity in it that made you sick. Steve was sitting with Lisa at lunch, which made it all worse.

"It's just a tough break," he said, with that typical boyish attitude. He believed everything he'd been told growing up— Walk it off, Hagan. Be a man. "You know how Steve is. The sooner you get over him, the sooner things'll be back to normal."

The implication behind his words was clear enough— Steve's not interested, so move on, or suffer through. What choice did you have but to move on? To shed your cocoon and fit in with your friends?

But you knew well enough that each time you told Steve about a new date or a guy you were interested in, it was all with the hopes of making him burn with jealousy. Steve didn't burn for you, he just wanted you to be happy.

Steve was your friend. That's all he'd ever be, all he wanted to be. You could learn to live with that. You tried to live with that and shove every bitter, nasty feeling down deep.

Sophomore year, you came into your own. A few months at summer camp with Carol meant a world of development. Your first perm, and all of the trials and tribulations of learning to style the big, bouncy curls. A cabin of girls who loved nothing more than teaching you the right ways to apply makeup. Your figure finally took shape, and Carol's sister was happy to pass along hand-me-downs to accentuate it.

Danny Miller was your first real boyfriend. He was co-captain of the swim team with Steve, and, sure, he wouldn't have been your first pick, but he was a cute guy. Despite attending all of Steve's swim meets, you had never paid attention to him before. You doubted he noticed you until then either.

"Danny is a total tool," Steve told you over a plate of cheese fries from Benny's. You made a face, and stole a bite from his plate, but he doubled down. "Hey, I'm serious! He's dumb as rocks, you're way too smart to be with him. What do you even talk about?"

You scoffed. "I dunno," you said with a shrug. "Same things we talk about, I guess. Everything? I don't know."

Steve scowled, rolling his eyes. "He's a total loser, I'm serious. You're so out of his league it isn't even funny. You shouldn't waste your time with a guy like him. Don't even let him touch you, alright? I mean it."

Your face wrinkled in annoyance. His protectiveness felt stifling and infantalizing. You weren't a baby, you could make choices about your love life without Steve butting in.

Besides, Danny was a total sweetheart. He brought you flowers, and walked you to class. Sure, he wasn't the brightest bulb in the bunch, but he was good to you, and that's all you could really ask for.

And, really, It felt nice to be into someone after spending so long pining after Steve.

By your junior year, you'd gotten pretty serious. Steve still hated to hear you talk about Danny, just like you never liked any of the girls he brought around. The only difference was that Danny had staying power, which just pissed him off even more.

"You used to tell me stuff," he said one weekend, when you sneaked away from a neighborhood party to avoid your parents in the woods. Smoke curled from his lips on the exhale as he smoked a cigarette. A new nasty habit that had developed over the summer, which only drew attention to how full and kissable his lips were.

He was only getting more handsome, which you needed to stop thinking about for Danny's sake. "Why didn't you tell me that Daniel Miller popped your cherry?" He grinned, and you could smell the beer on his breath from your spot beside him.

Your eyes widened and you nearly choked on your wine cooler. "Oh my god, Steve," you gasped. "Jesus, don't say it like that."

"Aw… don't be embarrassed," he teased, nudging you clumsily.

It wasn't like you were actually embarrassed about it. What was there to be embarrassed about? You slept with your boyfriend of nearly a year, which was longer than anyone else you knew had waited. You felt sure, and you really did care about Danny.

"It's just… personal," you said. You crossed your arms, wrapping them around yourself, and looked anywhere but at Steve.

"You used to talk to me," He said, and the hurt was evident in every syllable. "Why didn't you tell me? I mean, I had to find out from Tommy. How the hell does Tommy know more about my best friend than I do?"

"Well, I didn't tell Tommy," you insisted. "I told Carol and Tina. And, I mean, I guess I should have known Carol would tell Tommy, and that Tommy would tell you. But… I dunno, I thought it would be weird to talk about with you. You can't stand him anyway."

And there was that word he'd said. Best friend. For a while, you had wondered if that was even a fair title to put on each other. If you were honest with yourself, Carol had been your best friend since you were both thirteen. And Steve was more like a safety blanket from childhood— comfortable, familiar, safe. You had grown apart since you were kids.

"Yeah, maybe," he replied, and took another swig of beer. You leaned against a tree and drank your stolen wine cooler. It tasted sickly sweet and made your head feel a little fuzzy. Steve definitely had the better tolerance of the two of you, but even he was pretty buzzed by now.

"It was kind of lame, honestly," you admitted. "Nothing to write home about. Carol says it'll get way better."

Steve wrinkled his nose. "Yeah, on second thought, I really don't want to talk about it." Fair enough. You stole his cigarette and took a drag. It sucked, but it gave you something to do.

When you looked back, you'd find it hard to remember what started the fight. It had been a few weeks since the block party, and things had just felt off.

And Steve, being Steve, was flaking on your plans. The Hawk had finally gotten Eddie and the Cruisers, and he had promised he would go with you. And, sure, it wasn't a huge deal. They'd have showings for the next month at least, but something about it just really pissed you off.

"I can't believe you're bailing on me for some girl, Steve," you pressed. "This is so typical, you know that? All you do lately is think with your dick."

"Oh my god," he groaned, throwing himself back on his bed with exasperation. "I'm going on a date with a girl I really like, not screwing some hooker. Not that you seem to care."

You bristled, brows drawing together. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

Steve threw a hand over his eyes, rubbing at his temples like it was giving him a headache to even entertain the argument. "You get weird every time I have a girlfriend, like you want me to just ignore them for you or something. And it's been like this for a while, and I never say anything because Carol always tells me to drop it."

A scoff of disbelief escaped you as you shook your head. What? You'd been totally supportive of all of his stupid, pointless, dead end relationships. And he was talking shit to Carol? "You are such a goddamn liar, Steve," you argued. "I'm always so welcoming and nice to all of the girls you bring around. Like Becky, Laurie, Amy, Stacey—"

"Oh, right! Stacey. The same Stacey that you, Carol, and Tina told everyone had chlamydia? That Stacey?"

Your face felt hot. "Well, one, that was actually true and she only got treatment after we called her out, so she should be really grateful. And two, it wasn't my fault she was a total skank."

Steve had a problem. He picked women like an act of self-sabotage. Becky was beautiful, but was really using him to make her ex boyfriend jealous. Laurie seemed sweet at first, but was a total social climber. Amy seemed really perfect when they first started going together, but her laugh was ridiculous and she totally harshed the vibe at every party. And, well, Stacey maybe, allegedly, potentially had chlamydia.

Maybe he should have just picked better.

Or maybe you were the problem. The bitchy, judgemental friend who never saw any of them as good enough for Steve, because none of them were you. You knew the answer, even if you would never admit it to him.

Steve rolled his eyes, and you watched the flutter of muscle in his jaw as he bit back whatever it was he wanted to say. It fucking infuriated you.

"What?" You demanded. And you doubled down, because the alternative would be to admit you had been sabotaging his love life any way you could. Starting rumors, whispering in his ear until he convinced himself that something was wrong. "You're just mad because you know I'm right and you totally abandon our friendship whenever you start fucking around with whoever is next on your roster."

"Abandon you? Jesus Christ," he muttered. "Like you didn't totally toss me to the curb when you started dating Mr. Perfect last year."

Your face twisted in annoyance— a little furrow between your brows, a frustrated scowl. Steve always said you looked adorable when you were pissed off, but he didn't look too fond of you now. "What the fuck is your problem with him, huh?" You demanded. "You act like he's this horrible guy, but you can never tell me why you think he's so terrible."

Steve rolled his eyes and finally sat up to meet your gaze. "Okay, fine. He's annoying. His laugh makes me want to blow my goddamn brains out. He always smells like chlorine because he doesn't shower after practice, and sometimes it makes you smell like chlorine. And when he doesn't smell like chlorine, it smells like he bathed in cologne. Also, he thinks that he's so much better than me, when he barely beat my record in freestyle."

Steve paused, like he was debating whether or not to really round it out and say what he was thinking. Finally, he laughed and met your gaze. "Or maybe it's just that you don't really love him and it's really obvious to everyone but him," he said. "Or maybe, you should just accept that the person you really want doesn't want you back."

A sick feeling rose in your gut. There was something in his expression, in the mean cut of his stare, the sharp way he held his mouth. Like he knew. Carol would never say something, but Tommy…

"I don't know what you're talking about," you said, but even you didn't believe that. You liked Danny, but you didn't love him the way Carol and Tommy loved each other, even as tumultuous and messy as that could be. And the most frustrating part of all was that you wanted to love Danny, but your frustrating infatuation with Steve had burrowed into you and festered into a romance-killing parasite.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about," Steve insisted. Your heart thrummed, and you felt dizzy with embarrassment and hurt.

Had he known the entire time? Didn't he owe it to you to shut you down sooner? Of course not. Of course Steve would milk your doting affection for him until it got inconvenient for him.

"You know what? I don't have to put up with this shit. I don't have to put up with you."

You grabbed your bag and headed for his door, but you wanted him to stop you. But he just ran a hand over his face and sighed. "Yeah, go ahead. I have to get ready for my date anyway. You know the way out."

Carol thought it was stupid. She told you as much over the phone, as you cried into the receiver about how permanent the argument felt. Sure, you'd fought with Steve over the years, but it never felt so personal.

All you'd learned from the argument was that you were always going to put Steve first like a total chump. And you'd known for too long that he wouldn't do the same. Well, and that he was totally uninterested in your girlish fawning anymore.

"You're probably mad because he's right," Carol said. "Not about everything, but about you not being super into Danny. You know you don't have to just stick with him because he's nice and he's into you, right?"

You sighed, lip wobbling. Your other choices seemed to be waiting for lightning to strike Steve and change his mind, or being alone forever. "I guess," you mumbled.

"I'm serious, you're a total catch, and you don't need to stick with the first good guy to give you attention." You could hear the smack of bubblegum on the other side of the line. "Just don't do it right away or it'll make Steve think he's right."

You laughed, a weak, watery sound. "When do you think he realized?"

Carol sighed. "Look…" He said, trailing off. The quiet on the line felt tangible and thick until her voice cut through again. "He's mentioned it to Tommy a few times since Sophomore year, but Tommy would have never said anything. But maybe he has a point about moving on."

You swallowed hard around the lump in your throat… or tried to. "Yeah," you murmured. "Maybe. Maybe I just need a break from Steve to clear my head. Like, a week or two, or something."

"Aw, hon…" Carol trailed off. "Hey, I'll go see the movie with you! I was supposed to go over to Tommy's for dinner, but this is way more important."

A few days later, some kid went missing in the woods. Then Benny died and your favorite burger place in the world shut down. Steve had a party that he didn't extend an invite to, and his new girlfriend's friend went missing too.

Then there was the fight with Tommy and Carol, lashing out after he got cheated on, or when he thought he got cheated on. It was hard to know when everything was secondhand from Carol.

"He had a real attitude, I'll say that much," Carol muttered. You both curled up in her bed, staring up at the sticky stars on her ceiling. "He's probably freaked because the cops told his dad about the drinking, and Barbara went missing after his party, so… I mean, you know how his dad is. Me and Tommy tried to cheer him up, but he got mad at us for that too. I dunno, I think we all just need to cool off."

You didn't need to cool off. You threw yourself into Danny, hoping you could prove Steve wrong and make yourself fall for your boyfriend with distance.

Even without seeing Steve, his words echoed in your brain. Skipping lunch to make out in Danny's car, you nearly gagged on the smell of chlorine as it flooded your senses. And god… his laugh really was ear-splitting. Like a cackle.

By the start of senior year, Carol and Tommy had pretty much made up with Steve, but Steve was dating Nancy, who didn't want anything to do with the pair. You were newly single, but still giving him the cold shoulder.

It was nice, to see him in the halls and feel nothing. Not the tug of attraction or the spark of interest. You looked at him from your locker and just saw plain old Steve Harrington. Steve who was just as flawed as anybody else.

You took comfort in that.

Senior year passed like any other. Carol didn't care to apply for colleges, and Tommy had a job lined up at his dad's dealership. You got accepted into a state school on scholarship, and you told your parents that you were going to study nursing, just like they had, but you had no clue if that's what you really wanted.

Carol and Tommy decided to get married in June of 1985. They'd been dating since 1979, so even though it was sudden, you figured it was about time.

"Shotgun wedding," Carol explained. Well… that made more sense. "The doctor says it was conceived on Valentine's Day. What a gift, right?" She rolled her eyes.

Your bridesmaid dress was pink, with big princess sleeves and a full skirt. Carol loved it… you tolerated it. That's what a maid of honor was for.

Carol was a beautiful bride, though, and you just wanted her to be happy. Which is why you didn't say anything about Steve being the best man. You could tolerate him for Carol and Tommy's sake. It was a small town, anyway, and you had learned that he was totally unavoidable.

"You look nice," Steve said at the reception. He'd cornered you at the dessert table. You knew that was objectively untrue— you looked ridiculous in your bridesmaid's dress and your perm was just on the wrong side of too crispy.

Steve, on the other hand, looked great. It was annoying how much more attractive he'd gotten. Broader, and just older. He'd grown into every feature, and he looked so handsome you couldn't stand it. "You got highlights," you said, because it was easier than complimenting him back.

"Uh… no, it's just… I've been in the sun," he said. Liar. He tried to recover, bless his heart. "Tommy told me you're going to study to be a nurse," he tried again. "That's… y'know… kinda cool. You can practice on me, if you want. I'm always managing to get myself hurt."

You closed your eyes and sighed. Carol's dad was a recovering alcoholic, and she was knocked up, so it was a dry wedding. You wished there was at least some champagne. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

He swallowed. "Are you mad at me?"

You scoffed. It would have been embarrassing to say yes so far removed, but the answer wasn't entirely no either. You weren't sure how you felt about Steve in that moment. Maybe you were still the same jealous, bitter girl you had been at sixteen. "I'm not mad."

"Yeah you are, you have your mad crinkle," he accused. He poked you between your brows with a familiar smile on his face, which made you feel hot all over. Anger? Excitement? Who's to say. "You are mad. What are you mad about?"

With a huff and a roll of your eyes, you grabbed a slice of wedding cake. Steve did the same, and followed you back to the table for the wedding party. You took a bite and enjoyed it as best you could while still maintaining the annoyed furrow in your brow.

"I'm not mad," you repeated. "We just don't have anything to talk about."

His brow knit and his expression twisted in confusion. He took a bite of his cake, and you could see the way his expression softened at the taste. God, it was really good cake. "We haven't talked in almost two years, so I think there's a lot we can talk about."

"Fine, I don't want to talk to you, is that better?" You asked. It was a miracle that you didn't have to school your expression or your volume. The lights were low and the band onstage was doing their best not to butcher Duran Duran… very loudly. "You were a total dick to me."

That seemed to strike a nerve. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about," he pressed. "I was a great friend to you. I don't think one stupid argument changes that."

"One stupid argument is so rich," you pressed. "You knew I was, like, in love with you and you just let me dote on you like a lovesick puppy until it got inconvenient. You could have shut me down when we were fourteen."

"I thought I was," he argued back. "But, yeah, maybe I thought it was cute how into me you were. I was an asshole who liked the attention, alright?"

He ran a hand through his hair, and you could feel the irritation rolling off of him in waves. The band was now butchering Cyndi Lauper, which only seemed to irritate him further. He turned away from you, scowling, but didn't leave.

Why wouldn't he just leave you alone?

"And, okay, fine. I was a dick about Danny, but you were actively sabotaging every single one of my relationships," he said. "So I think we're even."

You were, notably, not even. As you sat, angrily stabbing the delicious wedding cake that you wouldn't be finishing, Tina approached with a wary expression. She looked ridiculous in her bridesmaid's dress, so you were sure you looked equally clownish. Her eyes flicked between you and Steve, briefly, before she pulled two flasks from her clutch.

Your eyes brightened at the sight. Like an oasis in a goddamn desert.

"Paul and I snuck in flasks for the rest of the bridal party. Can I trust you two?" You nodded and immediately reached out, but she pulled back. "I don't want you guys to do anything to ruin this for Carol and Tommy. Promise?"

You glanced at Steve, who was already looking at you. "Yeah, Tina, we promise," you insisted.

When you looked back on that night, the first sip of whatever liquor Tina and Paul had poured into the flasks was the beginning of the end.

It was an hour later, with a bitter taste on your tongue and heat burning through your veins, that you found Steve on the dance floor. The wedding was already dying down, giving the last few feeble twitches of energy like a dying animal. Carol's little cousins were dancing to Paula Abdul, or requesting Weird Al songs to no avail. A few of Tommy's cousins were getting a little hot and heavy on the dance floor which was odd for a dry wedding.

Carol had one final request before she got to head off to the honeymoon suite at the Holiday Inn off the interstate. The only pictures I have of you and Steve are the awkward wedding party photos you two took this morning. Can you just dance with him or something so the photographer can get some candids?

After a deep breath to steel yourself, you tapped Steve on his shoulder. "Can I cut in?"

He turned, brows furrowed. "You're only supposed to say that if I'm dancing with someone," he replied, but without saying anything, he eased his arms around your waist.

Carol whispered something to Debbie's newest boyfriend, who was manning the sound system in the absence of the live entertainment. You watched curiously as she fumbled through 45s, until a new song crackled over the speakers.

Crazy for You had been the final slow dance at prom. Carol had sworn that you and Steve were the only people to resist the pull of the dance floor, but she had a penchant for exaggeration. And a sick sense of humor.

You looped your arms around Steve's neck and swayed to the music. He was hot at his neck, hair curling and damp beneath your fingers. You braved a look up at him and felt a rush of ice through your veins and into your rapidly beating heart.

"What was in your flask?"You asked, trying to think of the least offensive topic of conversation that you could. "I got bourbon, or whiskey, I think. I smell like Mr. Holloway from the country club."

"I think I got gin," he said, and your nose wrinkled in distaste. Your first taste of gin had been at ten years old after you stole his mother's martini at a country club party. Neither of you had much interest in stealing drinks after that— not for a while, at least. "It's disgusting, but being sober at a wedding should be illegal."

You would drink to that if you could stomach it. You both moved in a soft cadence— step, hold, step, hold. There was something about the comforting pressure of his skin against your body. The way his hands slid from your waist down to your lower back, just above the bustle of bows at your hips, the pressure of your chest against his body. It made everything else sort of melt away.

You weren't sixteen anymore. You didn't have to keep holding onto your childish grudges. So, Steve Harrington wasn't madly in love with you? What was it your mother used to say? Life's not fair, and then you die. You were both dumb kids, but things could change. Life wasn't fair, and you didn't know if you wanted to keep existing without Steve somewhere in your life.

"Your hair looks nice, actually," you said, after swallowing your pride. "It's really long, actually. I can't believe your dad isn't on your case about it."

He laughed and shook his head. "Well, I'm giving him plenty of other things to totally hate me for." He paused and met your gaze, hesitating. You watched the slow twitch of a smile on his lips, then a tiny eye roll as he got over his own ego. "And it's not highlights. It's sun-in. What about you, huh?"

"Me? Oh, this is all Darlene at Hair Flair. My usual stylist was out, and Darlene is really new to perms. She promised it would be fine, but…" You blew a very crisp curl from your forehead. "I think I'm done with perms forever."

He shook his head. "It's not so bad," he insisted. "You should see my new uniform for work. That's pretty bad. If you're sticking around for the summer, you might even get to see it."

You rolled your eyes, but couldn't fight the amused smile on your lips. This was the Steve that you missed— charming, goofy Steve. But it was also the Steve that gave you butterflies and made you feel like a girl with a stupid crush. It was absolutely devastating how quickly a brief conversation could dig up all of those buried feelings.

"Yeah, well, if it's that bad I have to," you said, biting down on your bottom lip to fight a giddy, girlish smile.

It was hard to look in Steve's eyes for long. You could easily get lost in the softness of them, the earnestness. You had before, until he snapped about how you weren't even listening and you had to clumsily string together what he had said with the odd words that crept through your trance. His lips twitched into the tiniest smile, and you couldn't help but mirror it. You had really missed him.

A camera clicked— once, twice, three times. Some kid Tommy got cheap for the job since he worked for the school paper and was building his portfolio. Steve spun you until you laughed, then pulled you back in. The photographer walked away, satisfied. Your heart thrummed, pulsing, pulsing.

Steve. Wedding. Bourbon. Madonna.

"Hey, do you want to sneak out for a smoke?"

You sat on the trunk of his beamer, satin heels kicking mindlessly. You took a slow drag and relished in the subtle head rush before you exhaled. Steve's hand brushed yours as he took the cigarette from you.

"I don't really do this anymore," he said, holding the cigarette between his teeth. But he took a drag of his own, and blew the smoke out of the side of his mouth. "Nancy thought it was gross, and this kid who hangs around me all the time is on my ass about cancer and secondhand smoke, so… y'know."

"I don't really smoke either," you said with a tiny grin. "Just wanted to get out of there."

He nodded, stepping forward until his leg brushed the bumper. "Yeah? That's fair." He took another drag before handing it back. You watched him as you placed the filter between your lips, where it was already stained pink with your makeup.

Earlier, he had mentioned that there were two years worth of conversations you could be having, but in that moment, your head was woefully empty.

Steve was standing so close, and the cigarette could only last so long. "You look really beautiful tonight," he said. "I mean it, seriously. I'm glad you're not mad at me anymore so I can actually tell you."

You raised a brow, blowing out a thin plume of smoke. "I could still be mad," you insisted, cigarette dangling between your hot-pink nails.

"Your crinkle is gone." He stepped closer, so his knee was between yours, and smoothed his thumb between your brows. "Not mad."

His hand moved into your hair, until he was cupping your jaw. You wondered if he could feel the way your pulse was racing against his fingers. A tiny bit of pressure at your jaw, and he had your face tilted up to meet his.

The moment his lips pressed against yours, you could have sworn you were fourteen and back in Carol's basement, with all the same fluttery, yearning feelings.

And then his tongue slipped past the barrier of your lips and those butterflies turned molten in the pit of your stomach. Heat licked down every nerve, until your entire body felt alive with excitement and need.

He moaned into your mouth, one arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you to the edge of the trunk so your bodies were flush against one another.

It felt like you were on fire— burning up from the outside in. Each lap of his tongue against yours, each moan buzzing against your lips, it just made you feel alive. Sure, you'd been kissed before, but it had never felt quite like this.

The dull thrum of pop music inside of the venue, the June heat persisting even in the dark of the night. His lips tasted like berries and his tongue like gin, and if were possible to get drunk off of that, you would have. You could have stayed there forever, just kissing and kissing until you ran out of air.

"Ah, Fuck," you gasped, pulling back. You dropped the cigarette butt, which had burned down to your fingers, and brought the mildly singed skin to your lips.

You laughed shyly as he stepped back, his lips and cheeks pink as he scratched the back of his neck. "Sorry, I don't know if I should have done that."

"No, no," you said, nodding as you tried to find the words to insist it's totally fine, if your stupid, clumsy tongue would cooperate.

His brows knit together, and he gave a sheepish laugh. "You're nodding, but you're also saying no, so it's kind of confusing me."

You pulled him in by his stupid, pink bow tie, until his nose bumped yours and your lips were barely brushing. "Don't think too hard."

He closed the distance.

You kissed Steve until your lips felt a little numb against his, until his hands were under your skirt, squeezing your soft thighs, pushing them apart so his hand can slip higher and higher.

"Steve," you breathed, his name like a prayer.

He pulled back, pupils blown. "Yeah?" His voice was breathless and a little raspy. You'd never heard him like that before.

"Should we get in your car?"

"Yeah," he says, helping you hop down from the trunk. You had lost one of your satin heels somewhere beneath his car, and stood awkwardly as Steve fumbled with his keys. When he finally got his car unlocked, he opened the door to the backseat with a small flourish that he seemed to immediately regret. "After you."

With the doors closed, the backseat was cramped. The bridesmaid dress was bulky with the tulle underskirt, which made getting comfortable a bit of an issue.

"Maybe if you sit up, I can just…" You pushed his shoulders against the backseat and swung one leg over his lap. "Like this?"

He nods eagerly, and immediately runs his hands up your thighs. He leans in, kissing along your throat with hungry, wet smacks. "You know," he began, sucking just beneath your jaw. "I didn't think this was how my night would end."

"No?" You panted, sitting up to help him work your panties down your thighs. He gave up halfway and just tore them where he could, which sent a thrill through you.

He grinned like a dopey idiot and shook his head. His fingers found your slick, needy core and you both moaned at that first touch— exploratory and revealing. "Jesus, not at all."

Your brows knit as you bucked against his fingers, eyes fluttering as his thumb teased over your clit. You weren't totally oblivious—plenty of Steve's girlfriends had come to you and Carol to spill about their exploits. Steve Harrington knew exactly what he needed to do to make his partner melt into a puddle.

"You're so sensitive," he murmured against your skin. "Wish I could just touch you everywhere."

"We don't have time," you panted, breath stuttering as he slid a finger inside of your cunt. You whined at the intrusion, walls fluttering and clenching. "Have to get back for the send off or people will notice if we're missing."

Already, you wondered if Carol and Tommy had noted your absence. Maybe the excitement of the wedding had distracted them, which would give you a little more time. The thought of being caught fucking around outside of their wedding was a little mortifying.

But Steve wasn't in a hurry. His hand moved between your thighs, working you open on his thick fingers. It was hard to complain about timing when it felt so good.

"We can skip foreplay," You panted, head lolling back. "It's fine."

He shook his head, pulling back to meet your eyes. "Are you always this bossy?" He asked, and curled his fingers to rub against a spot that made your eyes roll back. You watched his lips curl into a smirk.

The smug asshole. "Don't be a dick," you murmured. You unsnapped his stupid cummerbund and tried your best to unfasten his pants, but your stupidly big skirt was in the way.

You huffed, trying to push the tulle layers to the side, while Steve watched with thinly veiled amusement. "Looks pretty annoying," he said. He finally pulled his fingers from inside of you and licked them clean. "You could always take it off."

A laugh escaped you, and you shook your head. "No way. This stupid, ugly bridesmaid dress is staying on in case we get caught."

You finally worked the button and zip of his pants open, and immediately pulled his cock from the confines of his briefs. Your stomach did a goddamn somersault at the sight.

Junior year, Amy Davis had talked to you and Carol at a party after she and Steve went all the way. When you asked how it went, she grinned and said, well, he's really big. You had sorely underestimated what that meant.

"Oh, fuck," you murmured, circling your fingers around the base of him. "My hand barely fits around you. How the hell are you going to fit inside of me?"

It wasn't hard to notice the flicker of pure pride in his expression, the sheer ego boost you'd given him. "Well, that's why I wanted to get you stretched on my fingers first. I was being a gentleman."

You gave a slow glide of your fist, heart pounding in your ears. God, you'd fantasized about this so much, and now it was actually happening. He moaned beneath you, hips bucking into your grasp, twitching and leaking precum with each pump.

"Okay, Jesus," he groaned. His eyes were half lidded as he watched you jerking him off. "Fuck, that's good. Like that, just like that."

Your core ached with need, just listening to him moaning beneath you. You bit your lip as you tried your best to hold up your skirts and position yourself to sink down on his cock. "Fuck, can you hold my dress?"

He obeyed quickly, gathering up your dress and holding it so you could see what you were doing. Your thighs were already shaking, so were your hands. God, you were trembling all over with nerves, anticipation, want.

You sank onto his cock slowly, letting yourself adjust to his size. The stretch was uncomfortable at first, but you were so wet and desperate for it that any ache just melted into background noise. The hand that wasn't holding your skirts wrapped around your waist to support your descent.

"God, look at you," he groaned, forehead pressing against yours. "Taking it like a champ, yeah? You feel so goddamn good." You whined softly, taking the last few inches until his cock was fully sheathed within you. He dropped your skirt and just held your jaw so he could plant soft kisses on your lips.

"Steve," you panted as you began to move against him. It wasn't slow or sweet— it was desperate and hungry and carnal. The beamer rocked on its axles in time with your movements, each glide of your hips sent it careening forward.

Your hands dug into the backseat on either side of him to balance yourself as you moved. He kissed you again, slow and sweet, in total juxtaposition to the needy way you fucked yourself onto him.

"Fuck—" His hands slid down to your hips, guiding your movements and giving himself leverage to fuck into you. "You feel so good. So goddamn good."

The windows had gone foggy, so the street lights outside became a dim, golden glow through the windows. You silenced his rambling mouth with another kiss and relish in the feeling of his tongue lapping against yours.

He pulled back, a dopey smile on his lips before he popped a thumb in his mouth to wet it. "Hold on," he panted as he moved his hand beneath your skirt and rubbed your clit. You cried out softly, tightening around him. You could feel your rhythm going jerky and clumsy with just that simple touch. "That's better, isn't it?"

"God, yeah," you moaned, fingers dimpling the leather of the seats. Your thighs shook with the effort to maintain your rhythm as your body wanted to cave to pure pleasure. He grinned, kissing along your jaw and throat as he played with you. "Fuck, Steve. Feels so good."

He moaned against your throat, nipping gently as you rode him desperately. You were so close, and, god, you'd never felt like this in your life. Danny had been fine— good, even! But Steve was so attentive and affectionate, so skilled. Or, god, maybe skill had nothing to do with it. Maybe the wanting was the important part.

As you got closer, your moans got whinier. Sweat dripped down your spine, disappearing into the low back of your bridesmaid dress. The car felt hot and clammy, and you could see trails where moisture dripped down the foggy windows.

"C'mon," he goaded, nipping at your jaw. "I feel you squeezing around me, I know you're right there."

Your stomach flipped, and you whined as you buried your head in his shoulder. Close. So fucking close. You turned your head to kiss him again, and then you were gone.

Your body trembled with the intensity of your climax, as you moaned and gasped into the kiss. He worked you through it, guiding your hips the way you needed, until he came right along with you with a rough groan against your lips.

"I've missed you," you panted against his mouth, breathing hard as you came down. "I've missed you so much."

He closed his eyes, cheeks pink, chest heaving. He kissed your cheek, soft and sweet, and rubbed your thigh beneath your skirts.

"Yeah," he murmured. "I missed you too."

You stayed there for a moment longer, with Steve still buried inside of you. You kissed his throat affectionately, until you finally climbed off of him.

Both of you were wrecked. The pink sateen of your dress was irreparably wrinkled, and the humidity in the car had deflated both of your hairdos. And that wasn't to mention Steve's cum dripping out of you.

"So," you said, sparing a shy glance. "Tommy said you're sticking around Hawkins this fall."

Steve nodded, still a little breathless. "Oh, um, yeah. It's totally lame, but—"

"No," you insisted. "No, I mean, it sounds really nice to me. Definitely better than going to nursing school. I don't even want to go."

He swallowed, and a flicker of something passed across his features. He sat in the silence for a long moment before he cleared his throat. "We should probably head back in before Carol and Tommy send a search party, yeah?"

You bit your lip and nodded. "Yeah, of course." You couldn't hide the giddy affect to your voice, the hope in it.

Maybe this was just how things were always supposed to be. Maybe you had found each other again at just the right time.

But then a week passed, then another. You waited for him to call, or to stop by your window, or even just give you a sign that something had happened. That what you did meant something to him, the way it meant something to you.

Radio goddamn silence.

Tommy and Carol weren't any help. They hadn't heard anything, apparently, but Steve was busy with work, and there's this crazy stuff with his Dad, and it's probably just not top of mind.

It didn't make you feel any better. You couldn't go to Starcourt without feeling like you were navigating a mine field. You'd see Steve, mopping sticky floors or scooping ice cream, but the second he'd notice you, he would tuck tail and flee into the back room.

What an asshole.

When you finally found the will to visit Scoops Ahoy, you could see Steve hiding in the back through closed, frosted glass window. Very clearly watching you as you waited in line to get to the counter.

"Hi, I'm sorry, but could you tell Steve to come out, please?" You asked the girl, Robin, when you reached the front. You thought you'd had French with her one year, but you couldn't remember exactly.

She sighed and pinched her nose. "Why not?" She said with a shake of her head, then smacked the window so he'd come out. "Can you at least buy something?"

You sighed and handed over two dollars. "Uh, flavor of the month. And you can keep the change."

She sighed and handed you the cone. When Steve didn't emerge, she gave a vague gesture towards the door. "Just go on back, I guess."

The back of Scoops Ahoy smelled saccharine and sweet, like waffle cones and sprinkles. It was plain, with a little table and white boards and boxes of supplies stacked around. You knew you shouldn't have been back there— it was invasive and totally crazy of you to just show up at his workplace.

But then there was Steve, leaning against the window pane separating the back room from the storefront, and your heart did a stupid fluttery thing at the sight of him, even in the dumb uniform.

Steve didn't want to look at you— that much was clear. He stared at the sticky tiled floor and scuffed his feet on the floor. You licked your cone of the flavor of the month and wrinkled your nose. Salted coconut? Disgusting.

"Going radio silent after the wedding was a total dick move," you said finally. "Like, that meant something to me, Steve."

"Look, I screwed up, I—" he sighed, running a hand through his hair. When he finally met your gaze, your heart sank. There wasn't a glimpse of the guy you were with at the wedding there. It was like you were back in his bedroom in Junior year arguing again. "I shouldn't have let it go that far."

Shouldn't have let it get that far? Like he wasn't the one to kiss you first and slide his hand under your skirt.

"Let it?" You challenged. "You initiated everything, Steve. I mean, I thought you had a good time. I thought we both did."

Humiliatingly, your lip began to wobble. There was the awful, sick feeling in your gut of mortification and shame. God, you'd been so easy. You hated him hours before, and you still made it so easy for him to get between your legs.

He sighed and shook his head. "I'm not trying to hurt you," he said. Bullshit. "But it shouldn't have happened. It was a mistake, and we both know that."

"If you thought it was such a terrible mistake, you should have called me and told me," you said, your voice thick with the threat of tears. "And you know what? You were exactly right. It shouldn't have happened. I'm a total idiot."

He didn't make a move to stop you as you left. It was sheer luck that you managed to make it to your car before the tears fell in earnest.

A week later, Starcourt Mall burned in a fire. That night, with smoke pouring into the sky, you watched the light to Steve's window click on through the trees. A faint yellow glow in the distance. You hadn't even realized you were worried about him until you felt like you could finally breathe again. How fucked up is that?

You left for college in August. Tommy and Carol were there to see you off. You promised to call every day so you could swap gossip with Carol, and she made you swear that you wouldn't find some new college girl that you thought was way cooler than her.

It wasn't until finals that you got the call. Carol had gone into labor in the morning. The labor was long, but the baby totally healthy. Samantha Renee Hagan, who, according to Debbie, was kind of wrinkly and red and weird looking, but would hopefully get cuter.

When you met her over winter break, you totally disagreed. Samantha was already beautiful— pink cheeks, big brown eyes, soft fair hair. Sure, all babies kind of had that scrunchy, awkward look for a few months, but she was way cuter by a mile.

You sat in their living room, bouncing her in your arms, marveling at how tiny she was. "You sure you don't want to pick a better godfather for her?" You cooed, smiling as she wrapped her hand around your finger.

Carol just laughed. "I swear, you two are absolutely ridiculous," she said. "Both of you, just…" She shook her head and laughed.

"What is that look?" You asked, shifting Samantha in your arms. She cooed sleepily, and you felt a little bit of pride at the fact that she wasn't screaming and wailing like your little cousins did.

She sighed. "It's not a look, it's just my face."

You rolled your eyes, lips turning into a frown. "No, Carol, it's a look. You want to say something, so say it."

There was a tiny glance between her and Tommy, but she just shook her head. "No, it's… it's just, this back and forth thing you both do is really adorable. You're both just so… serious about it."

God, of course you were serious. Steve was a serious asshole and he seriously hurt you. Again. And sharing a godchild meant an entire lifetime of seeing each other at birthdays and holidays and you didn't know if you could stomach it.

In March, you came home for spring break. A quick trip to visit Tommy and Carol and the baby, and to just get away from the pressure of school for a little while.

And, really, you should have known better. Things were never normal in Hawkins, and they hadn’t been for a long time. There were murders, and then the drug dealer guy you had homeroom with in '84 was the suspect.

Things were fucking weird.

And through it all, you were babysitting. Stuck in Tommy and Carol's little starter home with a three month old who didn't do much other than sleeping and crying for formula. At least she was still young enough that you could get away with watching whatever tapes you wanted.

She dozed in your arms as you watched a VHS tape of St. Elmo's Fire. Rob Lowe was pretty dreamy, but Carol thought Jud Nelson was way hotter. You weren't sure that you could trust her taste if she married a guy who impressed her by burping the alphabet.

After the movie ended, you eased a sleeping Samantha into her crib and turned on the monitor. You laid down on their couch and grabbed a coke from the fridge and watched a late-night game show with a yawn.

Just as you began to doze, the house rattled a bit. You sat up, heart thrumming as the rattle began a full on quake. The baby wailed in the other room, and you tried to keep your footing as you hurried down the hall to grab her.

What were you even supposed to do in an Earthquake? Get in a bathtub? Hide under a table? How the hell were you supposed to know?

So you sat, huddled among all of the bath toys and soap bottles that had come crashing down and held her tightly until the shaking finally stopped.

You ran to the phone once you were sure that it was safe to get out, but the lines were down. A fallen phone line, probably, but it was awfully inconvenient. You wrapped Samantha in a blanket and walked out onto the lawn. Car alarms wailed into the night, but no one knew what was happening.

By morning, you still didn't know, and there was still no sign of Tommy and Carol. All they'd been doing was parking at Lover's Lake to fool around, which, Carol had confessed, was an all-too-rare occurrence with a baby in the house. You just figured they would have rushed home to check on the baby if it were possible.

Maybe there were fallen trees or debris, or something. Maybe they just physically couldn't get home.

One of the neighbors said he tried to drive into town and saw a weird, red chasm in the ground that cut through Olive Street. He said he threw in a brick from his work-truck and it just fell and fell and fell. He didn't even hear it stop.

Another said he saw military trucks coming in, that something bad must've happened, like an attack or something. Who knows? Just another day in Hawkins.

Two days, and you hadn't heard from Carol or Tommy. Their car was missing, and there was a gash through the lake that led into the town.

You put up missing posters with their parents at the Red Cross checkpoint in Hawkins High School. The gym was packed of displaced people, and you kept hoping you'd see a flash of red hair or freckles or just hear Tommy's obnoxious laugh.

Steve saw you first. You felt his eyes before you saw them. He dropped the box of clothes he'd been donating and rushed over, one hand on your arm, one hand on Samantha's back.

"Hey, what're you doing here?" He asked, eyes scanning over your face. "You okay? Why do you have Sammie? Is she hurt? Are you?"

You swallowed, shaking your head. "No, we're fine," you insisted. "We're safe, just… I was babysitting while Tommy and Carol went out, and then the earthquake happened…" Your throat felt tight as you let yourself think the worst for the first time. "No one's seen or heard from them since Thursday. I put up posters, but if they aren't here…"

You both knew what that would mean. You bounced a squirming Samantha. It was noisy and hot in the gym. People were crying, and injured, and everything about it just felt wrong. Like this wasn't really Hawkins anymore. Like you'd woken up in a terrible dream.

"Hey, they brought in the national guard, and FEMA, and shit," he said, giving a weak smile. "I'm sure they're just… a little lost."

He didn't sound very convinced. You didn't feel very convinced either. Samantha cried in your arms, but Steve carefully eased her into his own. "Hey, why don't I take Sammie for a bit? You can go get some rest somewhere. Who's taking her tonight?"

You shrugged and shook your head noncommittally. "Uh, Carol's mom doesn't think it's a good idea for them," you said softly, with a scant glance towards here parents. "Her dad's barely sober… and now with Carol missing…" You cleared your throat, sniffling. "And I know Tommy wouldn't want his baby girl in that house with his asshole dad, you know? So I guess that leaves it to me."

Steve shook his head. "No, that's bullshit," he argued. "Call Debbie and tell her you have to go back to school, and she needs to get her ass back into town."

"No way, Debbie is a total mess," you pushed back. "No. I can handle Samantha. I'm her godmother for a reason. Carol and Tommy trust me to take care of her."

"And me," he insisted. "They trusted both of us. So don't be a goddamn martyr. You go back to school, and I'll take care of Sammie."

You scoffed. "A martyr? Steve, her parents are missing. I'm just trying to do my best to keep her safe and loved and happy. I can re-enroll in the fall after everything in Hawkins is back to normal."

Steve made a face. There was a flash of knowing, of fear there that made your pulse quicken. "I'll stay with you." Before you could argue, he held up a hand. "Don't say anything. I can tell you haven't gotten any real sleep in days. Have you even eaten?"

"No, not really. She's been really freaked out since the earthquakes, she's hardly slept either."

Steve nodded. "Alright. Why don't I handle her, and you can go grab a sandwich from my friend Robin over there?" He pointed across the gym. "Go eat, grab a cot and take a nap. We'll figure everything out when you wake up. Maybe Tommy and Carol will be here by the time you're conscious again."

He gave a weak smile that you couldn't return.

You had the sandwich and sat on a cot, and outside of the window, you watched the sky turn ashen. As you watched the thick gray snow fall from the sky, wondered if you should have taken Steve up on his offer to get out of Hawkins after all.

Thank you for reading!!! This is basically all set up for the rest of the fic, which revolves around them raising Sammie during the events of season 5... and maybe after?

Please let me know if you're interested in seeing more of these two!

[eventhorizonsposts]

a little more time | steve harrington x henderson!reader

word count: 7.4k

summary: The last 18 months have been hard on everyone, but Dustin is spiraling out of control. Steve will do anything to make sure you and your brother are safe, together, and loved. Crawls be damned.

content warnings: some s5, vol 1 spoilers, Steve pov, hurt/comfort, fluff, angst, mild descriptors of blood, everyone is actually full of anxiety in this one, no use of y/n

author’s note: first fic!! I liked the idea to match the titles to a song that was playing as I was writing. love this one. I was really thinking heavily about how paranoid Steve could be, especially when he wants to protect something/someone. This is also very self indulgent so sue me! Please go easy on me this time, but I’d love to hear your thoughts. Enjoy!

Steve isn’t a stranger to having someone in his bed. There was once a time where this house—this room—was a revolving door of pretty sighs and low chuckles. A time where he thought Nancy was the one for him, and that there was nothing to be afraid of in this world outside of his parents’ vague yet ever lingering disappointment.

But now his room is at a standstill, void of all those old ghosts. The only sound being the soft huffs of air coming from the other side of his bed.

From you.

He doesn’t really know how long he’s been sitting here watching you. Long enough for the faint glow of moonlight to slowly slip down from its starting point near you brow to where it now cast a blue beam across the curve of your lips. Longer still that he has started timing those soft puffs of air, counting every rise and fall of your shoulders.

It’s a habit he picked up the night after everything had gone to shit over a year ago. Something in the devastation on Lucas’s face as they had rushed Max to the hospital had made Steve himself grow almost unfairly paranoid about his own girlfriend.

What right did he have, he’d ask himself. You hadn’t been selected to be one of Vecna's victims. You’d made it out of the Upside Down, Steve had made sure of that.

And although any scrape or bruise on you was an affront to everything Steve stood for…he was grateful that that’s all they were. Your eyes still clear, hands still carding absentmindedly through his hair when you can. So seeing you sleeping—albeit fitfully—is a blessing that he acknowledges every night.

Of course, he always has room for more habits. Picking fights with Jonathan for instance. You had sat primly in the passenger seat of the van just days ago, shaking your head while halfheartedly chastising him.

“Don’t be mean Steve. He’s going to assume you are going for a hostile takeover.”

There wasn’t a single hint of real anger in your tone though. In truth you also loved pressing buttons, especially when it came to Jonathan and Nancy.

You’d never quite forgiven them for playing hooky at Murray’s while you and Steve nearly became demodog food—no matter what their intentions were.

Steve pulled out a Bopper, another recently formed habit. Tearing at the wrapper he smirked over at you, “Maybe I want to keep him on his toes.”

“Well,” you let out a snort. “Then we will just have to divide and conquer.”

We. There was something so warm about your demeanor despite everything. You never left any room for doubt or distrust.

From the moment Dustin had dragged Steve to your house and thrown you into a world of monsters and lab experiments, you’d somehow decided he was worthy of something. Of trust, of being in your orbit. Of love.

It reminds him of standing in the soft rays of sunlight at the start of spring.

Now, the November chill curls up into his bones as he slips out of bed to perform his newest habit: checking on Dustin.

The doors to both Steve’s bedroom and the guest room across the hall are wide open. An unspoken rule when your brother spends the night. Harsh snores erupt from under the quilted blanket, currently the only sign in the cover of darkness that Dustin’s face was swollen beyond belief.

Whatever happened to him tonight was not a bike accident, that Steve knows for sure. His tough love tactic hasn’t exactly been successful lately, but honestly he’d take Dustin screaming at him over silence any day. The only white flag they had been able to fly these days was you.

Dustin had completely turned in his seat to stare at Steve once he explained what a shit show tonight had been. Jonathan was still fuming in the back of the van, headphones firmly on his head.

The words that had been thrown around between them didn’t bother Steve—not really. He was more offended that the older Byers brother still couldn’t get it through his thick skull that Steve has moved on. Happily even. Besides, he had bigger fish to fry than his ex and her very insecure partner.

“You let her go in there?” Dustin gritted out, rings glinting under the streetlights as his hands clench around the fast food napkin Steve shoved his way.

Steve rolled his eyes, “Henderson I don’t let her do anything. I didn’t even know about it until they were already on the way to the hospital!”

Truth. Though he was scared shitless, he’d never deny you the right to fight. Despite your qualms with Nancy, there had been zero hesitation in your bones when Will had given the group some sort of warning about the attack on the Wheelers house. You knew how to handle yourself, he’s seen it. Even if it does scare him.

“I asked one thing of you! You’re supposed to be protecting her and instead you can’t even figure out how to prevent a power surge,” Dustin’s voice cracks with disbelief as he swipes at the dried blood on his chin. “Why wasn’t she with you in the first place?”

Steve cradles his head in one hand as if that could dampen the headache rolling in, “She wanted to stay at the station in case you showed up you little shit.”

Dustin scoffs at that, “You told me you wouldn’t leave her alone.”

That’s it. Against his better judgement Steve slams on the brakes, throwing everyone in the van forward.

“Jesus Christ Steve! We’re losing the signal, what are you doing?” Jonathan yells, fumbling with the headphones as he braces himself against the built in desk.

Steve ignores him completely as he throws the van into park and fully swivels in his seat to look at the boy beside him.

“She isn’t alone. And you told your sister that you’d be careful. That you’d stop doing this,” he gestures up and down Dustin’s frame. “You remember that, huh?”

Dustin opens his mouth to say something but Steve presses on, “Do you know how worried she’s been tonight? Everyone was wondering where you could possibly be and if it had been up to her, we would have cancelled the damn crawl to look for you.”

“Guys come on!” Jonathan presses, “We are wasting time.”

Dustin’s blue eyed gaze pierced into him, but Steve didn’t let up on his stern expression. The silence of the night pressed into them, tall rows of corn swaying slightly in the breeze. Something snaps in Steve as he turns back into his seat.

Slowly, he shifts back into drive before muttering, “Yeah, we are wasting time. I’m looping around one more time and then we are going to the hospital.”

Jonathan sputters in protest, “But what about Hop? The crawl-”

“I don’t give a damn about the crawl Byers!” Steve shouts. “We lost him two hours ago. I don’t care what you tell your mom either, but we need to regroup. Take the van for all I care. But your girlfriend’s parents are in surgery. Holly is missing. And I’m going to get my girlfriend.”

Steve was never one to back down from anything, but there was an unfamiliar edge in his tone that silenced the other two. Not that Dustin was saying anything at the moment.

Jonathan finally radioed in to Joyce back at the Squawk, speaking quietly as if to soften the blow that Hopper would have to be on his own for now. Steve glances just once at Dustin blotting his nose tenderly, before turning down Cornwallis towards the glow of Hawkins.

If he was being totally honest with himself, Steve felt truly terrible about the Wheelers. Of course he did. But he was more concerned about minimizing any sort of panic within Dustin. You weren’t injured, that much he knew, but lack of wounds wouldn’t stop Dustin from the warpath he’s been on since Eddie.

At one time you were the protector. The older sibling that went above and beyond to get your brother and his friends out of harm’s way. You had the scars to prove it.

Now, Dustin treats you like you’re made of glass.

-

It had been little things with Dustin since Eddie’s funeral. You’d woken up one night to him tucked into bed with you—something he hadn’t done since you had moved to Hawkins. One night turned to every night, but you never questioned it, and he would disappear before your alarm went off in the morning.

He’d taken to constantly checking the batteries on your walkie, even when you’d said they were good. Steve even began to notice that your brother was nudging you as far away from doors and windows as humanly possible. As if you’d be snatched away if he wasn’t paying attention.

When you’d moved in with Steve after your graduation, Dustin didn’t riot. He just…adapted. Part of his excuse for showing up constantly was to avoid explaining why he was up at all hours after a crawl to your mother. She was thrilled at the very thought that you’d still be watching him.

But nobody was more thrilled than Steve himself. His parents didn’t make an effort to return home from Chicago once he’d told them about the quarantine situation. The last phone call he’d gotten was a quick happy birthday from his mother. Then of course she ended the brief call with a, “Do try to keep the house in order, dear.”

And order he kept. He knew they wouldn’t be coming back. You’d purchased soft yellow curtains that made the living room feel cheerful for once. Furniture was rearranged, and closets were filled.

It began to feel like a home.

So when Dustin showed up past the military’s curfew with an overnight bag and a small stack of books, Steve didn’t give you the chance to wonder if he was alright with it.

“Henderson!” he grinned wildly, before pulling Dustin inside. Your brother’s eyes were still dimmed but he had an expression of calm once Steve had slapped a soda in his hand and turned on the TV.

He had then disappeared upstairs for so long that you went looking for him. You’d found him in the guest room, your brother’s books stacked on the bedside table and extra blankets piled high at the foot of the bed.

“Baby?” you had a smile in your voice that made something in Steve’s heart swell.

“Do you think he would want his room painted?” he blurted out.

The truth was Dustin didn’t really care, but Steve shoved various paint chips into his hands for weeks until a deep green was begrudgingly selected.

It was much easier getting your brother to join in on the actual painting. You would bring them lemonade and hear Dustin laughing along to whatever Steve had come up with. Steve didn’t miss the glassy smile you gave him before popping out again.

The guest room project turned into the fence needing to be touched up, and that turned into your request to have the shutters done in blue.

Steve would come home with paint cans and Dustin would silently consent to assisting. He never pushed a topic, never brought up the bats or Eddie at all. He was just grateful to have the old Dustin back, even if it was just for a few moments at a time.

School made everything worse. Of course there was the Hellfire Club issue. But then there was Dustin’s unwillingness to forgive the student body as a whole. Nearly everyone at Hawkins High was guilty of complacency regarding Eddie’s death in his eyes—almost more than Vecna.

“His grades are fine,” you’d said one night at the dining table. “But he barely sleeps as it is. He seems…anxious.”

Steve frowned at the wrinkles of worry etched on your forehead. Trying to get you to relax he grabbed onto your hand gently, clearing his throat before saying lightheartedly, “I think we still have my mom’s sleeping pills.”

“Steven, we can’t sedate him.” you say sternly, though he can tell your heart’s not in it.

“Hey,” he tuts softly. “We’ll watch him. I just wanted to give you the nuclear option first.”

And you laughed before taking another bite of lasagna, meaning Steve had won another battle. He was just as concerned about Dustin as you were, but he was prepared to take the brunt of whatever this grief was transforming into.

-

The grief, it turned out, melded into near crippling anxiety about you.

You’d recently taken up a librarian position, offered to you in the wake of quarantine—no masters degree required for the time being. You and Steve had a schedule to maintain on top of the crawls, and Dustin needed to be in school, which meant less sleepovers.

Steve always tried to make sure that he was present with you at the Henderson residence at least once a week. He liked the idea of a family dinner. Of Claudia hugging him tightly and setting that week’s bouquet of flowers into a vase with unabashed glee. But more than that, it was an opportunity for you and Dustin to have time together.

Steve knew that it was going to be a problem when a surprise military shipment came in three months ago. You had to feign a cold to get the two of you out of family dinner last minute, leaving Dustin with your mother.

“Yes,” you said with a sigh of exasperation into the receiver. “No-Dustin, I won’t break the antenna. Yes, I’ll be careful.”

Steve stood next to you, frame leaning casually against the wall as he assessed the tone you were taking with your brother. He could just make out the muffled sound of his name through the line before you let out a sigh, shoulders slipping forward in defeat.

“Yeah, okay. I love you,” you hold the phone out to Steve. “I’m going to grab our snacks.”

Steve gingerly takes the phone as you start down the hallway, but not before ghosting his lips across your forehead.

“Hey Dust,” he greets.

Just a speck of dust, that’s what you called him when you were little. The ease of the nickname has embedded itself into Steve’s vocabulary.

“You have her mixtape?” Dustin asks bluntly.

Okay so this is how it’s gonna go tonight, Steve thought to himself.

“Yep. The soothing tunes of Fleetwood Mac are safe and sound.”

And they are, along with a variety of your favorite songs that he has in the van. And the station. And the living room stereo.

In fact, he has tapes for each member of the party scattered everywhere—spent the early months of quarantine holed up in the station, recording from the turntable. But no matter who the tape was for, he made sure the third track was Gypsy. For you.

There was a pause of silence that almost made Steve think Dustin had hung up. Then, softer now, “Be safe.”

Click.

And you were safe. Steve still hauled ass through town but went easier on the turns, determined to keep you in your seat. Everything went without a hitch, and you returned home in the early morning hours hand in hand.

“How long do we have to sleep?” you mumbled into his shoulder as Steve fiddled with the house keys in the darkness.

Steve sighs, silently cursing himself for not remembering to turn on the porch light before you left the house.

Squinting at his watch he replies, “Three hours? Maybe three and a half if we shower together.” He didn’t need extra light to know that you had matching smirks.

“Jesus, you two are disgusting.”

Steve didn’t think as he dropped the keys, shoving you behind him as you both turned toward the disembodied voice.

But you registered the familiar cadence much quicker than Steve. Poking your head around him you narrow your eyes before calling out your brother’s name.

Light erupts from the other end of the solid wooden planks, casting shadows along the side of the house. Dustin is holding court in one of the rocking chairs, flashlight in hand.

Steve sucks in a breath of air, “Henderson, what are you doing?”

Dustin avoids the eye contact before muttering, “I couldn’t sleep.”

“No dude, what are you doing outside my house at 3 in the morning?”

Dustin’s lips slip into a frown so similar to yours that it makes Steve blink, “I couldn’t get in.”

“Oh jeez Dust,” you say softly. Steve crouches down, feeling for his key ring while you pull your brother into a hug, “Does Mom know you are gone?”

Finally Steve jams the silver key into the lock, yanking open the door. He can see Dustin shaking his head out of the corner of his eye.

“Come on. In.” Steve calls, waving the two of you inside before firmly shutting out the rest of Hawkins.

A robotic sort of instinct took over him as he flicked on the kitchen lights and started pulling out ingredients. He can feel the two of you watching him in confusion as he yanks the egg carton out of the fridge.

“Henderson I can hear your stomach growling from here, will you grab the frying pan.”

There was a flurry of motion from you and Dustin behind him as he tried to wipe the grin off his face. The three of you ate breakfast as the sky gradually lightened, speaking softly and forgoing sleep entirely.

Steve made it a point to press a copy of the house key into Dustin’s palm a few days later. He wanted your brother where he could keep a close eye on him. And sure, there was good and bad days with Dustin—with all of you if Steve was being honest.

This was something Steve knew he couldn’t fix. There was no manual when it came to death and monsters and the loss of a friend. How can he shield both you and Dustin from any more disaster when you were still grasping at straws with the crawls?

It was these things pressing on his mind some weeks later as he played a laughing track for Robin.

“And don’t forget kids, please do not try to catch the mystery dandruff with your tongue. I can promise you that it isn’t snowing in August,” Steve scoffed at that one as Robin turned toward the records. “But I do forecast a slight drizzle with this next one by the Eurythmics.”

Here Comes The Rain Again started up and Rob reached across the panels to switch off the microphones just in time for the side door to slam open.

Both DJs flinched as the metal bounced against the wall, rattling the picture frames and plaques lining the walls. And then Dustin was bursting through the doorway, hair disheveled and chest heaving as his mouth moved a million miles a minute.

Steve scrambled to tug off his headphones, nearly overturning the stool he had been perched on in his haste to exit the sound booth.

Every worst case scenario from more Russians to Henry Creel standing outside the building flashed through his mind.

“Henderson,” Steve crossed the room in quick strides. “What happened?”

“She’s missing,” Dustin panted, dropping his backpack to the ground.

Steve’s face screwed up in confusion, “Missing?”

Names and faces flashed across his mind. Robin was right here, Max wasn’t disappearing from the hospital. Erica? Nancy? And you were-

At the same time, Robin stopped beside him, “Aren’t you supposed to be in class right now?”

Dustin ignored the pair of them, dropping to the floor by the couch and pulling out the crowbar Steve had hidden under there, among other blunt objects in the building.

“She’s not answering on the walkie. And I went by the library but Rose said she left in a hurry. An emergency.”

Library? The gears finally started turning again for Steve.

“Dustin, hold on a minute. Your sister-“ he began.

The younger boy actually gripped onto Steve’s shirt. Robin’s eyebrows shot up, disappearing behind her bangs.

“I forgot to radio her at lunch,” Dustin choked out. “I knew something would happen and now-”

“Dust?”

All three heads snapped up toward the sound of your voice. You had paused at the mouth of the hallway that leads to the kitchen and store rooms, balancing three steaming mugs of coffee.

Between your cozy look in Steve’s sweatshirt and the comically different shades of the coffee (black for you, extra sweet for him, and Robin somewhere in the middle) he felt an endearing, feather-soft tug on his heart.

Confusion clouded your eyes as you looked between Steve and Dustin. Steve was suddenly very aware of how unhinged your brother looked at the moment. Lowering his hands from where they were locked onto Dustin’s shoulders, Steve slipped the crowbar out of the boy’s hand.

You had set down the mugs by now, and Steve tried to give you a look to convey the severity of the issue.

“Rob, the music,” he mumbled tugging her back toward the booth.

She snatched up both their mugs as she trailed after him, giving you an apologetic smile. And there they sat, switching between Bowie and Wham!, ELO and even a Metallica song. That one was for Eddie.

Robin made sure not to look over at the siblings, but Steve wouldn’t look away. He didn’t need to hear through the thick glass to know that Dustin had begun to tearfully explain himself, talking with his hands as much as his voice. Your own gestures mirrored his, hair bouncing as you pointed toward the basement and then toward Steve himself.

Tension was obviously bleeding out of Dustin as his shoulders sagged further the longer you spoke. Though he knew you weren’t yelling, you had taken on a stern expression that made you look more weary than angry.

He only looked away when you finally threw your hands up in defeat before pulling your little brother into a desperately tight hug.

-

It was honestly a miracle that they hadn’t been pulled over on their way through town. Steve’s mind was clouded with half-baked jabs from a grumbling Jonathan and a deep need to just take you home.

“That was a red light back there in case you couldn’t see,” Dustin mutters beside him, voice nasally from the tissue shoved up both nostrils.

Swallowing a sigh, Steve’s hands tighten around the steering wheel as he immediately tries to relax his eyes. He knows he needs glasses. Could have used them since Starcourt, but he isn’t quite ready to admit that particular defeat.

“Yeah? Well keep getting the daylights beat out of you, and we can go to the optometrist together.”

Dustin doesn’t fight back, some of the anger fizzling out the more Steve states the obvious—this was no bike accident. Steve takes a moment to really look at the boy beside him, flashing back to that day at the Squawk.

Your ‘emergency’ wasn’t entirely fabricated. Murray had gotten through the check point with a shipment, including an obscene amount of ammo for Hopper. Along the way to the station for drop off, the truck had given out leaving Murray completely vulnerable to soldiers showing up for food only to find bullets and grenades. You could hear the frantic code coming from the walkie buried in your bag in the library’s break room, taking off in a hurry to grab the gear and go.

Steve and Robin were more than happy to see you arriving earlier than expected with your miniature haul. And in your haste to get inside the station, you abandoned your radio in the car—not that Dustin had remembered to contact you at all.

In fact, he was actually having casual conversations with his friends for once that day. It was only during his history class that it dawned on him that he hadn’t done his self imposed duty of checking on you like he’d been doing all semester.

Now, as Steve brings the van to a screeching halt he can’t help feeling a little useless to both Hendersons tonight.

“Byers get out. Go find your girlfriend,” Steve makes a point to maintain eye contact from the rear view mirror. “I’ll find a spot to park this thing.”

Something akin to understanding passes over Jonathan’s face, but he doesn’t say anything before slamming the back door and ducking inside. Silence overtakes the vehicle as Steve maneuvers into a parking spot and shuts off the engine.

Neither boy looks at the other, they both just stare forwards at the large hospital wing in front of them.

Then Dustin gives Steve the biggest shock of the night.

“I’m sorry.”

There is an audible crack of his neck as Steve whips his head around to look at the curly headed boy, “Did you get a concussion or something?”

Dustin rolls his eyes but presses on like he didn’t even hear him, “I was a little harsh.”

Steve nods his head, but says nothing. Dustin lets out a deep breath before continuing.

“I didn’t mean to miss the crawl. Or make you worry,” he looks over at Steve now. “Do you…think she’s mad at me?”

“No! God no,” Steve nervously runs a hand through his hair, debating whether he should put his full emotions on display before just going for it. “She hasn’t been mad this whole time. Anxious maybe. And a little scared, but she just wants you to be okay. As okay as we can be stuck in this town.”

Dustin quietly huffed a laugh, and it feels like Steve just won the lottery.

He presses on, gentler now, “I know you miss Eddie. Hell, I think I might too. But you’ve got to remember that your sister is strong. And a little crazy. I know you don’t want anything to happen, and I can’t promise these things away anymore. All I can tell you is that she loves you more than the whole world. We both do. I will always do everything I can to protect her. Can you trust in that?”

Dustin stares at him for a long moment, but Steve doesn’t flinch from it.

“Yeah,” Dustin answers quietly. “I trust you.”

“Good,” Steve claps him on the shoulder. “I can work with that. Just remember to trust her. Now take those napkins out of your nostrils, it’s making it look worse.”

Dustin fumbles with his makeshift first aid solution before they head into the hospital.

Steve takes the opportunity to lay down the law as they navigate towards the ICU, “Remember, she’s fine. I don’t know what she saw for sure, but she isn’t physically hurt okay?”

“Yeah, got it.”

By the time they finally found the right waiting room, it was just Mike and Lucas.

“Dude what the hell happened to you?” Lucas asks dumbfounded as he takes in Dustin’s injuries.

“Long story, I can explain later. What happened to Nance and Jonathan?”

Mike finally snaps out of his stupor and looks at his friend, “She needed some air.”

Steve doesn’t want to be insensitive about all this but he breezes right past the whereabouts of the eldest Wheeler. Putting a hand out he interjects, “So where is Henderson right now?”

Lucas tenses slightly as if deciding how much he wants to say.

“She…wanted to go see Max. I gave her a minute.”

Dustin hesitates for a moment, shuffling his feet before wrapping his arms around Mike. Lucas turns to Steve with a look of utter astonishment, but Steve just shrugs as Mike finally raises his arms to return the embrace.

He quickly takes the opportunity to slip down the too familiar hallway towards Max’s room. If the guys want to have a heart to heart, he could join in on another day.

As he neared room 415, he could just hear the soft cadence of your voice from the slightly cracked door.

He pauses just outside, arm braced against the door.

“The White Rabbit put on his spectacles,” you murmur before becoming slightly more animated. “‘Where shall I begin, please your Majesty?’ he asked.”

You were reading aloud, much like you have been each time you’ve come to visit Max. Lucas insisted that any talking or music, even if it isn’t Kate Bush, has to do some good. You’d taken that seriously, and now have a small stack of classics in the cupboard next to the stereo.

Steve already feels the tension ease from his shoulders as he quietly listens. And then he feels a presence from behind. He doesn’t need to turn around to know that Dustin caught up to him, but he does it anyway. With a pointed look at the younger boy, Steve shuffles just enough to the right to let him go inside first.

A short gasp from you echoes in the sterile air. Then, “Dusty, what the hell happened?”

Still in the doorway, Steve expects Dustin to launch into a watered down explanation, but instead is met with silence aside from the constant beep of Max’s heart rate.

Steve pushes open the door just to nearly run into Dustin’s smaller frame. Distract. Sooth. Do something, Harrington.

“Hey baby,” Steve says softly stepping around a still frozen Dustin to get to you. You are clutching onto a large book in one hand, the other resting on top of Max’s.

You look up at him for a moment and he can barely stave off the rush of air he takes in at the look of devastation on your face. The blood splattered on your cheek.

In fact you are covered in it, dark red staining the sleeves of your once yellow sweater and set in the knees of your jeans where you had to have been kneeling.

“I’m fine,” you say. But it’s too monotone. Void of the usual lilting sound of your voice. You’re looking at Dustin again realizing just how bad you look, before gently setting down the book next to Max’s too pale arm. “It’s not mine Dust. I was trying to help Mr. Wheeler.”

Jesus Christ, Ted. Steve flashed on awkward yet friendly dinners from long ago. If Ted objected to his relationship with Nancy back then, he didn’t show it. Didn’t show much of anything at all, but he didn’t deserve to practically bleed out.

You set your lips into a firm line before looking between the two boys sporadically, silver lining your eyes. He can see you are trying to hold it together and not freak out your brother even more.

You‘ve never been a crier, always feeling worse than when you’ve started, but Steve can tell you are on the cusp of a breakdown. The last time you looked at him like that was when he’d had to pull Dustin off of Eddie’s body.

Steve stops at the foot of the bed, and turns back to look at Dustin. The boy’s lips are wobbling slightly, but he still hasn’t made a move towards you. Backpedalling, Steve abruptly walks back to him and pulls him into a tight hug.

Dustin lets out a shuddering breath, which only makes Steve squeeze him tighter before whispering, “She’s fine, yeah? Not a scratch on her. She’s just a little upset.”

Dustin violently nods his head, and Steve can feel the damp spot growing on his sweater.

“I ca-I can’t. I need to-,” Dustin starts pulling away, clearly making for a hasty exit.

“Hey hey it’s fine. Just take a minute. Here,” Steve pulls out his wallet, shoving the leather into Dustin’s hand. “Go get something to drink, something for your sister too.”

Dustin doesn’t hesitate, spinning on his heel before disappearing down the hall. Steve sighs as the door shuts, the red glow of the exit sign across the way washing over his face.

He doesn’t get the chance to turn around before you slam into his back, arms wrapping around his middle. He can’t help the small grunt of surprise that escapes him, but manages to keep his balance as his hands naturally search out for the pulse points of your wrists.

“You know, the football team really could have used some of your coaching on their tackle last season,” he attempts to tease. “Maybe they would have actually won a game.”

You let out a wet chuckle, the vibrations radiating across his upper back, “Yeah right.”

Steve takes the opportunity to loosen your hold just enough to spin around, “No, no I’m serious. They could have been state champs with that move.”

The ghost of a smile you carry morphs into something somber as he cups your cheek.

Deflecting is no longer an option, he knows.

“Are you alright? Like, seriously?” Steve whispers.

It was like opening the floodgates. He isn’t even sure if you can see as you cling on to him.

“It was a lot of blood Steve. I don’t even know how he survived the trip to the hospital with those wounds. I was trying to help stop the bleeding,” you pauses for a gasp of air. “And when i put pressure on his chest it just sprayed everywhere. What if I made it worse? And Karen…Nancy is devastated.”

Steve wraps you up tighter, shushing you lightly. Across the room Max lies in her bed, the florescent light casting a blue hue onto her already too-pale face. A flash of the letter she wrote to him, still unopened in his dresser drawer, comes to him.

Closing his eyes, he plants a kiss on the top of your head, “It’s not on you. None of us knew that Vecna would attack the Wheelers.”

You are barely listening, “And Dustin, God! What the hell happened to him tonight. Did he tell you anything? We can’t send him home like that, my mother is going to skin us alive.”

“Okay,” Steve winces, somehow believing that Claudia would in fact haunt him for life if she got a look at her baby tonight.

“I’m going to let him explain that to you, preferably at home. Besides, he is more worried about you anyway.”

Home. He used to hate that place, and now he was all too eager to get you and Dustin back inside. As safe as he can get you—considering that demogorgons are just attacking at random now.

“After finding the Wheelers like that,” you croak out. “I thought that something must have attacked him too.”

Sort of from the looks of it. “I know. He scared me.”

You step back from him then, tears tapering off. Part of him naturally follows your moments, like he always has. But he lets you wipe at your eyes, and then your unruly hair.

But as your fingers snag at the knots, his eyes catch the blood stains on your sleeves again and he can feel himself pale at the sight. He knows it’s not yours. That you are full of life right in front of him.

Regardless, he understands Dustin more than he thought he did as he strides to one of the cabinets lining the far wall. Yanking one door then a second and third, he scans the shelves until he finds a stack of towels.

Turning towards you again, he sees that you’ve already placed Alice in Wonderland back onto the stack and are now fiddling with Max’s blankets.

“Baby, come here,” he calls, hand held out between you.

You smooth out one more nonexistent wrinkle among the sheets before coming to him. Leading you into the attached bathroom Steve flicks on the light as the door clicks shut. He immediately turns the hot water in the sink on, watching carefully for the steam to curl up before sticking part of the towel under the stream.

“We are going to get you all cleaned up and then we are gonna go back to the station, yeah?” he says, still testing the temperature with his fingers. You like it scalding to be perfectly honest.

Your lack of response gains his attention and he looks up into the hanging mirror to find you already looking at your reflection. Panic swells in him as he whips around to fully look at you, your hands shaking as you try to rub off the blood on the side of your neck.

“Hey no. I’m gonna get it off of you okay?” he says quickly.

“I ca- I can’t wear this,” you start yanking off your beloved sweater.

“Okay that’s fine,” Steve sheds his jacket to pull off the sweater underneath, leaving him in his white undershirt. “Just look at me for a second. Don’t look at the mirror.”

Thankfully, you oblige him. He quickly pulls the sweater onto you before guiding you to the counter. You don’t comment when he lifts you up to sit on the granite, hands steady on your hips before grabbing the towel again.

You still don’t talk when he gets the damp portion back to the necessary temperature and brings it up to your cheekbone. So Steve does the talking for you.

“You know, when they finally let us out of this town we are going on that road trip,” his eyes dart to yours for a moment before he continues gently wiping. “I figure by that time Dustin will have picked out a college, or a college will have picked out Dustin, and we can do the grand tour. Embarrass the hell out of him, get matching sweatshirts.”

Your lips wobble in a tiny smile at the thought while he starts working on the other cheek.

“And then you and I are gonna see the sights. I’m talking through the mountains, over rivers—everything. We’ll avoid the bison and get a picture in front of Old Yeller.”

You snort at that, “Steve are you talking about Old Faithful?”

Thank god she laughed, he thinks. “Yeah that. This is why you are the lovely navigator and I am the chauffeur.”

“I love you,” you say quietly. It’s not a confession. You’ve both said it enough times for it to become less of an announcement and more of a reminder.

Steve gives the corner of your mouth a quick kiss before dragging the towel down your neck, “I love you too.”

By the time he’d gotten you cleaned up, you’d exhausted any tears left over. Slipping out of the bathroom, the pair of you find Lucas. Steve tries to convey a look of understanding toward the boy who has taken up vigil next to Max.

“Hey, you okay?” Lucas asks gingerly, clutching onto his paper cup of coffee.

“Yeah. We’ve had better crawls I’d say,” you mutter, clutching onto the ruined knitting of your sweater. Steve isn’t a laundry wizard, but he knows that he’ll probably need to purchase a replacement.

The door bursts open to reveal your brother, looking thankfully less pale than when he’d left, “They were out of Coke on three floors but I finally found one.”

He holds the can out to you, but you pull him in for a hug instead, “Thanks Dust.”

You gingerly take the can from your brother and grab his hand before looking over at Steve.

“We will be back in a few minutes, yeah?”

Steve nods, and watches as you two go before letting out a sigh.

“You two make a good team.”

Steve looks back at Lucas, mildly stunned.

“Max thinks so too,” he continues from his chair. “She kinda bet Mike money that you’d get married before we started college.”

Steve barks out a laugh, “When was this exactly?”

“That summer at Starcourt. You both should have worked at Scoops with how much she was there.”

Steve smiles fondly at the memory. You had been with him a lot that summer. Robin was wary of him at first, but once she found out you were willingly dating him, you all became friends. The truth serum probably helped the bonding process though.

“Henderson keeps me honest, I’ll give you that. And I’ll put in a good word with the boss,” he wiggles his eyebrows. “See if we can win Max that cash.”

Lucas grins before looking back at the redhead, “I miss her, you know?”

Steve presses a hand gently on top of his shoulder, “Yeah. I know.”

-

Time doesn’t feel very linear in the hospital to Steve. Every visit has felt like both 10 minutes and a lifetime have passed. He couldn’t say for sure when you and Dustin returned, or when you all said loving ‘see you later’s’—never goodbye—to Max, or worse yet when the three of you took your leave in the station van.

The Wheelers will be in surgery for a couple more hours at least, and with the way Nancy was breaking down, Steve was more than willing to sweep for the tracker on the way back to the station.

Dustin crawled in to the back, but places a hand on the back of Steve’s seat as he hands over his wallet, which in all honesty, Steve had completely forgotten about.

“Thanks dude,” he says over his shoulder.

Dustin doesn’t reply to that. Instead Steve hears more shuffling before something is tossed into his lap. Looking down in the faint light of the parking lot, Steve squints at what he realizes is a peanut M&Ms package.

“What’s this for?” surprise laces his voice.

“They didn’t have any Boppers left. I got you the next best thing.” Dustin mutters before pulling the headphones over his hat, leaving no room for conversation.

Steve looks over to you, only to find you staring straight ahead with the softest smile he’s seen all day. Shaking his head, he maneuvers out of the lot and down the street.

Instinct has him reaching for your hand, but you are already meeting him halfway, fingers intertwining gently. You squeeze his hand sporadically the whole way home, but he knows all the meaning behind it.

I love you, we are okay, I’m here with you.

-

It was the same pressure on his hand that pulls him out of his thoughts in his darkened hallway now.

“Honey, what are you doing up?” you whisper groggily, hand cold—always colder than his own.

“Making sure he is still breathing under there,” he whispers back. You don’t respond, the silence forcing him to turn and look at the frown on your face. “What?”

You let out a huff meant to be stern but just ends up sounding incredibly sweet to Steve. “You worry too much.”

You pull him back toward your room, and he cranes his neck once more to make sure Dustin doesn’t wake up.

“Okay, no. Tonight was very worrying actually,” he speaks a little louder as you crawl into bed again, silently holding the blankets open for him to follow.

“I know,” you say once he has finally settled in, pulling you into his side. “But you need to sleep. I have a feeling tomorrow is going to be a mess.”

Right. Hopper and El going MIA. The Wheelers. Holly.

Steve melts into you, nose buried in your hair, sweet with the scent of your shampoo.

“I just feel like if I don’t have you two within sight you’re going to evaporate into thin air,” he says after a moment.

“It’s not all on you,” your breath tickles his neck. “We are dealing with this the best we can. I think Dustin might try a little more though.”

Right. Your heart to heart had revealed as much as he had suspected. Andy and his sidekicks of course.

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose in exasperation, “He hates me half the time.”

You press soft kisses against his clenched jaw, trying to relax him, “He loves you like a brother. Fights with you like one too. I think he is just as worried about you as he is about me.”

Steve feels like you threw a bucket of ice water on him, “You think so?”

You give him another peck, “Yes. Don’t let the attitude fool you, love.”

And something unclenches in his chest, at least for tonight. You stare at each other smiling despite everything.

Finally you readjust yourself, getting comfy half on top of him. “Tell me about something good. Something happy.”

You relaxing like this finally makes him relax as he hums in thought. Suddenly he flashed on the revelation in Max’s hospital room, “Well. Apparently the kids have money on the timing of our wedding so…”

You laugh loud, disbelief on your face as you start asking rapid-fire questions.

And it doesn’t matter that he hasn’t asked—doesn’t even have a ring. These brief moments of your joy as the sun begins rising is as good as a yes.

[alltoolewis]

Fearless- Steve Harrington (season 2)

Summary- Despite your trauma bond, you and steve don't remain friends, however when he grows close to your little brother and protects you not only from an angry billy but a demodog your old feelings come rushing back....

Notes- I loved writing this although it's not totally accurate to season 2 I had to switch it up a little for the plot! Hope you all enjoyed though regardless! Please let me know if you want more or if you want to join the taglist- the 3rd part will be out tonight

Taglist-: @khaylin27 @khaleesihavilliard @gaylittleboi69

Summer came and went like a fever dream. You spent most of it working at the local record store, saving up for new glasses and trying not to think about everything that had happened. Dustin went to science camp. Jonathan worked at the photo lab in town. Nancy and Steve were inseparable, as expected. 

And you? You tried to move on. 

You'd thought, naively perhaps, that surviving the Upside Down together would create some kind of lasting bond. That you and Jonathan and Nancy and Steve would stay close, united by shared trauma and secrets. 

But life didn't work that way. 

Nancy was busy with Steve. Jonathan was dealing with Will's recovery and his family's struggles. And you... you were just there. On the periphery. Again. 

You'd call Jonathan sometimes, but he was always busy or tired or helping his mom with something. You'd see Steve and Nancy around town, but they were in their own bubble. You'd wave. They'd wave back. And that was it. 

By the time school started again in the fall, you'd mostly resigned yourself to going back to being invisible. Except this time, you were determined to be different. Braver. Stronger. 

You got new glasses—contacts, actually. Your mom had finally saved enough to get them for you. You could actually see clearly now, without tape and cracks obscuring your vision. 

You started wearing clothes that actually fit instead of oversized band t-shirts. Nothing dramatic—just jeans that weren't two sizes too big, shirts that weren't meant to hide you. 

You even signed up for the talent show. Steve's words had stuck with you all summer. People should hear it. 

But the most noticeable change was in how you carried yourself. You kept your head up in the hallways. You made eye contact. You spoke up in class. 

It was terrifying. But it was also liberating. 

You first noticed Billy Hargrove the same way everyone else did—it was impossible not to. 

He rolled into the parking lot in his Camaro, music blaring, cigarette dangling from his lips. He looked like he'd walked straight out of a magazine, all California tan and dangerous smile. 

Every girl in school was immediately obsessed. You tried not to be one of them, but you had to admit—he was attractive. In a completely different way than Steve. Steve was all-American, clean-cut, safe. Billy was sharp edges and warning signs. 

You were at your locker when you first felt his eyes on you. You turned, and there he was, leaning against the locker next to yours, that dangerous smile directed at you. 

"You're Henderson, right?" His voice was smooth, confident. 

"Uh, yeah. How did you—" 

"Small town. I make it my business to know the interesting people." His eyes traveled over you in a way that made you feel exposed. "And you're interesting." 

You felt your face heat up. "I'm really not." 

"See, I don't think that's true." He leaned closer. "I've heard things about you. About last year. About you standing up to King Steve and his crew." 

"That's not exactly—" 

"I like girls with backbone." He grinned. "Most girls here are boring. All giggles and hair spray. But you? You're different." 

You didn't know what to say. No boy had ever talked to you like this. Like you were someone worth pursuing. 

"I should get to class," you managed. 

"What class?" 

"English. Mrs. Patterson." 

"No shit, me too." He pushed off the locker. "Walk with me?" 

So you did. And you tried to ignore the stares, the whispers, the way Tina and Carol looked like they wanted to murder you. 

Billy started sitting next to you in English. He'd lean over during class, making comments that made you bite back smiles. He'd walk you to your locker afterward, asking about your day, your interests. 

It was attention you'd never had before, and it was intoxicating. 

"You play guitar, right?" he asked one day. 

"Yeah, how did you—" 

"I saw you carrying it. You any good?" 

"I don't know. Maybe?" 

"Play for me sometime." It wasn't a question. It was a challenge. 

You saw Steve watching from down the hall, his expression unreadable. Nancy was beside him, but he wasn't looking at her. He was looking at you and Billy. 

Something twisted in your chest, but you pushed it away. 

Jonathan confronted you about it at lunch. You'd started eating in the cafeteria instead of hiding in the darkroom, another one of your small acts of bravery. 

"Billy Hargrove?" Jonathan sat down across from you without preamble. "Really?" 

"Hi to you too, Jon." 

"I'm serious. That guy's bad news." 

"You don't even know him." 

"I know his type. He's dangerous." 

You set down your sandwich. "When did you become my keeper? We barely talk anymore, Jonathan. You don't get to suddenly have opinions about my life." 

He flinched. "That's not fair." 

"Isn't it?" You kept your voice level. "I tried, Jon. I called. I came by. You were always busy. I get it—you have your own stuff going on. But you don't get to ignore me for months and then tell me who I can and can't talk to." 

"I wasn't ignoring you—" 

"Yes, you were. You all were." You glanced over at Steve and Nancy's table. "And that's fine. I understand. We went through something crazy together, but that doesn't mean we have to be best friends forever. But don't pretend you care now just because some guy is paying attention to me." 

Jonathan was quiet for a moment. "I do care. I always cared. I just... things have been complicated." 

"I know. Will's been through a lot." 

"It's not just that." He rubbed his face. "I'm sorry. You're right. I've been a shitty friend." 

Your anger softened. "I'm sorry too. I shouldn't have snapped at you." 

"No, you should have. I deserved it." He looked at Billy's table, where the new kid was laughing with Tommy H. and some of the basketball players. "Just be careful, okay? I've got a bad feeling about that guy." 

"Noted," you said. But you weren't sure you'd listen. 

Billy asked you out two weeks later. You were at your car after school when he approached, leaning against the driver's side door. 

"One Saturday night. You and me. There's a drive-in playing The Lost Boys. Pick you up at seven?" 

Your heart hammered. "Are you asking me on a date?" 

"That's generally what 'you and me' and a movie implies, yeah." He grinned. "Unless you want me to spell it out. Will you go on a date with me, Henderson?" 

You should have said no. Jonathan's warning echoed in your head. You'd seen how Billy drove, how he treated people, the barely controlled anger that seemed to simmer under his surface. 

But you were tired of being careful. Tired of being invisible. Tired of pining after boys who didn't see you. 

"Okay," you heard yourself say. "Seven works." 

His grin widened. "Good. Wear something cute." 

After he walked away, you sat in your car for a long moment, processing what you'd just agreed to. Your first real date. With Billy Hargrove. 

You caught sight of Steve in your rearview mirror. He was standing by his own car, watching you, that same unreadable expression on his face. 

Then Nancy appeared, and he turned away. 

You started your car and drove home, trying to ignore the feeling that you'd just made a terrible mistake. 

You started noticing the change in Dustin about a week before your date with Billy. 

It was small things at first. He'd come home from school and go straight to his room, closing the door instead of sprawling on the couch to tell you about his day. He was secretive about his backpack, clutching it close when you walked by. And there were strange sounds coming from his room—scratching, hissing, something that sounded almost... alive. 

"Dusty, what's going on?" you asked one evening, standing outside his closed door. 

"Nothing!" His voice was too high, too quick. 

"Are you keeping something in there?" 

"No! Just doing homework. Very important homework. You know how it is." 

You frowned. Dustin was a terrible liar. "If you're in trouble—" 

"I'm not in trouble. Everything's fine. Great, even. Super great." 

You heard that strange chirping sound again. "What was that?" 

"What was what? I didn't hear anything. You must be hearing things. Maybe you should get your ears checked. Do they make glasses for ears? Ear-glasses?" 

"You're being weird." 

"I'm always weird. That's my thing. Now go away, I'm busy." 

You wanted to press harder, but you had your own problems to worry about. Like what to wear on your date with Billy. Like the fact that your stomach twisted with anxiety every time you thought about it. 

The whispers started on Thursday. 

You were at your locker when you heard Tina and Carol talking in those loud whispers meant to be overheard. 

"I heard Nancy Wheeler and Steve had a huge fight at Amanda's party," Carol said. 

"About what?" Tina asked, though her tone suggested she already knew. 

"Apparently Nancy got drunk and told Steve their whole relationship was bullshit. Called it fake or something." 

Your hands stilled on your books. 

"No way," Tina gasped with exaggerated shock. "Perfect Nancy said that?" 

"That's what I heard. Steve looked devastated. Left the party early." 

"Well, I always knew she was too uptight for him. He needs someone more fun. More adventurous." Carol's eyes slid to you, then away. Like she was making sure you heard. 

You closed your locker and walked away, your mind racing. Steve and Nancy had fought? Nancy had called their relationship bullshit? 

You saw Nancy in the hallway later, and she looked... off. Her smile was forced, her eyes tired. She was with Barbara Holland's parents, which seemed strange. When she caught you looking, she quickly turned away. 

At lunch, you scanned the cafeteria. Steve wasn't at his usual table. Neither was Nancy. 

"Did you hear about the fight?" Billy slid into the seat across from you, stealing one of your fries. 

"Between Nancy and Steve?" 

"Yep. Apparently it was brutal. Wheeler got wasted and tore into him in front of everyone." He grinned. "King Steve dethroned by his own girlfriend. It's beautiful, really." 

"That's not beautiful. That's sad." 

Billy shrugged. "Harrington had it coming. Guy walks around like he owns the place." 

"He's not that bad," you said quietly, surprising yourself. 

Billy's eyes narrowed slightly. "You defending him?" 

"No, I just... I know him. A little. He's changed." 

"Changed," Billy repeated, his tone mocking. "People don't change, Henderson. They just get better at hiding who they really are." He leaned back in his chair. "But hey, if you want to believe in fairy tales, go ahead. Just don't be surprised when Prince Charming shows his true colors." 

You didn't respond. Something about the way Billy said it made your skin prickle. Like he was talking about more than just Steve. 

You saw Steve that afternoon in the parking lot. He was alone, leaning against his car, staring at nothing. He looked terrible—exhausted, defeated, like someone had hollowed him out. 

You hesitated, then walked over. "Hey." 

He looked up, startled. "Oh. Hey." 

"Are you okay?" 

He laughed, but it was bitter. "That obvious, huh?" 

"I heard about... I heard you and Nancy had a fight." 

"Yeah." He rubbed his face. "Yeah, we did." 

"I'm sorry." 

"Don't be. She was right. About everything." He looked at you then, really looked at you. "You look different." 

"Contacts." 

"No, I mean... you look good. Confident. It suits you." 

"Thanks." You shifted your weight, unsure what to say. "For what it's worth, I think you have changed. Since last year. You're not the same person you were." 

"Nancy doesn't think so." 

"Nancy's dealing with her own stuff. It doesn't mean she's right about you." 

Steve was quiet for a moment. "I heard Hargrove asked you out." 

"News travels fast." 

"Be careful with him." Steve's voice was serious now. "I mean it. That guy's dangerous." 

"Everyone keeps saying that." 

"Because it's true. I've seen him with his sister. The way he looks at her, talks to her... it's not right. And the way he drives? He's going to get someone killed." Steve stepped closer. "I know I don't have any right to tell you what to do. I know we're not really friends. But please, just... be careful." 

You wanted to be annoyed at yet another person telling you what to do. But Steve's concern seemed genuine. Not possessive or controlling like Jonathan's had been. Just... worried. 

"I'll be careful," you said softly. 

He nodded, relieved. "Good. That's good." 

An awkward silence fell between you. 

"I should go," you said finally. "Dustin's being weird about something and I need to figure out what he's hiding in his room." 

"He's hiding something?" 

"Yeah. Making weird noises, being super secretive. It's probably some science project gone wrong." 

Steve smiled slightly. "That sounds like Dustin." 

You turned to leave, then paused. "Steve? I hope you and Nancy work things out. Or if you don't, I hope you find someone who sees how much you've changed." 

His eyes softened. "Thanks, Henderson. Have fun on your date. But not too much fun." 

You laughed despite yourself and headed to your car, feeling Steve's eyes on your back until you drove away. 

When you got home, you stood outside Dustin's door again, listening. That strange chirping was louder now. Definitely not a science project. 

"Dustin Henderson, open this door right now." 

"Can't! I'm naked!" 

"You are not naked." 

"Okay, you're right, but I could be naked. You don't know." 

"Dustin—" 

"I promise I'll tell you everything soon! Just... not yet. Please?" 

You sighed. "Fine. But soon means soon, got it? Not next month. Soon." 

"Got it! You're the best sister ever!" 

You walked away, wondering what the hell your little brother had gotten himself into this time. 

You kept finding reasons to push back the date with Billy. 

First, you told him you had to help your mom with something. Then you said Dustin was sick and you needed to watch him. Then it was a migraine. Each time, Billy's voice got a little tighter on the phone, his "sure, babe" a little less convincing. 

The truth was, you were scared. Not of Billy, exactly—or at least, you told yourself it wasn't about Billy. You were scared of wanting something and having it blow up in your face. Scared of being seen and then found wanting. Scared of taking this step into being someone different, someone who went on dates with dangerous boys, someone who existed outside the shadows. 

"Just cancel," Jonathan said when you admitted this to him over the phone. "If you don't want to go, don't go." 

"But I do want to go. I think." 

"That's not exactly a ringing endorsement." 

"I just need to figure some stuff out first." 

"Like what?" 

"Like who I am when someone's actually looking." 

Jonathan was quiet for a moment. "You're the same person you've always been. Brave, loyal, talented. You don't need Billy Hargrove to validate that." 

"I know. I just... I want to feel like that person. Not just be told I am." 

You were in your room on Friday evening, trying to calm your nerves by playing guitar. Your fingers moved over the strings, picking out a melody that was half-formed, searching for something you couldn't quite name. 

The date was rescheduled for tomorrow night. Again. You'd promised Billy this was the last time, and he'd said, "It better be," in a way that made your stomach clench. 

You were working through a particularly tricky chord progression when movement in your backyard caught your eye. 

You stopped playing, fingers frozen on the strings. 

Dustin was in the yard. And he wasn't alone. 

Steve Harrington was with him, and they were both crouched near the storm cellar, talking in urgent whispers. Steve had his bat—the one with the nails—and Dustin was wearing oven mitts and carrying what looked like a bucket of raw meat. 

What the hell? 

You set down your guitar and opened your window. "Dustin!" 

Both of them jumped, whirling toward your voice. 

"Don't come down here!" Dustin yelled back. 

"What are you doing? Is that Steve?" 

"Hi," Steve called up weakly, giving you an awkward wave. 

"What is going on?" 

Dustin and Steve exchanged a look. Then Dustin sighed. "You should probably come down here." 

"You just said not to come down there!" 

"I changed my mind! Come down! But slowly! And maybe grab a weapon!" 

Your heart was pounding as you made your way downstairs and out the back door. Steve and Dustin were standing in front of the storm cellar now, blocking it. 

"Okay, what is this about?" you demanded. "And why does Steve have his bat? And why do you need oven mitts? And why—" 

A sound came from inside the cellar. A chittering, hissing, distinctly not-human sound. 

Your blood went cold. "Dustin. What is in our storm cellar?" 

"Okay, so, funny story—" 

"It's not funny!" Steve interrupted. "It's the opposite of funny!" 

"It's a baby Demogorgon," Dustin said in a rush. "Or we think it is. I found him after Halloween, and he was so small and cute, and I named him D'Artagnan—Dart for short—and I was keeping him in my room, but then he ate Yertle—" 

"He ate your turtle?" 

"And then he got bigger, and I realized what he was so I called Steve—" 

"You called Steve before you called me?" 

"You were dealing with your Billy stuff, and we didn't want to bother you, and also Steve has experience with Demogorgons—" 

"Dustin." Your voice was shaking. "You kept a baby Demogorgon. In your room. Where we sleep. Where Mom sleeps." 

"I didn't know what it was at first! I thought it was just some weird lizard!" 

"And now?" You looked at Steve. "How big is it now?" 

Steve grimaced. "Cat-sized. Maybe bigger. It's been growing fast." 

"We need to kill it," you said immediately. "Right now. Before it gets bigger." 

"We can't just kill him!" Dustin protested. "He's... he's Dart!" 

"He ate Yertle!" 

"I know, but—" 

"Dustin, we faced one of those things last year. We know what they become. We have to—" 

Another sound from the cellar. Louder this time. Angrier. 

"Is that thing locked in there?" you asked. 

"Yeah," Steve said. "We lured him in with the meat, and we locked the door. But I don't know how long it'll hold if he gets much bigger." 

You looked at your little brother. He was holding back tears, his jaw clenched in that stubborn way he had when he knew he was wrong but didn't want to admit it. 

"We need to call the others," you said finally. "Mike, Lucas, Will. And Jonathan and Nancy. They need to know about this." 

"Already did," Steve said. "They're meeting us at the Byers' house in an hour." 

"Why the Byers' house?" 

"Because if we're dealing with another Upside Down situation, Joyce needs to know." Steve looked at you. "Are you okay? I know this is a lot." 

You laughed, but it was slightly hysterical. "I was worried about a date. With a boy. And my brother was keeping a baby monster in his room." 

"To be fair, both of those things can be scary," Steve offered. 

Despite everything, you smiled. "Yeah, I guess they can." 

Dustin was staring at the storm cellar, his face miserable. "I really thought he was different. I thought maybe he could be good." 

You put your arm around your brother. "I know, Dusty. But some things are what they are. No matter how much we want them to be different." 

You weren't just talking about Dart. 

Steve seemed to understand. He looked at you for a long moment, then nodded. "We should go. Before your mom gets home and asks why there's a monster in her storm cellar." 

"That's a sentence I never thought I'd hear," you muttered. 

The three of you headed to Steve's car. As you climbed in, you caught sight of your reflection in the window—new contacts, better clothes, a girl trying to be someone different. 

But here you were, about to deal with monsters from another dimension. Again. 

Some things really didn't change. 

The storm cellar door was open when you returned from the Byers' house. 

Empty. 

"No, no, no, no, no," Dustin chanted, running to the cellar and peering inside. "DART! DART, COME BACK!" 

"He's gone," you said flatly. Your hands were shaking. "He's out there. Somewhere." 

Steve swore under his breath, gripping his bat tighter. "Okay. Okay, we need to find him before he finds someone else." 

"Or before he finds more of them," you added quietly. 

That's when Lucas's voice crackled over Dustin's walkie-talkie. "Guys, you need to get to the junkyard. Now. I'm with Max, and there's something in the fog. Multiple somethings." 

Your blood went cold. "It's not just Dart." 

"There's more of them," Steve said, his face pale. "It's happening again." 

The junkyard was a nightmare of rusted metal and shadows. You'd piled into Steve's car—you, Steve, Dustin, Lucas, and Max—and driven out to the edge of town where the old buses sat like metal carcasses. 

Steve had a plan. Lure them in, trap them, fight them off until help arrived. It wasn't a great plan, but it was the only one you had. 

Max was pouring gasoline in a perimeter while you and Steve reinforced the bus windows with metal sheets. Dustin and Lucas were laying out the bait—chunks of raw meat leading to the center of the junkyard. 

"This is insane," you muttered, hammering a sheet of metal over a window. "We're kids. We shouldn't be doing this." 

"Yeah, well, we're kids who've already done this once," Steve said. "We know what we're up against." 

"That doesn't make it better." 

"No," he agreed. "It doesn't." 

You paused, looking at him. His face was set, determined, but you could see the fear underneath. "Are you okay? With Nancy and everything?" 

He hammered in another nail. "Now's not really the time." 

"I know. I just... I wanted to ask." 

"She's with Jonathan," Steve said simply. "They went to expose the lab together. I'm here with you guys. That's how it is." 

"I'm sorry." 

"Don't be. She deserves to be happy. Even if it's not with me." He looked at you then. "What about you? Your date with Billy's tomorrow, right?" 

"I'm probably going to cancel. Again." 

"Good." 

"Steve—" 

"I'm serious. That guy's bad news. I've seen the way he looks at you, like you're something to win. Not someone to care about." 

Before you could respond, Lucas shouted, "They're coming!" 

You ran to the bus, everyone piling inside. Through the gaps in the metal, you could see them emerging from the fog. Not just one. Not just Dart. 

At least six Demodogs, their bodies low to the ground, their faces opening like horrific flowers of teeth. 

"Holy shit," Max breathed. 

"Stay quiet," Steve whispered. "Maybe they won't—" 

One of them shrieked, and they charged. 

The impact rocked the bus. Metal screamed as claws raked across it. The kids screamed. Steve was at the door, bat raised, ready to fight if they got through. 

"Steve, don't!" you grabbed his arm. "You go out there, you die!" 

"If they get in here, we all die!" 

Another impact. The roof of the bus buckled. One of the Demodogs was on top, tearing through the metal. 

"The back door!" Lucas yelled. "It's coming through the back door!" 

Steve moved without thinking, running to the back of the bus. You followed him, your heart in your throat. 

The Demodog crashed through, and Steve swung. The bat connected with a sickening crunch, and the creature shrieked, falling back. But another was right behind it. 

"Steve, look out!" 

You grabbed a metal pipe from the floor and swung as hard as you could. The creature dodged, then lunged at you. You felt its claws rake across your arm, hot pain shooting through you. 

"No!" Steve was there, shoving you behind him, swinging the bat again and again. "Stay back! Stay the hell back!" 

You clutched your bleeding arm, watching Steve fight. He was protecting you. Protecting all of you. Just like he had before. 

"Steve, there's too many!" Dustin shouted. 

And then, suddenly, they stopped. 

The Demodogs froze, their heads tilting, listening to something you couldn't hear. Then, as one, they turned and ran. 

Away from the bus. Away from you. Toward something else. 

"What just happened?" Max asked, her voice shaking. 

"I don't know," Steve said, breathing hard. He turned to you. "You're hurt." 

"I'm okay," you lied. Blood was running down your arm, soaking into your sleeve. 

"You're not okay." Steve grabbed his jacket and pressed it against your wound. "Put pressure on it. We need to get you to a hospital." 

"We need to figure out where those things went." 

"We need to keep you from bleeding out." 

"We're going to the hospital," Steve said firmly, keeping pressure on your arm. 

"No." You pulled away from him, stumbling slightly. "We need to follow them. We need to warn the others." 

"You're bleeding—" 

"And there are creatures from another dimension running toward something, which means something worse is happening!" Your voice cracked. "We don't have time for a hospital. We need to move. Now." 

Steve looked like he wanted to argue, but Dustin interrupted. "She's right. Whatever called them away... it's big. We need to warn Mike and the others." 

"Fine." Steve grabbed his jacket back and started wrapping it around your arm, tying it tight. "But we're fixing that properly as soon as we can." 

You winced as he pulled the knot tight. "Deal." 

In the car, Max climbed into the backseat next to you while Steve drove and the boys argued about directions in the front. 

"Let me see," Max said quietly, examining Steve's makeshift bandage. She pulled off her flannel and tore a strip from the bottom of her tank top underneath, rewrapping your arm with surprising efficiency. "My mom's a nurse. You learn stuff." 

"Thanks," you managed. 

Max was quiet for a moment, focusing on the bandage. Then, without looking up, she said, "You're too good for him, you know." 

"What?" 

"Billy. My brother." She tied off the bandage. "You're way too good for him." 

"Max, I don't—" 

"I'm serious. I know he asked you out. I know you keep rescheduling." Max finally met your eyes. "Don't go. Please. He's not... he's not a good person." 

"He's your brother." 

"That's how I know." Her voice was hard. "I've seen what he does. How he gets. He acts all charming at first, but then..." She trailed off, her jaw clenched. "Just trust me. You seem nice. You don't deserve whatever he'd do to you." 

Your arm throbbed. The blood was seeping through the new bandage, slower now but still there. "Okay," you said quietly. "Okay, I won't go." 

Max nodded, looking relieved. "Good." 

The Byers' house was chaos when you arrived. Mike was there with El, who looked pale and drained. Hopper was pacing, talking urgently into his radio. Joyce was hovering over Will, who was lying on the couch, his eyes closed, his face covered in sweat. 

"What happened?" Steve demanded. 

"The shadow monster," Mike said. "It's in Will. It's using him." 

Joyce looked up, and her eyes widened when she saw your arm. "Oh my god, you're hurt—" 

"It's fine," you said quickly. "What do we need to do?" 

Jonathan appeared from the hallway with a first aid kit. "You're not fine. Sit down." 

"Jonathan—" 

"Sit. Down." His voice left no room for argument. 

You sat at the kitchen table, and Jonathan knelt beside you, carefully unwrapping Max's bandage. Nancy appeared behind him, her face worried. 

"How deep is it?" Nancy asked. 

"Deep enough." Jonathan cleaned the wound, and you hissed in pain. "You need stitches." 

"We don't have time for stitches." 

"Then you get butterfly bandages and a lot of gauze." He worked quickly, efficiently, his hands steady despite everything. "What were you guys thinking, going out there alone?" 

"We were thinking we needed to stop those things before they killed someone," you shot back. 

Nancy handed Jonathan more gauze. "Steve called me. Told me what happened. He said you saved his life." 

"He saved mine first." 

"That's what he does," Nancy said softly. There was something in her voice—fondness, regret, sadness all mixed together. 

Jonathan taped down the gauze. "That should hold. Try not to get eaten by any more monsters." 

"I'll do my best." 

The plan came together slowly, pieced together from Will's fragmented memories and El's visions. The Mind Flayer—that's what Dustin called the shadow monster—was using Will to spy on them. They needed to close the gate, but they also needed to get the Mind Flayer out of Will first. 

Hopper and El would go to the lab to close the gate. Joyce, Jonathan, and Nancy would take Will somewhere the Mind Flayer couldn't see—somewhere he didn't recognize—and try to burn it out of him. 

Which left you, Steve, and the kids. 

"We need to keep those Demodogs busy," Dustin said, spreading a map across the table. "Draw them away from the gate, give Hopper and El time to close it." 

"And how exactly do we do that?" Steve asked. 

"The tunnels." Dustin pointed to an area on the map. "They're all connected underground. If we go down there and set a fire, make enough noise, we can draw them to us instead of the lab." 

"That's a terrible plan," you said. 

"You have a better one?" 

You didn't. 

"No," Steve said firmly, crossing his arms. "Absolutely not. We're staying here until we know Will is safe. I'm not letting any of you go down into those tunnels." 

"Steve—" Dustin started. 

"I said no." Steve's voice was harder than you'd ever heard it. "I've already lost... I've already watched too many people I care about get hurt. We're staying put. We wait for Hopper's signal, and then we figure out what to do next." 

The kids groaned, but they didn't argue further. Something in Steve's expression made it clear the discussion was over. 

You found yourself sitting on the porch steps with him an hour later. The kids were inside, playing with Dustin's walkie-talkie, trying to reach Hopper. Your arm throbbed despite the painkillers Jonathan had given you. 

"You didn't have to come, you know," Steve said quietly. "To the junkyard. You could've stayed home." 

"And let you guys face those things alone?" 

"I had the kids. We would've been fine." 

"You would've been dead in five minutes." 

Steve smiled slightly. "Yeah, probably." He picked at a splinter on the wooden step. "Nancy and I are done. For real this time." 

"I'm sorry." 

"Don't be. We both knew it was coming." He was quiet for a moment. "She loves him. Jonathan. Maybe she always did. I was just... there. Available. King Steve and his perfect girlfriend." 

"You're more than that." 

"Am I?" He looked at you. "Sometimes I don't know who I am without the title, you know? Without being King Steve, or Nancy's boyfriend, or the guy with the bat. Who am I when I'm just... me?" 

"You're the guy who protected a bunch of kids from monsters. Twice. You're the guy who apologized when he was wrong. Who changed because he wanted to be better." You met his eyes. "That's who you are. That's more than enough." 

Steve's expression softened. "You really think that?" 

"I know that." 

He reached over, his hand almost touching yours on the step between you. "You're pretty amazing, Henderson. I don't think I've ever told you that." 

Your heart hammered. "Steve—" 

Headlights cut through the darkness. A familiar blue Camaro pulled up to the house, music blaring. 

Your stomach dropped. "Oh no." 

"Is that—" Steve stood up. 

"Billy." You rose too, panic clawing at your chest. "What's he doing here?" 

Billy got out of the car, his face tight with anger. He stormed toward the house, and you stepped in front of him. 

"Billy, what are you—" 

"Where's Max?" His voice was cold. "I know she's here. Her skateboard's out front." 

"She's inside. Why—" 

"She was supposed to be home an hour ago. My dad's pissed, which means I'm the one who gets it." He moved to push past you, but Steve blocked his path. 

"She's safe," Steve said. "She's with friends. Just calm down—" 

"Calm down?" Billy laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You don't tell me what to do, Harrington. Now move." 

"Billy, please," you tried. "Just give us a minute to—" 

"No." He shoved past both of you, heading for the door. 

Inside, you could hear the kids' voices. Lucas was saying something, and then Max's voice, sharp with fear: "Billy, I can hear you—" 

Billy burst through the door. You and Steve rushed in after him. 

Lucas was standing in front of Max, protective, and Billy's face transformed into something ugly and dangerous. 

"Get away from her," Billy growled. 

"She doesn't want to go with you," Lucas said, his voice shaking but firm. 

Billy moved fast, grabbing Lucas by his shirt and slamming him against the wall. "You stay away from her, you hear me? Stay the hell away—" 

"Stop!" You grabbed Billy's arm, trying to pull him back. "Billy, let him go!" 

He spun on you so fast you didn't have time to react. His hand caught your already-injured arm, squeezing where the Demodog had clawed you. The pain was instant and blinding. 

"You don't get to tell me what to do," Billy snarled, his face inches from yours. His grip tightened, and you cried out. "You've been avoiding me for weeks. Canceling our dates. Making me look like an idiot. And now I find you here? With him?" He jerked his head toward Steve. 

"Let her go!" Steve was there, trying to pull Billy away from you. 

Billy released you, and you stumbled back, clutching your arm. Blood was seeping through the bandage again. He turned his attention to Steve instead, and the smile that spread across his face was vicious. 

"You want to be the hero, Harrington? Fine. Let's see how that works out for you." 

Steve held up his hands, trying to de-escalate. "I don't want to fight you, man. Just look at her—she's scared, she's hurt. You need to leave." 

Billy's eyes flicked to you, taking in your pale face, the way you were cradling your bleeding arm against your chest. For a second, something almost like recognition crossed his features. Then it hardened into something worse. 

"Scared?" He laughed. "She should be scared. Leading me on for weeks, making me chase her like some pathetic—" 

"Billy, stop," you whispered. 

"You don't get to talk." He moved toward you again, and before Steve could intervene, Billy had grabbed your injured arm. His fingers dug into the wound, and you felt the make shift stitches jonathon made snap. "You think you're better than me? You're nothing. Just another—" 

"Get your hands off her!" Steve's voice was sharp with warning. 

Billy squeezed harder. You screamed, the pain white-hot and overwhelming. Blood ran freely down your arm now, dripping onto the floor. 

"Last chance," Steve said, his voice deadly quiet. "Let her go." 

Billy's response was to shove you, hard. Your back hit the wall, but your head hit harder—a sickening crack against the corner of the doorframe. The world tilted, went gray at the edges. You heard shouting, but it sounded distant, underwater. Your legs gave out, and the floor rushed up to meet you. 

The last thing you saw before darkness took you was Steve's face, his expression transforming into something you'd never seen before. 

Pure rage. 

Steve didn't remember moving. One second he was watching you crumple to the floor, blood in your hair now too, and the next his fist was connecting with Billy's jaw. The satisfying crunch barely registered. 

Billy staggered back, surprise flashing across his face, but Steve didn't stop. He hit him again. And again. Every fear, every frustration, every ounce of helplessness he'd felt watching people he cared about get hurt—it all poured out of him in a fury of fists. 

Billy tried to fight back, landing a few hits, but Steve was beyond feeling pain. He was beyond thinking. All he could see was you, collapsed on the floor. All he could hear was your scream. 

He had Billy on the ground now, hitting him over and over. Blood on his knuckles. Blood on Billy's face. He couldn't stop. Wouldn't stop. 

"Steve!" Dustin was pulling at his arm. "Steve, stop! You're going to kill him!" 

Steve's fist hung in the air, trembling. 

"She needs help!" Dustin's voice cracked. "Steve, please! Help her instead!" 

Reality crashed back in. Steve looked down at Billy—unconscious, face swelling, blood everywhere. Then he looked at you, still motionless on the floor. 

He scrambled off Billy, his hands shaking as he crawled to your side. "No, no, no." He gently turned you over, checking for a pulse. It was there, steady but weak. Blood matted your hair where your head had hit the doorframe. Your arm was a mess, the bandage completely soaked through. 

"Is she okay?" Max asked, her voice small and terrified. 

"Call an ambulance," Steve ordered, his voice barely steady. "Now." 

Lucas ran for the phone while Steve carefully gathered you into his arms, applying pressure to your head wound with one hand, your arm with the other. "Come on, Henderson. Don't do this. Wake up. Please wake up." 

Your eyelids fluttered but didn't open. 

"I've got you," Steve whispered, holding you closer. "I've got you. You're going to be okay. You have to be okay." 

The other kids stood frozen, watching Steve cradle you against his chest. Your blood was on his hands, his shirt, soaking into his jeans where he knelt on the floor. 

"Come on," he murmured, rocking you slightly. "Come on, you can't—I can't lose you too. Please. Just open your eyes. Look at me. Say something stupid. Yell at me. Anything." 

Your breathing was shallow. Too shallow. 

"Steve, they said five minutes," Lucas called from the doorway, phone still in hand. 

"Five minutes," Steve repeated, like it was a prayer. His hand was gentle against your head, trying to slow the bleeding without pressing too hard. "You can do five minutes, right? That's nothing. We've survived worse than this. Way worse. Remember? The Demogorgon? That was way scarier than this." 

Dustin knelt beside him. "She's going to be okay, right?" 

"She has to be." Steve's voice broke. "She saved my life at the junkyard. She's always saving people. Someone has to save her for once." 

"You're saving her now," Lucas said quietly. 

From the floor, Billy groaned. Max stood over him, her skateboard in her hands, ready to swing if he moved. 

"Don't," she warned him. "Don't you dare get up." 

Billy's eyes focused on her, then on Steve holding you, then closed again. 

The ambulance sirens wailed in the distance, getting closer. Steve adjusted his grip on you, one hand still pressed against your head wound, the other keeping pressure on your arm. 

"Just a little longer," he whispered. "You're doing great. Just hold on." 

Your lips moved, but no sound came out. 

"Don't try to talk. Save your strength. The ambulance is almost here, and then they're going to fix you up, and you're going to be fine. You're going to be completely fine." 

He said it over and over, like if he believed it hard enough, he could make it true. 

The paramedics burst through the door, and suddenly there were hands everywhere, people asking questions, someone trying to pull Steve away from you. 

"No." He held on tighter. "I'm not leaving her." 

"Sir, we need to work on her—" 

"I said I'm not leaving her!" 

"Steve." Dustin's hand was on his shoulder. "Let them help her. You have to let them help her." 

Steve's hands were shaking so badly he could barely open them. The paramedics moved in immediately, checking your vitals, stabilizing your neck, loading you onto a stretcher. 

"I'm riding with her," Steve said, and his tone made it clear it wasn't a request. 

The lead paramedic looked at him—this teenage boy covered in blood, his knuckles split open, his eyes wild—and nodded. "Fine. But stay out of our way." 

Steve climbed into the ambulance without looking back. The doors closed, and the sirens started up again, and then you were moving. 

The fluorescent lights of the hospital waiting room made everything look cold and sterile. Steve sat in a plastic chair, his leg bouncing anxiously, dried blood still crusted under his fingernails. A nurse had cleaned and bandaged his knuckles, but he barely remembered it happening. 

Hopper had shown up an hour ago, taking statements, checking on the kids. Billy was in a different part of the hospital, under guard. Assault charges were pending. 

"Any word?" Hopper asked, dropping into the chair next to Steve. 

"Not yet. They said the head injury wasn't as bad as it looked, but they're keeping her for observation. Her arm needed surgery. The stitches tore, and there was damage to the muscle." Steve's voice was hollow. "He grabbed her right where the Demodog had already hurt her. He knew she was injured, and he squeezed anyway." 

"Kid's going away for a while," Hopper said grimly. "Between what he did to her and to Lucas, and Max's testimony about the abuse at home... he's done." 

Steve didn't feel the satisfaction he thought he would. He just felt tired. 

Your mom arrived in a whirlwind of panic, Dustin trailing behind her. She'd been at work when it happened. Steve stood as she rushed to the nurse's station, demanding to see you. 

"She's in recovery," the nurse said gently. "You can see her soon. She's going to be okay." 

Your mom sagged with relief, then turned to Steve. Her eyes took in the blood on his clothes, his bandaged hands. 

"You're the one who stayed with her," she said. It wasn't a question. 

"Yes, ma'am." 

"Thank you." Her voice was thick with emotion. "Thank you for protecting my daughter." 

Steve's throat closed up. He could only nod. 

They let him in to see you two hours later. You were in a private room, your head bandaged, your arm in a cast and sling. An IV drip fed into your other arm. You looked small in the hospital bed, pale against the white sheets. 

But your eyes were open. 

"Hey," you said softly when you saw him. Your voice was hoarse. 

"Hey." Steve moved to the chair beside your bed, afraid to get too close, afraid he'd somehow hurt you more. "How are you feeling?" 

"Like I got thrown into a wall." You tried to smile, but it came out more like a grimace. "How long was I out?" 

"Couple hours. They had to put you under for surgery on your arm." 

You looked down at the cast, frowning. "Great. There goes guitar for a while." 

"You almost died, and you're worried about guitar?" 

"I have priorities." Your eyes found his then, really looking at him. "You look terrible." 

"Thanks." 

"No, I mean... are you okay? Did he hurt you?" 

Steve let out a breath that was almost a laugh. "You're asking if I'm okay? Are you serious right now?" 

"You have blood on your shirt." 

"It's your blood." His voice cracked. "It's all your blood." 

You were quiet for a moment. "Is it finished? The gate? The Mind Flayer?" 

"I don't know. I haven't heard anything. I've been here with you." 

You tried to sit up, wincing with the effort. "We have to go. We have to help them. The tunnels—" 

"No." Steve stood, gently but firmly pushing you back down. "Absolutely not. There's no way you're going anywhere." 

"Steve—" 

"I said no! You're staying right here where doctors can make sure you don't die." His hands were shaking again. "I almost lost you twice today. Twice. First the Demodogs, then Billy. I'm not letting you go down into those tunnels just so something else can try to kill you. No way." 

"They need help—" 

"They have Hopper. They have El. They'll be fine." He sat back down heavily, running his hands through his hair. "You're not invincible, okay? You can't just... you can't keep throwing yourself into danger like you don't matter." 

"I have to help them." 

"Why?" His voice rose. "Why do you have to? Why is it always you putting yourself on the line?" 

"Because someone has to! Because people I care about are out there fighting, and I can't just lie here doing nothing!" 

"You're hurt!" 

"So I'll hurt and still help!" 

"Damn it, Henderson—" 

"Why do you even care this much?" The words burst out of you, sharp and desperate. "Why does it matter to you what I do? We're not... we barely even know each other. We weren't friends until a few weeks ago. So why do you care?" 

Steve stared at you, his chest heaving. Then his shoulders slumped. "Because you're my friend," he said quietly. "Maybe we haven't known each other that long. Maybe we didn't run in the same circles. But you're my friend, and I care about my friends. That's what I do now. That's who I am." He met your eyes. "I couldn't save my relationship with Nancy. I couldn't stop the Upside Down from coming back. But I can keep you safe. I can be here when you wake up. I can make sure you don't bleed out on the floor of the Byers' house. So that's what I'm going to do." 

Your eyes were shining with tears. "Steve..." 

"You're staying here," he said firmly. "Even if I have to sit in this chair all night and physically stop you from leaving. You're staying safe. Just this once." 

You looked at him for a long moment. Then you nodded, so small he almost missed it. 

"Okay," you whispered. "Okay, I'll stay." 

Steve sagged with relief, reaching out to take your hand. "Thank you." 

You held his hand for a while, neither of you speaking. The monitors beeped steadily. Voices murmured in the hallway outside. The hospital smelled like antiseptic and fear. 

"My mom's going to kill me," you said eventually. 

"Your mom hugged me and cried. I think you're safe." 

"Dustin?" 

"Scared out of his mind, but okay. They're all okay. Max too." Steve paused. "She testified against Billy. Told the cops everything." 

"Good. She shouldn't have to live like that." 

"Neither should you." Steve's thumb traced small circles on the back of your hand. "He would've kept hurting you, you know. If you'd gone on that date. If you'd given him a chance. It would've started small—little comments, little ways of making you feel wrong. Then it would've gotten worse." 

"I know," you said quietly. "I think I always knew. I just... I wanted to believe I could be the kind of girl someone like that would want. Someone exciting and dangerous and different." 

"You are exciting and different. You don't need someone like Billy to prove it." 

"I'm not, though. I'm just... me. I play guitar in my room. I babysit my little brother. I wear his hand-me-downs half the time. I'm invisible." 

"You fought monsters from another dimension. Twice. You saved my life. You stood up to Billy Hargrove even when you were terrified." Steve squeezed your hand. "That's not invisible. That's brave. It’s fearless" 

You wanted to believe him. You wanted to feel like the person he saw when he looked at you. 

Your mom came in then, Dustin right behind her. She rushed to your bedside, checking you over with a mother's frantic eyes. 

"Baby, I'm so sorry. I should've been there. I should've—" 

"Mom, it's okay. I'm okay." 

"You're not okay! You're in a hospital bed!" She rounded on Steve. "And you. You beat that boy nearly unconscious." 

"Yes, ma'am. I did." 

"Good." She surprised both of you. "I hope you broke something important." 

Steve's eyebrows shot up. "I... thank you?" 

"Don't thank me. Just promise me you'll look after her when I can't." 

"Mom—" you protested. 

"I mean it. You two are mixed up in something. I don't know what, and maybe I don't want to know. But you look after each other. Promise me." 

Steve met your eyes, then looked back at your mom. "I promise." 

Dustin climbed onto the foot of your bed, careful not to jostle your injuries. "You scared me," he said, his voice small. 

"I'm sorry, Dusty." 

"Don't be sorry. Just don't die. I can't lose you too." 

"Too?" 

"Bob died." Dustin's face crumpled. "At the lab. The Demodogs got him. He saved everyone, and then they got him." 

Your heart broke. Bob Newby, with his terrible jokes and his genuine kindness. Gone. 

"Oh, Dustin." 

"Joyce is a mess. Will's okay—they got the Mind Flayer out of him—but Bob..." Dustin wiped his eyes. "He was a hero. Just like you were tonight. Just like Steve." 

"The gate?" you asked. 

"Closed. El closed it. It's over." Dustin looked at you. "We won. But it cost us." 

It always did, you thought. Victory was never clean, never simple. There was always a price. 

"I'm going to get coffee," your mom said, clearly trying to give you space. "Dustin, come with me. Let your sister rest." 

"But—" 

"Now, Dustin." 

They left, and you were alone with Steve again. He was still holding your hand. 

"You should go home," you said. "Get cleaned up. Sleep." 

"I'm not leaving." 

"Steve—" 

"I said I'd look after you. I meant it." He settled deeper into the chair, like he was preparing to stay forever. "Besides, someone needs to make sure you don't sneak out the window and try to fight more monsters." 

"I wouldn't—" You stopped. "Okay, I might've considered it." 

"I know you would've. That's why I'm staying." 

You studied him in the dim light of the hospital room. His hair was a mess, falling into his eyes. His shirt was ruined with blood. His hands were bandaged, knuckles swollen from hitting Billy over and over. He looked exhausted and worried and somehow still solid, like an anchor in a storm. 

"Can I ask you something?" you said. 

"Yeah." 

"Why did you lose it? When Billy hurt me. You've been in fights before. You're usually so controlled. But tonight..." 

Steve was quiet for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. 

"Because I watched you fall, and I thought you were dead. And I realized that I couldn't handle that. Losing Nancy hurt, but that was heartbreak. Losing you would've been... something worse. Something I don't have a name for." He looked up at you. "You matter to me. More than I knew. And when he hurt you, when he made you scream like that, something in me just... snapped." 

Your breath caught. "Steve..." 

"I'm not saying this to make things weird. I'm not trying to... I don't know what I'm trying to do. I just needed you to know. You matter. To me. To the kids. To everyone who knows you." He managed a small smile. "Even if you are a Henderson." 

"Even though I am a Henderson," you corrected softly. 

"Right. Even though." 

Your mom and Dustin returned with coffee and vending machine snacks. Your mom claimed the other chair in the room, and Dustin sprawled across the couch under the window. Steve stayed in his chair beside your bed, his hand still holding yours. 

"Get some rest," your mom said. "All of you." 

But sleep didn't come easily. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw Billy's face twisted with rage. You felt his fingers digging into your wound. You heard your own scream. 

"Hey," Steve's voice was soft in the darkness. "You're safe now. I'm right here." 

"I know." 

"Do you? Because your heart rate just spiked. The monitor's beeping faster." 

You let out a shaky breath. "It keeps playing in my head. What happened." 

"That's normal. After... after everything that happened last year, I had nightmares for months. Still do sometimes." 

"How do you make them stop?" 

"You don't. You just learn to live with them. And you remember that you survived. You're here. You're alive. That's what matters." 

You squeezed his hand. "Thank you. For staying." 

"Nowhere else I'd rather be." 

That was a lie, and you both knew it. He could be home in his own bed, warm and comfortable and clean. But he was here instead, keeping watch, making sure you were safe. 

"Steve?" 

"Yeah?" 

"I'm glad we're friends now. Even if it took monsters and near-death experiences to get here." 

His smile was soft in the darkness. "Me too, Henderson. Me too." 

[fromsil]

ᝰ. STRESSED OUT

✎𓂃 EX RYOMEN SUKUNA

✦ ⋆ ࣪. warnings : angst. smut. mental breakdown. past toxic behaviour. kinda mean sukuna. chubby reader. (modern!au)

✦ ⋆ ࣪. about : it’s in the worst moments of your life that you truly understand who really cares about you... or so the saying goes. ✦ ⋆ ࣪. words : 4.7k

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ𓂃 series masterlist

ⓘ main masterlist & ao3

It had been one of the worst days you’d had in a long time. If you were being dramatic, you could say it was the worst day of your life—but you knew that wasn’t true. Still, it had been a really shitty one.

Now you were wandering through the park next to your apartment, almost 1 a.m., because your roommate—who was actually home for once—had brought her girlfriend over, and they clearly didn’t care about your need for peace. You’d been asleep, finally getting some rest after a long, exhausting day, when you were woken up by buzzing noises and loud moans.

At first, you tried to ignore it, but that only made it worse. When you finally knocked on the wall, you heard a barely whispered “what a bitch” before they went quiet—for about two minutes.

You’d debated your options, which were slim: try to go back to sleep, head to the living room and blast the TV, or escape your apartment altogether. After the first two failed miserably, you chose the third—slamming the door on your way out, not caring if the neighbours heard. Frustration and exhaustion mixed into tears that still streaked down your cheeks as you wandered through the park, looking for a decent place to sit for a while.

It wasn’t exactly a shady park, but it wasn’t the best spot either. The neighbourhood was fairly safe, sure—but you were still a woman, alone, out in public in the middle of the night. Sniffling, you sat down on the only bench beneath a streetlight.

Pulling your feet up onto the bench, you hugged your legs close, trying to comfort yourself as the cold winter wind slithered its way through your coat and scarf.

It had been an exhausting, infuriating day. All you’d wanted was a hot shower—which you’d spent crying in—and the warmth of your bed. Ever since your little trip to the hospital, your manager had made it his personal mission to make you quit, harassing you all day long. He kept shortening your deadlines, piling on more work than you could handle, and forcing you to tackle tasks that required at least two people—all on your own. It was turning into a nightmare, but you needed the job.

At least until you found a new one. Until then, you’d have to endure it.

Work had been chaotic, and you’d barely had time for yourself. Which meant you hadn’t seen Ryomen in about two or three weeks. Right after your surgery, he had checked on you daily—hanging around your flat for a few hours, making you food, and then heading home. When you started working again, he’d asked a few times if you wanted to come over, but after five or six refusals, he stopped texting.

Maybe he’d gotten frustrated. Maybe he’d found someone else—you hadn’t had the time to think about it. But now, you did.

Of course it had felt nice to be around him. He was a kind of familiarity your body craved, and it really did seem like he’d changed. He controlled his anger better now, tried to understand when you got upset, apologized without words. It almost felt like the breakup had changed him—but you couldn’t be sure.

It still hurt every time you thought about the end of that relationship. The nights you’d cried silently next to him because of his harsh truths, the constant anger—his and yours—until you barely recognized yourself. The way sex had become a means to vent everything neither of you could say out loud. It hadn’t been healthy, and you were scared you were sugarcoating it all over again.

Neither of you had talked about what you were now. All those times you’d gone over to his place before your hospital trip had been for sex, weed, and food—but mostly sex. It still wasn’t a healthy whatever-it-was you had going on, but it felt easier than being heartbroken again.

More tears slipped down your cheeks. There was nothing wrong with making yourself feel good, you told yourself. Nothing wrong with taking the warmth he freely offered, at least until you found someone you could actually trust with your heart.

Ryomen had once held your heart, and he’d butchered it.

You were terrified of letting him hold it again—terrified that his newfound gentleness was just a mirage, one that would fade in a few months and leave you shattered all over again.

And at the same time, whenever you thought about him seeing someone else, your heart dropped for just a few seconds, afraid he might find someone else. Someone without your flaws. Someone who wouldn’t get on his nerves, who wouldn’t snap back with attitude when he was wrong.

Someone better.

Heavy sobs shook your body as you watched the first snow fall onto the bench beside you. It felt almost ethereal—the gentle snowflakes drifting down while your mind raced with furious thoughts. Exhaustion tugged at your eyelids, pulling them heavier and heavier until you nearly let go.

The thought of actually falling asleep outside scared you enough to force yourself up. You started trudging back toward your building, hoping that by now—nearly 3 a.m.—your roommate was finally done. Tomorrow would be another long day, filled with coffee and exhaustion.

You could already feel it settling into your bones.

It had been another hell of a week when you got a text from Sukuna. Out of the blue, on a Saturday night.

The day had been good—peaceful, quiet—your day off at last. For the first time in weeks, you hadn’t brought work home, since your manager was finally on vacation. Things had actually felt lighter at work the past few days, and you’d fully intended to enjoy a well-deserved, peaceful weekend.

Your roommate was staying at her girlfriend’s place—finally realizing that maybe keeping you awake on weeknights wasn’t exactly considerate. It had taken two more late-night walks in the park for her to get the hint, but at least she had. You’d slept like the dead and woken up in the early afternoon.

Now you were already in bed, calling it an early night—not even nine p.m.—ready to soak up every hour of rest you could. That’s when the text came in.

A simple picture: a pot simmering on the stove, something that looked suspiciously like your favourite meal. Below it, the message read:

ryo: made too much. wanna have some?

You hadn’t eaten much—nothing in the apartment looked remotely appetizing, and grocery shopping had been a lost cause lately. Just the sight of the food made your stomach growl.

Thinking about him had made you try to keep some distance lately, but it was supposed to be a self-care weekend.

And really, what was better than good food and some good dick?

With that thought, you replied:

you: sure :) ryo: order an uber ryo: ain’t picking you up

Ever the gentleman. It made sense if he was cooking, though. Still, you got out of bed and ordered an Uber—using his credit card, which was still logged into your app.

The ride was quick. Now you stood by his front door, debating whether coming here had been a mistake. He didn’t even know you were there, you’d slipped into the building behind one of your old neighbours.

You’d been feeling a bit better in the last few days, your thoughts clearer. But at the same time, a text from one of your coworkers had completely derailed your thoughts during the ride—shattered all the improvement you had done. She said your manager had sent a hateful email about someone’s work—without naming names—but you knew it was you. You’d read the message right there in the Uber, your chest tightening as you scrolled through his words, his rage practically dripping off the screen.

Can’t believe I was gone a few days and came back to absolute garbage that needs to be dealt with urgently. Thought you were adults, turns out you're just children.

Tears had streamed down your face before you could stop them, and even now your throat still felt tight. All you wanted was to collapse somewhere and let it all out. Maybe being here—with him—would help you forget that you probably wouldn’t have a job by Monday.

Still, you couldn’t shake the question: was this really the best idea? To seek comfort in arms that once broke you? Wasn’t it just your brain trying to crawl back to a time when you were happy?

But that happiness had come with a price—one you’d already paid.

The front door creaked open suddenly, making you jump. You hadn’t knocked. You were sure you hadn’t made any noise at all.

“What the fuck are you doing standing outside my door for the last five minutes?” Sukuna’s voice filled the empty hallway, sharp and rough, echoing off the walls.

“How—what?” you stammered, caught completely off guard by his sudden appearance.

He only clicked his tongue, leaving the door open as he turned and walked back inside.

You hesitated, then sighed. You supposed you didn’t really have a choice anymore. Fuck it. Maybe this would be a good distraction after all.

As you took off your shoes in the entryway, you called out, “How did you know I was here?”

“Still got your location,” he replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

You raised an eyebrow and strutted into the kitchen, watching the muscles in his bare back shift with every movement. That familiar warmth spread through your chest—and lower—as you caught yourself wanting to press against him, to trail small kisses over the beauty marks scattered across his skin.

You shook your head and slid onto one of his high chairs by the kitchen island instead.

“You’re stalking me now?” you teased.

He scoffed, glancing over his shoulder just long enough for you to catch the smirk curling on his lips. “You wish I was.”

For the next few hours, you completely forgot about your troubles. There was good food, a ridiculous reality show playing in the background, and a warm body to lean against. Even Ryomen seemed to sense something was off with you—he didn’t make a single remark about you being clingy like he usually would, even though he was just as bad when it came to needing closeness.

All it took was one stupid guy on the show saying how easy it was to get your ex back—and suddenly, all your doubts came rushing back.

Ryomen’s fingers were tracing slow, lazy lines along your hip, his other hand propped under his cheek as he watched the screen, obviously uninterested.

Did he think you were that easy? That you’d always come back? Did he laugh about it with his friends when they went out—joke about the girl who could never quite let go?

You started spiralling. Your thoughts jumped from him to work, to your manager, to that damned email. You tried to figure out what you’d done wrong—what assignment he’d been talking about. He’d never complained about your actual work before, just everything around it: the sloppy layout, the missed deadlines, the missing sources. But never the work itself.

Maybe you had made a mistake somewhere. You’d been so overworked and sleep depraved lately you wouldn’t even notice. Not even after all the proofreading. It made anxiety grow in your stomach, almost making your nauseous.

Suddenly, you sat up, shaking your head like you could physically push the thoughts out. You didn’t want to think about this—not now. You couldn’t. You could already feel the panic starting to build in your stomach.

“Do you have weed?” you asked abruptly, the words spilling out before you could second-guess them. It probably wasn’t the best idea, not with your mind this wound up, but it would help, at least a little.

Ryomen frowned, the crease between his brows deepening. You’d startled him when you pulled away, and he didn’t miss how tense you were—how stiff your shoulders had gotten. You didn’t even like smoking that much, not really. You only ever did it with him, and only when you were trying to unwind, or when you were horny.

For some reasons, watching him smoke and sharing the blunt turned you on. He had never understand, until the first time he had shotgun you. But that wasn't it.

Something was off.

So he lied. “No. Ran out. Work’s been crazy, didn’t have time to hit my plug up.”

You sighed and rubbed your eyes with the heel of your hand, feeling the sting of exhaustion behind them.

“Why?” he asked quietly.

“Why what?” you muttered, turning toward him.

He tilted his head, one pierced eyebrow arched in warning. Don’t play dumb. Don’t lie. He could tell something was wrong—it was obvious, especially since you didn’t call him out on his blatant lie. Everyone knew he always had weed.

“Just wanna relax,” you mumbled, lying back down beside him. Your head rested on his chest, but your body never softened, your muscles still coiled tight beneath your skin. Hoping he would let it go, you started gently rubbing his stomach.

"Just wanna relax," he tsked, repeating your words with a hint of disdain.

He said nothing else. For a few minutes, there was only silence, broken by the soft murmur of the TV in the background. Then, his hand slid closer to your body, his fingers brushing over the top of your joggers. Without hesitation, they slipped past the fabric, finding their way inside your panties.

He paused for a few seconds when he felt the hair on your mound. The last few times, you had been almost completely shaved because Jean preferred it that way, and you had assumed Liam would feel the same.

His fingers lingered over the hair for a moment, teasing before deliberately finding your clit. Almost instinctively, your legs parted, giving him the access he needed. His touch was deliberate yet unhurried, moving in lazy, confident circles that sent shivers through you, each stroke knowing exactly how to draw out your desire.

He didn’t speak, letting his hands do all the talking. Your breaths came faster, ragged and warm, mingling with the soft, unguarded moans that slipped from your lips. Every movement was precise, coaxing your body into submission, leaving you suspended in a haze of sensation.

This was what you had come for, so why couldn’t you turn your brain off? Why were your thoughts still racing, running a thousand miles an hour without pause?

Jerking your hips toward his hands, you whined when he didn’t change his pace. You wanted it harder, faster, anything to make your mind stop. "Harder," you whimpered into his chest.

"Greedy girl," he scoffed at your stranded voice. "You’ll take what I give you. I know what you need."

To prove it, he pressed his fingers just a little harder against your sensitive clit, forcing a strangled moan from your throat before returning to his torturous rhythm. It went on like this for several minutes—sometimes slowing, then picking up again with sudden intensity, occasionally pausing altogether to trail his fingers over the soft skin around you, keeping you on the edge, completely at his mercy.

He shifted a lot, probably uncomfortable in the position you were both in. The thought barely crossed your mind before he pushed you gently away, stood, and effortlessly tossed you over his shoulder.

By the time you realized what had happened, you were already in the bedroom. He set you down on your feet as he sank onto the bed, back resting against the headboard. His eyes were dark with lust, pupils dilated as if he’d just taken something intense.

He had told you once that you were his favourite drug, and it seemed nothing had changed.

"Strip," he commanded, palming himself through his sweatpants. He wasn’t in a hurry to please himself—he wanted you fully in the moment, out of your head.

Without hesitation, you obeyed, shedding your clothes and letting them fall to the floor, uncaring if you picked them up later. Standing bare before him, you felt no shame—not when his eyes burned into you, hunger evident in every glance, and his hand gave a hard squeeze to his rigid cock.

With his free hand, he motioned you forward.

Assuming he wanted your lips on his hard dick, you knelt between his parted thighs. You were about to push his hand away—the one caging him—before he spoke again.

"Turn around," his voice was lower than usual, thick with lust.

"You don’t want—" your meek voice echoed in the bedroom.

"I said turn around," he repeated, eyes narrowing.

So you obeyed, turning around to sit between his legs, waiting. It didn’t take long before his hands settled on your waist, pulling you in—closer—until you leaned down against his bare chest.

Without a word, his fingers returned between your legs while the other hand found your nipples, teasing and pinching with deliberate precision. His movements were perfectly synchronized: soft, slow circles on your clit, alternating with the relentless attention on your nipples—pulling and pinching. And when he went soft on your breast, he went harder on your clit. It was intoxicating, how he knew exactly how to move, exactly how to touch, how to push every nerve in your body to the edge.

When you reached your peak, it was a soft orgasm. No screams, no spots of black behind your eyelids, just a well-anticipated, much-needed relief blooming from your lower stomach and spreading. For the first time in weeks, you felt truly relaxed.

You were still catching your breath when you felt it—his fingers sliding lower between your legs. Ryomen wasn’t done with you; you should have known better.

"Ryo…" you murmured softly.

He shushed you gently, lips brushing your temple before he whispered in your ear, "Just let it go, baby. Imma take care of you."

You knew he would, so you let your head fall back on his shoulder, surrendering to him completely, letting him play you like a finely tuned instrument. After weeks of craving just a little relief, you weren’t about to refuse it now, especially when it was offered so tenderly.

But your body had other plans. As his middle finger entered you, a sharp flash of pain erupted in your lower belly, making your hips jerk involuntarily. You pushed through it, whispering a soft apology when Ryomen paused. Clicking his tongue at your words, he resumed, moving his finger slowly, carefully.

Yet the pain lingered, making each thrust feel difficult, almost impossible. No. Please, no, you thought. This wasn’t the kind of sensation you wanted right now.

You tried to stay still, letting him guide the movement, hoping the discomfort would pass. But your breathing grew laboured—not from pleasure, but from the persistent ache—and your face tightened with every subtle motion. Of course, Ryomen noticed.

Gently, he stopped, withdrawing his finger slowly and deliberately, giving your body a moment to recover.

"You're stressed out of your goddamn mind. Your body is making it very clear," he murmured behind you, his hand sliding to rest on your stomach, caressing it gently.

Frowning, you already knew what this was. It had happened before during the heaviest periods of stress in your life: vaginismus. Your body refusing anything to enter without pain. You should have realized sooner. You’d barely slept, eaten a ton of junk, and overworked yourself to the point of multiple panic attacks a day.

Of course your body was shutting down—but you didn’t want to accept it. You couldn’t believe you had let it get this far again.

The first time it happened, you were already with Ryomen. He knew everything about it. He knew there was nothing he could do. No matter how horny or wet you were, your body simply wouldn’t allow penetration.

Pushing his hand on your stomach lower, you tried forcing him inside again, ignoring the small, panicked protest of your body. It was already a lost fight—it didn’t take much for him to resist your hands.

"Stop it," he growled into your ear, blocking your hands from your stomach with a single firm grip. "Ain’t hurting you just because you’re too damn stubborn to listen to your own fucking body."

You tried wriggling your hands free, only to feel how soft he was behind you. A few seconds ago, he had been rock hard. Did your problem really turn him off this quickly?

Part of you understood his words and his actions, but your mind was lost in a storm of stress, anxiety, and rising anger. You felt disgusted, humiliated by your own body, and insulted that he had softened so fast.

Finally freeing your hands, you spun toward him, dropping to your knees and trying to pull down his sweatpants—unaware that tears were now streaking down your cheeks. Your mind was a furious, chaotic mess.

Once again, his hand gripped yours, almost painfully, forcing them away. "Fucking stop it!" he shouted, his voice sharp with frustration and care mixed together. "Stop."

The rising volume of his voice pulled you back to the moment. It was as if you had been floating outside your own body for the past few minutes. Now, you could feel the tears streaming down your face, the ache in your wrists, and the creeping shame of your actions.

Looking up, you met his eyes. You expected anger—but you were wrong. All you saw was frustration, concern, and confusion. That only made the sobs hit harder, wracking your body as you cried. With a gentle sigh, he released your wrist, hesitant, waiting to see if you would lash out again.

When you didn’t, he pulled you close, sliding his hands under your thighs to lift you onto his lap. He rocked you gently, like a parent soothing a crying child.

And that’s how you felt—like a child, incapable of regulating your own emotions. It was ridiculous. Of course, it had to happen in front of your ex. You couldn’t have your breakdown in the safety of your own home.

It felt endless in your mind, though it couldn’t have been more than five minutes.

Eventually, your sobs subsided enough for you to pull yourself together. You got up, tugging your panties and shirt back on, avoiding his gaze. You could feel his eyes on you, watching with concern as you hurried to get dressed.

"You can still sleeping here, even if we don’t have sex," he said with a heavy sigh, knowing you were preparing to leave. His palms rubbed his eyes as he searched for words that wouldn’t push you further into panic.

"No, I can’t," you snapped back. "Why would I be sleeping here if we don’t have sex?" Your voice was sharp, full of anger.

You didn’t know where it came from. Moments ago, you had been crying and ashamed, now, fury coursed through you.

"Don’t be like that…" he whispered, the edge of his own anger lingering in his tone. He sat on the edge of the bed, watching as you finally pulled your sweatshirt over your head.

"Like what?" you demanded, spinning toward him. "Crazy? Is that what you were going to say?" Your voice rose with every word.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to regulate his own anger. Normally, he would have lashed out, shouted louder in response—but not this time. In the middle of your storm, you didn’t notice the improvement.

"Sorry I’m too stressed for your liking," you began, tears spilling freely again. "Sorry I can’t fucking sleep because of it, and because my roommate keeps me up all night fucking her girlfriend. Sorry I’m so stressed because my manager is harassing me over taking medical leave once in my life. Sorry you can’t get your dick wet because my brain is completely fried."

Now, your sobs returned fully, leaving you trembling and overwhelmed.

He said nothing. Still sitting on the edge of the bed, he took a moment to process your words. His eyes never left you as you broke down in the middle of his room. It wasn’t the first time Sukuna had seen you like this—stressed and unravelling—but this was by far the worst.

"How long has it been going on?" he asked, his voice so low you might have missed it if you weren’t listening so closely.

"Since the hospital," you muttered, your eyes fixed anywhere but on him.

Saying it out loud felt like unlocking something that had been sealed inside you. It had been eating you alive for weeks, festering in silence. You hadn’t told anyone—not your roommate, not your best friends, not even your favourite coworkers. You’d convinced yourself you could handle it, but the truth was, it had been too much for too long.

"Okay," he said softly, nodding as he rose to his feet—an uncharacteristically gentle movement for someone his size. "How many leave days do you have?"

"Huh?" you blinked, confused by the sudden shift.

His hands came up to your face, thumbs catching the tears that kept spilling down your cheeks.

"How many leave days can you take?" he repeated. "’Cause you’re gonna take them. You’re gonna find a better job, and I’m gonna help you." His tone left no room for argument.

"I don’t know… eight or nine?" you answered uncertainly.

He nodded again, his thumbs never stopping their slow strokes across your skin. "On Monday, you’re gonna go to a doctor. You’re gonna tell them you can’t do it anymore—that you’re not sleeping, not eating. You’ll get a medical leave, yeah?" It wasn’t really a question. "When that’s done, you use your vacation days. By the time that’s over, you’ll have another job. Trust me."

His hands were gentle as they slipped under your sweatshirt, lifting it off your body, then doing the same with your sweatpants. Soon, you were left in only your shirt and panties. He nodded toward the bed, an unspoken invitation.

Your tears had left you drained, your mind too foggy to face the silence of your empty apartment. Being alone wouldn’t have been a good idea, so you lay down, waiting for him to follow. But when he started moving toward the door, you sat back up.

Was he going to sleep on the couch like he did after a fight? Had you even had a fight?

He was gone only a few minutes before the sound of his footsteps returned to the bedroom. In one hand, he carried a glass of water; in the other, something small and unassuming. He handed you the glass, and then you looked at his other hand.

Two little pills rested in his palm.

"This is for the migraine," he said, offering you the first one. "This is for sleeping," he added once you had swallowed the first, presenting the second gently.

Even though you didn’t really need the second pill—exhaustion was already pulling you under—you knew it was the best choice. It would help you sleep through the night, without waking in the grip of anxiety that had been consuming your mind.

With heavy eyes, you lay on the bed, facing away from Ryomen, knowing he would pull you close. And he did. His warmth pressed against your back, soothing your tangled thoughts and quieting your restless mind. Slowly, that comfort carried you into a deep, peaceful sleep.

Before you fully drifted off, you heard one last thing, soft and steady.

"You're never too much for me."

©fromsil.

[velaenam]

about you — ch. 1 sanemi x reader

chapter : 1 of 5 tag: fluff table of contents next chapter

cicadas wake you. morning comes early, spilling pale light across the wooden floor of your room. you stretch the ache from your shoulders and breathe in the scent of rain. the kettle hums quietly from the corner while you braid your hair back, tucking loose strands behind your ear. it’s early, too early, but the letter on your desk waits — written in tidy ink, stamped with the corps seal, and carrying your new assignment.

you trace the name with a finger: sanemi shinazugawa. a new slayer. your task, it says, is to aid and observe. a partnership of sorts. you smile a little at that — there’s always something endearing about the new ones, all nerves and bravado.

by the time you step outside, the rain has thinned to a mist, and the gravel crunches soft beneath your sandals. the world smells clean. it’s a good morning to meet someone new.

you find him near the training grounds — tall, lean, white-haired, every inch of him wound tight. his sword rests against his shoulder, and his uniform is already half-unbuttoned, collar crooked, bandages peeking out where he hasn’t bothered to fix them. his eyes flick toward you when you approach, sharp and assessing.

“you’re late,” he says.

you blink. “it’s not even sunrise...”

“then you’re still late.” he tilts his head, smirking. “figured the corps would send someone with a backbone, not—”

you cut him off with a sigh, the kind you use on children who’ve tracked mud through a clean room. “not what?”

he blinks, surprised you’d interrupt him. “nothing,” he mutters, looking away.

“i see.” you fold your arms. “well, nothing, get your uniform in order. if you’re going to represent the corps, you might as well look like it. and fix that bandage before it gets infected.”

his jaw tightens, somewhere between irritation and disbelief. “you’re not my superior.”

“today, i am,” you reply, adjusting your haori. “and if you’re going to survive long enough to become one yourself, you’ll listen when someone gives you advice.”

for a moment, there’s only the quiet hiss of rain and the faint creak of the training post in the wind. he stares at you, mouth parting slightly, like he can’t decide whether to argue or laugh. then, finally—

“you talk too much,” he mutters.

you smile, serenely, “you’ll learn to listen, shinazugawa-san. everyone does eventually.”

his scoff trails behind him as he walks off toward the field. he grumbles something under his breath, but for the first time, his steps match yours.

you both end up at the edge of the training grounds, where rows of worn dummies sway in the faint breeze. sanemi says nothing, just draws his sword in one smooth motion and begins to move. his strikes are fast—angry, almost, as if every swing is trying to cut through something more than straw.

you watch for a while, quietly. the rhythm of it is familiar: inhale, step, twist, exhale. you’ve done this dance a thousand times, but there’s something raw about the way he does it—untamed, unpolished.

after a few minutes, you step closer. “shinazugawa-san, your shoulder’s too tense…” you say softly.

he stops mid-swing, glances over his shoulder with a scowl. “what?”

“your shoulder…” you repeat, walking around to stand beside him. “you’re gripping too hard. that’s why your follow-through is uneven.”

“i’m fine.”

“you’re not,” you say, tone light. “if you keep fighting like that, you’ll dislocate your arm by the end of the week.”

he grumbles something under his breath, so low you only catch the word nagging. you hide a smile and reach out, just lightly, to guide his wrist. “relax,” you murmur. “like this.”

his muscles go rigid beneath your touch. for a second, you can feel his pulse jump, quick and startled.

“you—stop that!” he snaps, pulling his hand back as if burned. “i said i’m fine!” you tilt your head, amused. “i didn’t say you weren’t. i’m helping you, shinazugawa-san. isn’t that what i’m here for?”

“leave me alone!” his voice cracks louder than he means it to, echoing off the training posts. the sound startles a few birds from the nearby trees.

you blink, then laugh quietly, the sound small and warm. “alright,” you say, stepping back. “if that’s what you want.”

he turns away, shoulders tense, muttering curses under his breath as he storms off across the field. his collar flares in the wind, half-tucked, uneven.

you watch him go, lips curving into a faint, sad smile. there’s something familiar in his stubbornness, the way it hides the ache underneath. you don’t take it to heart—you’ve seen this kind of anger before. the kind that comes from pain too deep to name. 

you look down and huff a small laugh. you bend down to pick up his forgotten sheath from the grass, brushing dirt off the edge.

“next time, you’ll thank me,” you murmur to the empty air, tucking it under your arm as the wind carries his grumbling away.

you decide to go into town.

the broth is rich and steaming, it makes your fingers warm just holding the bowl. rain beads faintly on the eaves of the ramen stall, tapping a slow rhythm against the roof. you’re halfway through your meal, humming quietly, when a shadow falls across the counter.

a low, pointed ahem cuts through the noise of clattering dishes.

you turn, chopsticks still poised halfway to your mouth. sanemi stands there, arms crossed, jaw tight, looking like he’s been rehearsing this encounter the entire walk over. his uniform’s rumpled, his hair damp from the drizzle, and he’s glaring at you with an intensity that would probably send anyone else running.

you blink, then smile. “shinazugawa-san! what a surprise.”

his eyes flick to your hip — to the familiar sword sheath resting against your side. for a second, he just stares, like he can’t believe it’s really there.

“you—” he starts, voice rougher than usual.

you raise an eyebrow, leaning slightly back on the stool. “me?”

“that’s—”  he jabs a finger toward the sheath “ —mine.”

“i know,” you reply sardonically, setting your chopsticks down. “you left it at the training grounds. i kept it safe for you.”

he huffs, clearly thrown off by how calm you sound. “you could’ve just given it to a kakushi.”

“and miss this charming reunion?” you tease, lips curving.

he bristles immediately. “don’t—” he stops himself, running a hand through his hair, visibly agitated. “don’t do that.”

“do what?”

“that—” he gestures vaguely, as if your amusement alone is the offense. “you’re laughing at me.”

you chuckle, soft and low, tilting your head. “shinazugawa-san! i’m not laughing, no! just… entertained. you’re very expressive, you know that?”

he exhales sharply, muttering something that sounds like unbelievable, then slams his hand on the counter. “give it back before i change my mind about letting you live through training.”

you make a show of sighing, slipping the sheath from your belt, and handing it over. “here. in one piece, like its owner.”

he snatches it, grumbling under his breath as he checks it for scratches. you sip your ramen again, hiding the grin tugging at your lips.

“you done staring?” you ask gently, not looking up.

he stiffens, clearly unsure whether you’re teasing him or simply unaware of how much space you occupy in his attention. after a pause, he huffs again, turns on his heel, and stomps off through the rain, now muttering something about ‘meddling women.’

you watch him go, the small smile returning, softer this time.

“you’re welcome,” you murmur into your broth, as the wind outside rattles the paper lanterns. 

the next morning greets you with sun instead of rain. gold light spills through the mist, catching on the edge of the rooftops, glinting off puddles that haven’t yet dried from the night before. you hum to yourself as you make your way up the hill toward the training grounds, a parcel of rice cakes tucked under your arm and a familiar sense of anticipation curling warm in your chest.

sanemi’s already there, of course. he’s always there first. shirt unbuttoned, expression carved from impatience, swinging his sword through the air like he’s trying to slice the wind itself, as if he was a late heien sorcerer… his movements are sharp but a little unfocused — not for lack of strength, but because he fights like someone arguing with a wall.

you slow your steps, watching him for a moment. the morning light cuts across his face, softening the usual harsh lines. for just a second, he looks younger.

“you’re late.” he says without looking, voice rough and deliberate.

you grin, walking closer until your shadow touches his boots. “good morning to you too, shinazugawa-san.”

he exhales through his nose, lowering his sword. “i said… you’re late.”

you tilt your head, pretending to think. “technically, the sun just came up. so unless you’ve suddenly become the god of time, i’m right on schedule.”

his eye twitches. “smart mouth.”

“thank you,” you say brightly. “i try.”

he makes a low, frustrated noise and turns back to his stance, swinging again with a bit more aggression this time. the wind from his blade ruffles your sleeves, but you stay put, watching him with amused patience.

“your form’s better today,” you comment after a while, voice light. “see? all my nagging must be working.”

he stops mid-swing, shooting you a sharp look over his shoulder. “don’t call it that.”

“what? nagging?” you can’t help but laugh softly. “oh, come on. you say it like i offended you.”

“you did.”

“hm. maybe you just need breakfast.” you hold up the parcel, the paper wrapping still warm. “i brought rice cakes.”

he blinks, clearly caught off guard. “what—why?”

“because i’m nice,” you reply simply, setting them down on the nearest post. “and because you look like you haven’t eaten …. since, last century.”

his jaw works, torn between pride and the faint, betraying rumble of his stomach.

you smile, eyes crinkling. “go on, sanemi. even the wind hashira has to eat.”

he mutters something under his breath — not hashira yet, don’t get ahead of yourself — but he doesn’t refuse. when he finally takes one, it’s with a glare that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

you sit beside him on the grass, the morning quiet stretching wide and soft between you. the air smells of rice, steel, and the faintest trace of warmth. he doesn’t just eat it fast — he devours it, like someone who’s forgotten what a meal seemed to be. crumbs dust his fingers, and he wipes them away with the back of his hand before catching the faintest trace of your smile.

“what?” he snaps, defensive out of habit.

“nothing,” you hum. “just didn’t think you’d like the sweet kind.”

he says something about fuel, and you laugh under your breath, standing and stretching your arms toward the sky. sunlight pools across your sleeves, catching on the white threads of your haori before you shrug it off. the air cools against your shoulders, your uniform snug beneath.

he notices immediately. “what’re you doing?”

“what does it look like?” you ask, folding the haori neatly and setting it aside.

he squints, sword half-raised. “why’d you take it off?”

you glance down at yourself, amused by his tone. “it gets in the way when i fight. catches on wind and hinders movement..”

he snorts, the corner of his mouth twitching. “you sound smug about it.”

“smug?” you echo, one brow lifting. “how did…. you come up with that conclusion?”

“because you’re looking at me like you’re waiting for me to argue,” he shoots back, chin tilting up just a little, like he’s daring you to deny it.

you grin. “maybe i am.”

for a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of cicadas humming somewhere beyond the trees. then he plants his foot in the dirt and levels his sword toward you, eyes bright and sharp as glass.

“fight me.”

you blink, surprised, then laugh softly. “you mean spar with you?”

“no,” he says flatly. “fight. prove it.”

“prove what?”

“that taking off your haori makes a difference.”

you sigh, already sensing this argument is one you’ll never win with words. “you’re silly, shinazugawa-san.”

“and you talk too much,” he retorts, already stepping into stance.

you can’t help it — the way your heart kicks a little at the sight, the way his grin flashes quick and reckless when he catches your hesitation. so you draw your own blade, thunder glinting gold in the morning light, and tilt your head with a small, daring smile.

“fine, shinazugawa-san. but don’t cry when i embarrass you.”

he scoffs, the sound half-laugh, half-threat. “as if you could.”

the wind shifts, the world narrows, and for a moment the training field feels alive — just the two of you and the pulse of something intense.

the first strike comes fast. too fast for most eyes to follow, but you’re already gone, feet flashing against the dirt like sparks. your blade hums low, the air around it trembling with static. sanemi’s swing cuts through where you’d been a breath before, the wind of it sharp enough to sting your cheek.

“too slow,” he snaps, grinning like he’s already won.

you don’t answer. you’re already behind him, the faint crackle of thunder following in your wake. the smell of smoke fills the air as your sword whistles toward his side, but he twists at the last second, catching your blade with his own. metal screeches. energy surges between you, wind and lightning snarling together.

“not bad,” he grits out, pushing forward.

you smirk. “you talk too much.”

the next few moments blur — the rhythm of your breathing syncing with the pulse of thunder itself. sanemi’s relentless, power in every motion, but his strikes are wide, emotional. you move like lightning: short bursts, sudden, impossible to trace. your feet barely touch the ground before you vanish again, reappearing at his flank.

he pivots, tries to catch you mid-step, but you’ve already read him. your heel hooks behind his boot, one swift pull and shift of balance — a movement so fluid — and suddenly he’s weightless.

“what the—!”

you catch his wrist, spin, and throw him flat onto his back.

the world crackles in the quiet after. the faint smell of burnt grass hangs between you, your breath coming in shallow bursts.

he blinks up at you, disbelief flickering behind those storm-colored eyes. “you— you threw me.”

you sheathe your blade with a click, leaning slightly over him, a ghost of a grin at your lips. “that’s what thunder does, shinazugawa-san.”

his scowl deepens, but there’s something alive beneath it, some spark of respect or curiosity that he’s too stubborn to name.

“you’re smug,” he mutters.

“how’d you come up with that conclusion?”

“because you’re looking at me like that.”

“like what?”

“like you won.”

you smile, soft and unbothered. “well… didn’t i?”

he groans, scrubbing a hand over his face, muttering something about annoying women and their damn tricks.

but as you walk away, your blade humming faintly at your hip, you can feel his eyes on you — and it doesn’t feel like anger this time. it feels like thunder answering wind.

the night hums soft around you, crickets whispering between the trees, the moon silver and thin above the path. your sandals crunch quietly against the dirt, and the air is cool enough that you can see each breath leave your lips. beside you, sanemi walks with that perpetual scowl that seems carved into his face, sword at his hip, shoulders tense like he’s daring something in the dark to make a move.

you don’t speak. you rarely do on patrol. silence feels natural to you, a calm rhythm that matches the pulse of your steps.

after a while, he breaks first.

“you’re quiet,” he mutters, not looking your way.

you glance at him, amused. “mhm.”

“why?”

you shrug lightly, eyes on the moonlit path ahead. “...so you wouldn’t talk.”

he stops mid-step, turning to glare at you. “what the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

you laugh under your breath, the sound soft and teasing. “you’re always so loud, shinazugawa-san. i figured silence might make you uncomfortable.”

he grumbles something low, kicking a loose stone down the trail. “you think you’re funny.”

“i know i am,” you bite back.

he exhales sharply, shaking his head, and you catch the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth — almost a smile, but gone before it can settle.

you step closer, just enough that your shoulder brushes his arm, and poke him gently on the cheek. “see? you’re doing it again.”

his eyes widen, color rising up the curve of his neck. “what are you— stop that!”

you giggle, covering your mouth. “you make it too easy.”

“why are you always messing with me?” he demands, trying to sound irritated, but his voice stumbles halfway through the sentence.

“because,” you say simply, walking ahead a few steps before glancing back at him, “it’s cute when your blood pressure goes up.”

he freezes, mid-stride, mouth opening like he’s about to argue — and then closing again, words failing him entirely.

you grin at his silence, tucking your hands behind your back as you keep walking. “see? peace and quiet. works every time.”

he mutters something that sounds suspiciously like you’re insufferable but it’s softer than usual, almost fond, and when you look out of the corner of your eye, you swear you see him fighting a smile he doesn’t want you to notice.

you let the laughter fade, the sound dissolving into the steady rhythm of your footsteps. the forest closes in around you again, soft and breathing. for a while, there’s only the whisper of leaves brushing in the wind and the faint jingle of your blades at your side.

then you glance at him, his face still a little pink from before, and you sigh. “sorry,” you murmur.

he looks over, brow furrowed. “for what?”

“for the joke.” you toy with the ribbon at your wrist, eyes dropping to the path. “i didn’t mean to be rude. i just… don’t really talk much on patrols. it’s not you.”

he blinks, slower this time, like he’s trying to figure out where this is coming from.

you smile faintly. “it’s a habit, i guess. being quiet helps me breathe. i get nervous sometimes — anxious. the type that makes your chest feel too tight.” you shrug, soft. “so, i stay quiet. helps me focus. even if it sounds redundant.”

for a second, the only reply is the low sigh of wind through the cedar branches. you don’t expect him to say anything — he doesn’t seem like the type who knows what to do with words like anxiety or nervous.

but then he says, low and rough, “yeah. i kinda get it.”

you glance up, surprised.

his eyes stay fixed on the trail, jaw set like the confession costs him something. “silence ain’t bad,” he goes on. “sometimes it’s the only thing that makes sense. when there’s too much noise in your head.”

something in your chest loosens.

“yeah,” you whisper, almost to yourself. “exactly that.”

he shrugs, hands shoved into his pockets. “guess that makes two of us, then.”

you both keep walking. the quiet that settles between you isn’t heavy anymore — it’s companionable, easy, filled with the sound of two people who’ve stopped trying to fill the silence with anything but understanding.

the rest of the night drifts by quiet and simple, the forest alive with its own breathing. once in a while, he mutters something about the weather or complains that the new recruits couldn’t track a demon if it bit ‘em in the ass, and you answer with small hums or half-smiles. once, you toss a quip back — something dry about his own tracking skills — and he shoots you a look that’s equal parts offended and begrudgingly impressed.

but mostly, you walk. sometimes a few paces apart, sometimes close enough that your sleeves brush. there’s a kind of rhythm to it now — the hush of the night, the steady weight of his footsteps beside yours, the silent agreement not to disturb the fragile peace you’ve built in the wake of your talk.

when the horizon finally begins to blush with morning, you both stop at the edge of the village road. the sky glows pink and pale gold above the rice fields. he stretches his arms over his head with a yawn he tries to hide, and you chuckle softly.

“don’t laugh,” he says. “i didn’t sleep last night.”

“neither did i.”

“yeah, but you don’t look like hell.”

you grin, tired but content. “thank you, shinazugawa-san. i’ll take that as a compliment.”

he huffs a sound that might be a laugh, turns toward the barracks, and waves you off without looking back. “get some rest, thunder girl.”

the next morning, the world smells like dew and warm rice fields. you wake before the sun, body still buzzing with restless energy. maybe it’s the habit of patrol, maybe it’s something else, but you find yourself back at the training grounds before you’ve even had breakfast.

the field is empty — for once, no wind hashira waiting with a scowl. only birdsong and the soft hiss of morning breeze.

you slip off your haori, rest your blade against your shoulder, and start your warm-up stretches. thunder breathing fills your lungs in slow, steady waves.

for a moment, it feels good — being first for once, feeling the silence before he can fill it with his grumbling.

and just as you’re beginning your first stance, you hear the faint, familiar sound of boots crunching on the path behind you.

uh. oh!

he spots you before you even turn around, already standing in the middle of the field, blade glinting in the early sun. he stops dead in his tracks, shoulders tensing like he’s been caught doing something shameful.

“you’ve gotta be kidding me,” he spits under his breath.

you don’t say anything, just smile over your shoulder, the morning light catching on your hair. “good morning, shinazugawa-san... you’re late.”

he groans loud enough for the crows in the trees to scatter. “oh, you’re gonna hold this over me, aren’t you?”

“absolutely.” you turn fully now, hands on your hips, grin smug and bright. “what was it you said? ‘you’re late’......or was it ‘still late’? maybe i should write it down, just to return the favor properly.”

he scowls, dragging a hand down his face. “you’re enjoying this way too much.”

“i am,” you admit easily, stepping closer. “i didn’t think you could be late. i was beginning to think you slept standing up!”

“you’re so annoying”

“oh you don’t mean that,” you tease, reaching up to poke his cheek again just to drive the point home. but this time, his hand shoots up faster than you expect. fingers wrap firmly around your wrist mid-poke, the sudden contact stopping you cold.

the world narrows.

your breath catches, eyes snapping to his. his grip is warm, calloused, careful in a way you don’t expect from someone who lives in sharpness. the morning wind carries a faint trace of green and steel between you.

he looks at you — not angry, not smirking — just looking. eyes darker than usual under the sunlight.

the air hums, too still for comfort. your heart stutters somewhere between a laugh and something heavier.

“careful,” he mutters finally, his voice quieter than you’ve ever heard it. “you keep that up, i might start thinking you like picking fights.”

you smile, small and breathless. “and if i do?”

his grip tightens just a fraction, his jaw working like he wants to say something and can’t.

“then,” he says, just as the wind stirs again, “you better be ready to lose one.”

you pull back first, slipping your wrist free from his hand with a soft laugh that’s more breathy. it leaves you in a rush, scattering like the wind, and for a heartbeat you swear you see something almost uncertain flicker behind his eyes.

you clear your throat and turn toward the row of worn dummies at the far end of the field. “today’s training is speed drills,” you announce, voice even again. “reflex, reaction time, and endurance.”

he huffs, recovering his edge fast. “trying to wear me down?” you glance back, teasing. “if the shoe fits.”

and then you’re gone — a blur of movement and crackling air. your blade sings low as it slices through the morning mist, arcs of faint lightning trailing behind each motion. sanemi barely ducks the first swing, his grin snapping back into place, all adrenaline and defiance.

“fast…” he admits, twisting away from your next strike. “but not faster than wind.”

“we’ll see.”

and for the next hour, the field becomes a storm. wind collides with thunder in bursts of power and speed, each clash ringing through the valley. sanemi fights like he’s on fire, all grit and instinct, his blade carving furious crescents through the air — but you move like lightning, quick and deliberate, no wasted steps, no hesitation.

he goes for a high slash — you duck. he pivots to sweep your legs — you leap, flipping clean over his shoulder and landing light on your feet. he swings again, teeth gritted, and you disarm him in one fluid strike, sending his sword spinning into the dirt.

“what the—!” he shouts, stumbling back.

you press the tip of your blade to his chest, eyes bright. “you were saying?”

his breath comes fast, chest rising and falling, eyes wide with disbelief. “you cheated.”

“i didn’t—”

“you cheated,” he repeats, glaring, though there’s something almost boyish under it now.

you smirk, lowering your blade. “maybe... but you still lost.”

he mutters something about damn women, grabbing his sword and brushing dirt from his uniform, but you catch the faintest twitch of a grin when he turns away.

you rest your sword on your shoulder, breathing in the electric tang of the air, the way the ground still hums faintly from your clash.

“we’ll try again tomorrow,” you call after him.

“fine,” he grumbles, though his voice carries a rough sort of warmth. “but next time, i’m not holding back.”

you laugh, soft and sure. “you said that yesterday, shinazugawa-san.”

“and i meant it this time,” he insists.

the breeze picks up, stirring the dust between you, and for a moment, you could hear thunder and wind mingle.

days pass. weeks fold into each other like pages of a book. mornings start earlier now—your body waking before the light because you know he’ll already be out there, sword in hand, hacking at the air like it owes him something.

you make it a habit to join him. you still tease him sometimes, small and harmless things, but less often now. you’ve learned the shape of his temper, the difference between when he needs a push and when silence will do better.

each week, you make the trip to ubuyashiki’s estate, where the head of the corps listens quietly while you kneel and report your findings. your notes are steady, formal at first—progress on breath control, improved precision, increasing stability in his footwork. but over time, your words soften. he’s reckless, but he learns quickly! he works harder than anyone i’ve met! he pretends not to care, but he does. and you laugh when you say it.

you never mean to sound fond, but it’s there in every report. ubuyashiki smiles, that patient, knowing kind of smile, and never calls you out for it.

when you return from each visit, you find him waiting—not that he’d admit to it. sometimes he’s pretending to train, other times he’s sitting on the fence post, throwing pebbles at the dirt.

“how was the master?” he asks, voice casual, not meeting your eyes.

“still alive and wiser than you,” you answer, smiling.

“tch. annoying old man.”

“you’d like him if you listened.”

“doubt it.”

but there’s a lightness there now, a rhythm you both fall into. you begin to recognize the ways he shows care without saying it: tossing you his canteen without looking, stepping slightly ahead of you on patrol when the forest grows too quiet, waiting until you’ve eaten before taking his share.

he still fights with the world like it wronged him, but sometimes, between the training and the missions and the exhaustion, he laughs. really laughs. it’s loud and startled. and it’s in those moments that something warm stirs in your chest, uninvited and impossible to ignore. 

you loved him. 

you keep your distance—at least, you tell yourself you do. but when his hand brushes yours as you pass him a new roll of bandages, you don’t move away. when he glances at you after a long day and mutters a gruff good job, you carry it with you like a prize. and every time you file another report, it gets harder not to write what you actually mean: he’s reckless, yes, but he’s kind. and i think i’m starting to understand him.

the sun is dipping low by the time you both finish, the air heavy with the scent of grass and sweat. sanemi’s still catching his breath, shirt clinging to his back, hair a mess of white streaked with gold from the fading light. you lower your sword, wipe your brow with the edge of your sleeve, and glance over at him.

“what do you usually do after training?” you ask,

he straightens, still breathing a little hard. “train more…” he says back simply,  “then sleep. repeat tomorrow.”

you blink. “that’s it?”

“what else am i supposed to do?”

you tilt your head, thinking. “eat, maybe.”

he shoots you a look. “i eat.”

“rice balls you forget to finish don’t count,” you say, grinning. “come on. let’s get ramen.”

his expression twists like you’ve suggested something absurd. “ramen?”

“yeah,” you say, sheathing your blade and slinging your haori over one shoulder. “you know—broth, noodles, actual food. i’ll even pay, since i’m the one dragging you along.”

“i didn’t say i was coming.”

“you didn’t say you weren’t.” you start walking anyway, confident he’ll follow.

behind you, there’s a stretch of silence long enough to make you glance back—and there he is, standing where you left him, muttering curses under his breath as he picks up his sword and jogs to catch up.

“you’re annoying,” he grumbles once he’s beside you.

“so you’ve said.” you smile, watching him out of the corner of your eye. “but you still followed me.”

he looks away quickly, ears tinged faintly pink. “don’t flatter yourself. i’m just hungry.”

“mhm. whatever helps you sleep at night, shinazugawa-san.”

the road winds into the lantern-lit village, the smell of grilled pork and miso drifting through the air. when you find the same little stall where you’d eaten weeks ago, you slide onto a stool and nod to the vendor.

“two bowls,” you say. “extra noodles.”

sanemi sits beside you stiffly, eyes darting to the side.

“you do this a lot?” he asks after a moment.

“what, eat?”

“no,” he says, gruff. “sit here with people.”

you smile softly, looking at the steam rising from the pot. “only with people i like.”

he blinks, caught off guard, the faintest stutter in his breath. “tch. you’ve got bad taste.”

“maybe,” you murmur, eyes warm. “but it keeps things interesting.”

the ramen comes out steaming, rich and golden, the kind that fogs up the air between you. he doesn’t wait for it to cool—just digs in like he’s been starving for days, chopsticks moving fast, head bowed over the bowl.

you rest your chin in your hand and watch. the way his shoulders ease with each bite, the quiet hum in his throat he doesn’t know he’s making, the faint curve of his mouth when he realizes how good it tastes. it’s a simple thing, but it hits you—seeing him like this. not angry, not pushing himself past breaking, just… content.

warmth unfurls in your chest, slow and soft.

he notices eventually, mid-slurp, when the silence stretches too long. his eyes flick up, catching you staring.

“what?” he mumbles around a mouthful, brow furrowing. “why’re you staring so hard?”

you blink, caught, then smile. “you look so sweet like that.”

he freezes, chopsticks suspended halfway to his mouth.

“sweet,” he repeats flatly.

“mhm.” you lean your cheek into your palm, smile widening. “it suits you. i should’ve bribed you with food sooner.”

his face does that thing again—half irritation, half something he doesn’t really want to name. a muscle jumps in his jaw, and he exhales hard, pretending to focus on his bowl instead.

“you’re…. weird,” he mutters, voice a little lower than usual.

“hm, i have a feeling you like weird.” you say, teasing but soft.

he doesn’t answer. he just keeps eating, ears tinted pink, pretending not to notice the way you’re still smiling at him across the counter.

his bowl’s nearly empty when he finally speaks again, chopsticks resting between his fingers. his voice cuts through the quiet, steady but with an edge you can’t quite place.

“what’s your angle here?”

you blink, caught off guard. “my angle?”

“yeah.” he doesn’t look up, just stares into the last of the broth. “you keep showing up, buying me food, talking to me like i’m—” he stops, jaw tightening. “like i’m not a bastard everyone says i am.”

you tilt your head, trying to read his tone. “that’s because you’re not.”

he snorts, humorless. “you don’t even know what i’m like outside the corps.”

you smile faintly. “i don’t need to.”

that makes him glance up, eyes sharp but uncertain.

“why?” he asks, quieter this time. “why bother?”

you set your bowl down, turn a little to face him fully. the lantern light paints his skin gold, softens the scar on his cheek. he looks like he’s waiting for you to laugh it off, to tease him the way you always do—but you don’t.

“because,” you say, gentle but firm, “you’ve gone through enough already. i can see it. the way you carry it all, like it’s yours alone to bear.” your voice softens. “you deserve the same kindness as anyone else, sanemi. even if you don’t think so.”

his lips part, eyes flicking between yours like he’s trying to decide whether to believe you. the noise of the stall fades for a moment — just the sound of his breathing and the faint buzz of the lantern above.

he exhales slowly, shoulders lowering a fraction. “you shouldn’t waste that on me,” he mutters, though the words don’t have any weight.

“it’s not a waste,” you say simply. “it’s just the truth.”

he doesn’t say anything else. the air settles heavy between you, the words you’d spoken still hanging there like a thread. he looks down at his bowl, shoulders drawn in, and you let the quiet have its way.

after a while, the vendor moves softly behind the counter, ladle scraping the pot. you watch sanemi finish what’s left of his ramen, each bite slower than the last, the tension easing from his face little by little. when he finally sets his chopsticks down, you don’t say anything—just lift a hand to signal for two more bowls.

he glances at you, surprise flickering for a second, but you only shrug. “you need it,” you say.

he doesn’t argue. he doesn’t thank you either, just sits there, eyes on the counter while the steam curls up between you again.

you both eat in silence this time. no teasing, no quips—just the soft clink of porcelain and the distant murmur of the street outside. the warmth from the broth spreads slow through your hands, your chest, the space between you and him.

when you’re both done, you slide a few coins across the counter before he can reach for his pouch. “don’t,” you murmur, before he can protest. “my idea, my treat!”

he looks at you. his mouth parting like he might speak—but nothing comes. just a quiet nod.

you step out into the street first, the night air cool against your face. he follows close behind, and for the first time, he doesn’t walk ahead of you. you fall into step together, neither of you saying a word, but somehow, silence feels enough.

dividers by @/uzmacchiato

[fromsil]

ᝰ. CALLING AFTER YOU

✎𓂃 EX RYOMEN SUKUNA

✦ ⋆ ࣪. warnings : smut. angst. unprotected sex. rough sex. light degradation. spanking. choking. size kink. body shaming. insecurities. low self-esteem. depressive episode. brief eating disorders. drug use. dominant man. reader has poor taste in men. kinda mean sukuna. chubby reader. (modern!au)

✦ ⋆ ࣪. about : you can’t seem to stay away from the wrong men. they always seem nice and cute, until they’re not. despicable, mediocre human beings who leave you frustrated, insecure, and questioning yourself. their failures only drive you back into the arms of one person : your ex. ✦ ⋆ ࣪. words : 16.4k

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ𓂃 series masterlist

ⓘ main masterlist & ao3

Throwing your head back against the couch cushion, you remembered the promise you’d made to yourself, that you’d never end up here again. But all those thoughts were washed away by his tongue kitten licking at your clit while his fingers thrust inside of you in a perfect rhythm. His rhythm.

Every time you screamed that you hated him, you never—ever—meant what he could make you feel with his any parts of his body.

And he knew it. The moment his mocking laugh echoed between your thighs, it all came rushing back, every reason you were supposed to hate him. He was cocky, cruel, emotionless, and a fucking dick.

"Always fucking soaked like a little whore, aren't you?" He taunted you, his lips leaving your clit for only a moment, a moment you couldn’t stand. The absence burned, and before you could stop yourself, your fingers tightened in his hair, pushing his head back to where you needed him most.

“Spoiled little brat,” he tsked, knowing damn well he was the one who’d been spoiling you for years.

And for a man who supposedly hated you, he was showing far too much enthusiasm in the way he set out to please you. Back when you were together, he had never been one to hold back from eating you out. He could spend hours between your legs without ever complaining. Perhaps that had been his finest trait : he was a generous lover—not a fair one, but still generous.

Sure, he had his moment where he would be focusing on himself much more than you, but they were very rare, and most of the time you had been the one teasing him enough for him to finally break.

You hadn’t really meant to end up here. It had almost been a reflex, a place your mind sought out instinctively, a space where you knew you were truly safe and comfortable, even when you were supposed to hate the man who rented the place. The truth was, this was still a sanctuary for you, even months after the breakup.

The night had started well. You had gone out with your boyfriend, Jean—now newly ex—to a cute little restaurant. It had been a grand gesture he organized, and you thought it meant he was finally ready to take the next step, ask you to move in together. You had been dating him for almost seven months, it felt like the right time.

But no. He had planned the whole thing just to ask if you were ready for a threesome, with him and one of his colleagues he was so desperate to fuck. The rollercoaster he had promised turned into a fucking haunted house, and you hated being scared.

After laughing at his face—and realizing he was actually serious—you threw your wine in his face and walked away, leaving him stunned at the table. It had been humiliating, walking out of there alone with all those eyes watching you. As a defence mechanism, your feet cladded in heels had carried you almost forty-five minutes straight to Ryomen’s house.

In a rational headspace, it would have been the last place you would have chosen, but your humiliated brain couldn’t think of anywhere else. You didn’t want to go back home and face your roommate. All afternoon, you had been talking her ears off about how certain you were that you were finally going to be asked to move in.

You weren’t ready for her pity or her sweet reassurances. You didn’t want to talk, you wanted to forget. So when your ex opened the front door—shirtless, as usual—all doubts evaporated, and you kissed him. Hard.

And here you were, twenty minutes later, riding out an orgasm, gifted to you by none other than Ryomen Sukuna. You were still fully dressed, except for your panties, which were now sitting nicely in your ex’s sweatpants pocket.

Still breathing hard, you pushed your skirt back down on your lap as you sat on his couch, watching him get up, groaning as his knees popped. That made you laugh, far too familiar with this situation. All you got in return was a deadly glance.

As his body moved toward the kitchen, you couldn’t take your eyes off the very prominent tent right below his stomach. He tried to adjust, but it was already a lost cause, especially knowing he usually didn’t wear anything under his sweatpants, at least not in the comfort of his home.

It was only seconds later that he appeared back in the living room, a glass of water in hand. He dropped it—not very gracefully—onto the coffee table in front of you, pushing it toward you and spilling a bit in the process.

Just as he disappeared back into the kitchen, your phone rang loudly from your bag. On shaky legs, you walked toward the purse you had tossed on the floor before snatching it up. Already knowing who was calling, you hesitated.

Was it even worth it?

“What?” you finally snapped into the phone.

“Baby,” Jean started, “where are you? I’ve been waiting outside your building.”

Snorting, you rolled your eyes. You could hear the anger in his voice, as if he had any right to be angry at you right now. When you didn’t respond, assuming you wouldn’t, he continued.

“Look, I understand.” He sighed, but you could still feel the anger lingering. Before he went on, you heard frying pans clashing in the background, making you frown. Then his next words pulled you back into the conversation.

“It’s okay, baby, I forgive you. I know I shouldn’t have said it that way.”

I shouldn’t have said it that way. He wasn’t even a little guilty.

I forgive you. The motherfucker. He had nothing to forgive you for. You couldn’t believe he was serious. And so you asked, almost naively. “Are you serious?”

“Of course, babe,” he answered immediately. Your anger spiked as you heard the smile in his voice. He thought he had won. “I know you didn’t mean to blow up like that. All forgiven.”

It was unbelievable. So much so that you didn’t even know how to react. You were torn between crying in rage and laughing like a maniac. It was so fucked up, you couldn’t understand how you’d even gotten involved with someone even bigger of an asshole than Ryomen.

Speaking of which, he was whistling at you, casually leaning on the kitchen doorframe, arms crossed. When your eyes met his, he simply nodded toward the kitchen, beckoning you inside, before disappearing again.

That seemed to snap your brain back into focus. You pushed yourself to hang up. He didn’t deserve your anger, your tears, or your attempts to explain just how fucked up what he did had been. Muting your phone, you let it drop back into your bag, kicked off your shoes, and made your way into the kitchen.

The smell of food made your stomach growl, and also reminded you how that fucker had made his offer before dinner was even served, after you’d walked forty-five minutes on an empty stomach.

Sitting on one of the stools, Ryomen was eating a plate of what looked like a gourmet meal, while another plate sat untouched to his right—clearly meant for you. He must have been cooking before you arrived, there was no way he could have put that together in the few minutes you’d been alone.

Glancing up briefly from his phone, he looked at you standing in the doorway before returning his gaze to the screen. “Eat. You look like a fucking corpse.”

You didn’t, at least, not really. But you understood why he said it. Back when you were together, you had a bit of fat everywhere—stomach, thighs, arms, hips. It had been part of your shape. Now, you’d lost a lot of weight, some intentionally, some not.

“I do not,” you bit back, sitting on the stool next to him. He was an excellent cook, you’d never refuse a meal from him. “I lost weight, that’s all. You should like it.”

Without taking his eyes off the screen, Ryomen snorted at your remark. “Why the fuck would I like it?”

“Looks better,” you mumbled around a mouthful.

That earned you a frown, almost disgusted look. Locking his phone, he set it down on the wooden counter and let his eyes really settle on you. “Says who? You or the fucker?”

Normally, you would have lashed out at the insult, but he was right. Jean was a fucker. A fucker who had probably said more than once that you’d look better if you lost a little weight. A fucker who had stopped you multiple times from getting dessert when you went out. A fucker who had refused to let you get on top during sex because, according to him, you were too heavy.

But there was no way you’d admit that to him. You hadn’t even told your best friends. At the time, it had made sense in your head—he had been “right.” He’d sweet-talked you into believing it was all for you, for your health.

Now, you understood the truth. It had just been humiliation. Just like tonight.

“Says everyone, Sukuna,” you snapped back.

A humourless laugh echoed through the kitchen. “Everyone’s full of shit. You don’t look better at all. You look like you’re gonna drop dead.”

His words stung. He had always been like this : brutally honest. It had sparked countless arguments over the three years you’d been together. He said exactly what he thought, never considering how hurtful it could be, how it could make you feel insecure or small.

His excuse? That he wasn’t a lying bitch. His words, not yours.

“Could feel your fucking bones when you clenched around my head,” he continued, clearly either oblivious to how uncomfortable he was making you—or just not caring. “Your femur was poking my ears.”

“Well, the cadaver still made you hard,” you snapped back. Definitely not the moment for him to body-shame you.

“Yeah, might look dead, but you sure taste the same,” he shot back immediately, taking another bite of his food.

Silence settled after that. It felt like a trip down memory lane. At the end of your relationship, you two had argued like this all the time, about everything. Who did the laundry, who went grocery shopping, whose parents you were seeing more. It had been horrible, self-destruction at its finest.

To this day, you still didn’t understand how you ended up this way. Ryomen hadn’t been your first love, but he had been the one you’d loved the strongest. Part of you would never stop loving him, even now. But you had both allowed yourselves to be too cruel to one another for far too long.

And one day, you’d had enough. You walked out and never came back. Not until tonight—and, shamefully, a couple of lonely nights before meeting your new boyfriend, whom you had started dating only two weeks after breaking up with Ryomen.

Let’s just say he hadn’t taken the news with open arms. He had flooded your inbox with messages, saying you were just filling the space he had left, that no one would ever replace him, that the fucker was just a band-aid, that you would come back.

You had insulted him back, called him an asshole, a selfish dick. Told him you were glad he was out of your life and that you would never come back.

And now? Look at you.

Shaking your head to push away those thoughts, you quickly finished your plate. This had been a mistake—you shouldn’t be here. Standing up, you snatched your panties from his pocket, pulled them on, and hurried toward the entryway.

A heavy sigh came from the kitchen, but you paid it no mind as you slipped your shoes back on. Glancing quickly into your bag to check you had everything, you heard the key turn in the lock.

“What are you doing?” you snapped, anger rising again.

“What are you doing?” he shot back, emphasizing the you.

Tilting your head, you stared at him like he’d lost his mind, and you knew he hadn’t. “Going home. Open the door.” You didn’t ask, you commanded.

“No,” he said casually, eyes roaming your outfit. “You drove here?”

“Yes,” you lied quickly. Best not let him think you’d ubered, or worse, walked. You didn’t have the money for an Uber, and your place was only a twenty minutes walk.

“Liar,” he rolled his eyes. “I can still tell when you lie. Didn’t vanish just because we’re not together anymore.”

Ryomen rolled his eyes when you groaned and tried to grab his keys, still dangling from his hand. With little effort, he pushed you off and walked toward the bedroom you once shared.

“Where are you going? Open the door!” you shouted after him, the click of your heels sharp against the floor as you followed.

In the bedroom, your eyes traced the strong lines of his tattooed back as he pulled on a random sweatshirt, then socks. Frowning, you tried to make sense of it.

At first, you thought he was getting ready for bed, but that didn’t make sense. He always ran hot and preferred sleeping naked most nights. Even in the middle of winter, he’d wander around shirtless like the cold didn’t touch him. It was almost as if the chill couldn’t reach him at all.

He acted like you weren’t even there, moving around the room in silence as he grabbed his wallet and car keys, slipping them into his pockets before brushing past you toward the entryway. Still frowning, you trailed after him, your eyes—unwillingly—catching on his ass as he bent down to put on his sneakers.

“Let’s go, brat,” he finally said after a full minute of silence.

“Huh?” was all you managed, confusion lacing your voice.

“You’re not walking home dressed like a slut,” he said flatly, his eyes dragging over you again.

“I’m not—” you snapped huffing, your anger flaring. “I remember very clearly that you used to like these kinds of outfits.”

“Yeah, ’cause I can fight,” he shot back, opening the door and waiting in the hallway before locking up behind you. You did remember that, he’d once decked a guy for slapping your ass in a bar. Good old times, in their own twisted way.

“And from what I’ve heard about that fucker,” he continued, taking the stairs toward the garage, “I just know he’s a little pussy.”

“He’s not!” you fired back, following close behind. You weren’t even sure why you were defending him—it felt less like you were defending your ex, and more like you were defending yourself, your choices. “He’s really nice.”

Ryomen only hummed and let out a low, mocking laugh. “So nice you came running back to me,” he said, glancing over his shoulder.

The light caught on his nose piercings, two nostrils and a septum. You remembered when he’d come home with them, you’d been surprised at first, but they’d ended up suiting him perfectly.

“Yeah, that was a mistake,” you shot back, still feeling the lingering feeling of his tongue on your skin.

“Clearly,” he mocked, smirking.

You knew you shouldn’t be hurt by it, but it still stung. He hadn’t turned you down when he opened the door, hadn’t stopped you when you jumped on him the second he did, and he had definitely shown enthusiasm once he was between your legs.

“If it was such a mistake, you should’ve closed the door then,” you said, unable to keep the venom out of your tone. Your ego was bruised, and he knew it. He hadn’t been the one to call it a mistake, but the fact that he didn’t deny it was enough to spark the flame of your anger.

“Never been one to turn down a good meal,” he replied smoothly, his calmness only making you angrier as you finally reached his car.

Without another word, you slid into the passenger seat—a space you knew all too well. The car still smelled the same, the leather still cold against your thighs until he started the engine and flicked on the seat heater on your side. Like muscle memory.

The drive was quiet, save for the low hum of the engine that growled every time he pressed the gas. Ryomen had always loved his sports cars—the speed on the highway, the roar of the engine, the feel of the leather steering wheel beneath his hands. You’d gotten so used to that world that when Jean first showed up in a used Honda, it had been a shock.

Truthfully, you never cared about wealth or cars, but the worn fabric seats, the faint smell of petrol when he hit a certain speed, had thrown you off. You’d gotten used to it eventually. Still, sinking back into the familiar comfort of Ryomen’s Audi felt… nice.

Lost in your own head, you were yanked back to reality when the car came to a stop and the engine went quiet. Looking out the window, you were met with the sight of your building and, parked right in front of it, the same used Honda you didn’t miss for a second.

Groaning, you shut your eyes, wishing the night would just end already. You slipped off your heels, grabbed your purse, and stepped out of the car without a word. No glance back, no thank you.

Your plan was simple: make it inside before Jean noticed you or the car you’d just stepped out of. He knew about your ex, even if he never cared much to hear about him. Not that you could blame him, you didn’t want to hear about his exes either. Though that hadn’t stopped him from bragging about how good they’d been in bed compared to you. Yet the moment you’d mentioned Ryomen’s name, he’d thrown a tantrum.

You should’ve left at the first red flag. But apparently, red was your favourite colour.

As your bare feet hit the sidewalk outside your building, you heard a car door slam. Then another. You ignored it. You didn’t want to meet Jean’s eyes, didn’t want to hear his voice, didn’t want to hear him say he forgave you again.

He was shouting your name now as you rushed to the door, your hand tightening around your keys. He probably would’ve caught up, if not for the sharp whistle that cut through the night, coming from across the street. From where Ryomen had parked.

Fuck.

Looking back at the same time as Jean, you caught sight of Ryomen Sukuna casually leaning against his car, his sweatshirt pulling tight across his biceps as he crossed his arms. The ink on his wrists peeked out from beneath the fabric, a familiar flash of black against his skin. He was smirking, no doubt amused as Jean sized him up.

Honestly, you were grateful for the distraction. It gave you just enough time to slip into your building, making sure to close the door firmly behind you.

Once inside the elevator, you finally let out the breath you’d been holding. Your phone started buzzing in your purse, the sound sharp in the quiet space. You didn’t need to check to know who it was.

You ignored it.

When you reached your apartment, the stillness welcomed you. Your roommate was already asleep, the place wrapped in that soft, late-night hush. Dropping your shoes, you drifted toward the window overlooking the street you’d just been on.

Just as you expected, Jean now stood face to face with Ryomen—well, almost face to face. Even with Jean’s decent height, Ryomen still had a good few inches on him. The smirk on Sukuna’s face hadn’t gone anywhere, if anything, it had only grown with every frantic wave of Jean’s arms.

You watched in silence as your ex leaned down, his mouth moving close to Jean’s ear. You couldn’t hear the words, but you didn’t need to. You knew that look, he was taunting him, twisting the knife in the way only Ryomen could.

Then his eyes lifted, finding yours through the glass. And in that moment, you knew you were right.

After a quick shower and a change of clothes—a shirt that just happened to be one of Ryomen’s, one you’d taken with you when you moved out—your phone was still buzzing with dozens of texts and missed calls from Jean.

You were just about to turn it off for the night when a new message flashed across the screen.

just knew he was a little pussy. choose better next time.

It had been almost three weeks since that night.

Jean had stopped calling and texting after a few days. The messages had started angry and hateful—calling you a whore for going back to your ex—then shifted into pathetic attempts at sweet talk, saying you should come back, that it was only fair to have that threesome now. Eventually, he’d circled back to venom, spitting out everything he thought was wrong with you and proudly admitting he’d fucked her before anyway.

Word was, they were a couple now. Good riddance, you guessed. But God, it still sucked to be cheated on.

And you? Well, you went on with your life. Work, friends, eating, sleeping : the classics. It was boring, sure, but it was still better than getting shat on every day.

Now that you were alone, you finally had time to think about your relationship with Jean. To really think about it. And you couldn’t help but wonder how you’d let it get that far, how you’d let him crawl so deep into your head that even now, you still hesitated before eating too much, still felt guilty if you skipped the gym.

And the thing was—you’d dated a gym rat before. Ryomen worked out every single morning, like clockwork, for at least an hour and a half. But not once did he ever force you to join him. Not once did he suggest you change your diet. Not once did he ever say something hateful about your body.

Not until you’d lost the weight. That had been the only time he’d said anything about how you looked.

Fuck, Jean didn’t even go to the gym. And even after you’d dropped all that weight, the fucker still couldn’t lift you. He was the embarrassing one, not you.

Now rid of that parasite, you started working on yourself again, on liking food, on feeling normal. You went out for lunch with your coworkers once a week, had pizza nights with your roommate every other Friday, even started baking for fun.

And before you realized it, you’d gained the weight back. It was only logical—you’d lost it too fast, through restriction and exhaustion. This time, though, it felt different. It felt like coming back to life. You looked like yourself again, and everyone kept saying how much healthier, how much lovelier you seemed.

It was true. Your stomach was softer now, your shirts fit snug again, your thighs pressed against your jeans when you sat, but you didn’t care. Well… not on the good days.

On the bad days, you’d catch your reflection in the mirror and stare too long. You’d notice how your breasts sagged lower than before, how your stomach seemed bloated before you’d even eaten, how the cellulite mapped itself across your thighs and ass like constellations you never asked for.

Back when you were with Ryomen, those thoughts never lasted long, he’d fuck them right out of you. It wasn’t tender or reassuring, but somehow, it worked. His fingers, his mouth, his dick—he’d turn you dumb until you couldn’t even remember why you were sad in the first place.

But he wasn’t here anymore. So you had to replace him. Somehow.

Scrolling through Tinder felt like the only reasonable option. Your roommate was away at her girlfriend’s for the weekend, and you felt gross, heavy and restless in your own skin. The only solution that made sense was simple: get fucked.

But after last time, you weren’t crawling back to Ryomen Sukuna. That had been a mistake. One you weren’t eager to repeat.

So Tinder it was. You had a handful of matches, some were blunt about wanting sex, others tried too hard to charm you. None of it felt good. You knew it shouldn’t feel humiliating, but it did anyway.

Eventually, one guy seemed decent enough and asked you out for Friday night. You still didn’t know why you said yes. Well, you knew why, you just didn’t want to admit it. And maybe that’s what made it feel wrong.

Worse, he wasn’t even that attractive. He had that ugly-hot kind of face, the kind that’s supposed to come alive through charisma or humour, but the longer you sat across from him in that booth, the more you realized he had neither.

Anton was just a boring, self-centred, ugly man.

And so you went home that night : alone, still doubting yourself.

The weekend that followed was one of self-pity and starvation. You spent it wrapped in your sheets, ignoring your reflection and convincing yourself you didn’t need to eat. It only made Monday worse. By morning, you were dizzy enough to nearly pass out before devouring everything edible in the apartment.

That became the cycle : go on a date with a mediocre man, come home alone, get off pathetically thinking about your ex, starve yourself, sometime you'd smoke a joint but they didn't feel the same when you were not sharing with him. Then stuff your face with anything you came across in your flat. Rinse, repeat. It was pathetic, you knew it, but you couldn’t stop. Nothing tasted right anymore.

Slowly, the things that used to bring you joy started to feel like chores. Lunches with coworkers felt exhausting, conversations dull. Your roommate began spending more and more time at her girlfriend’s place, subtly reminding you that you’d probably need to find a new flatmate soon.

Good for her, you guessed. But you didn’t want to be alone. If you did, you would’ve rented a studio ages ago, you could afford it. You just didn’t want the silence.

Man after man, every date was a disaster, so bad you eventually deleted Tinder for good. You clearly weren’t ready to date again.

Without realizing it, Jean’s words and actions had cut deeper than you’d imagined. The fake confidence you’d felt right after the breakup was gone now, buried somewhere you couldn’t reach.

You were a shell of your former self and even that “former self” hadn’t really been you. It was confusing. You missed who you used to be, but the version you missed had never been whole. Jean had tried to shape you into what he wanted, and, in some cruel way, he’d succeeded. He’d twisted things so well that it had always felt like your doing—your choices, your own actions. He made it so you couldn't blame him.

Now, it was hard to even know who you were anymore. Most days, it was hard just to get out of bed. The hours stretched endlessly, and your days off were spent rotting under the sheets, staring at the ceiling, whispering what ifs into the silence.

At the end of that painfully depressing week—full of doubts, tears, and numbness—you woke up to find blood in your panties. Suddenly, it all made sense. The crushing weight, the spiralling thoughts, the constant ache in your chest, it had been your hormones all along.

Those fuckers were supposed to make you horny, not make you want to die.

Although, to be fair, the hormones did make you horny, just at the worst possible moment. It wasn’t exactly easy to find a stranger willing to sleep with you while you were bleeding. Jean had always said no, said it was disgusting, unhygienic. That had been a shock. Ryomen, on the other hand, had never hesitated. If you asked, he’d do it, gladly.

A true soldier isn’t afraid of a little blood on his sword, he’d once said, smirking like the bastard he was.

God, you missed him.

No, you shook your head. You didn’t miss him. You missed being desired. Being seen. Being loved.

Back on Tinder it was.

Tonight was the night. You could feel it.

Everything was perfect, your lingerie matched, the dress you chose showed just enough while still being flattering, and your makeup was soft but deliberate. A clean liner, a touch of blush, the perfect lip combo.

It was all perfectly curated for one thing : to finally get laid.

You’d been seeing a guy for a couple of weeks now—Liam. He was nice. Sweet, even. The kind who brought you flowers and told you how pretty you looked without making it sound rehearsed. He never pushed, never hinted at ending the night in your bed.

So after thinking it through, weighing every doubt and insecurity, you decided he was a good fit.

He picked you up with a quick kiss on the cheek before opening the passenger door for you. When you asked where you were going, he just smiled and said it was a surprise.

It made you feel giddy inside, your toes wiggling in your heels.

You should’ve known it was going to end badly the moment he pulled up in front of the exact same restaurant Jean had taken you to. Fate, clearly, had a sick sense of humour and this place hated you.

At first, though, everything went well. The conversation flowed easily, laughter coming naturally. It was always simple with Liam. This was your fifth date, and he still seemed genuinely interested in your little fixations. He never judged, always listened. It was sweet.

Until dessert.

You’d just handed your menu back to the waitress when you felt his eyes on you. He’d politely declined dessert, probably assuming you would too.

“What?” you asked, forcing a smile, telling yourself you were imagining it, that you were being paranoid.

“Nothing—” he said quickly, as if trying to stop himself. Then, after a pause. “I don’t mind that you’re… you know.” He waved a hand vaguely toward your body.

You blinked, septic. “That I’m what?”

“You know…” Liam trailed off, realizing too late what he’d said. “I mean, I really don’t mind. I’m just… not used to fat girls.”

You laughed then, a sharp, angry, humourless sound, watching his face twist in embarrassment, as if that would somehow make it better.

“Yeah, alright.” You sighed, pushing your chair back.

You’d been through this before, and you weren’t about to let it happen again. These were the early signs—the same ones you’d ignored with Jean. You weren’t going to make that mistake twice. You stood, grabbed your bag, and walked straight for the door. Liam’s voice followed you, calling your name, but you didn’t turn back.

Outside, the winter air hit you like a slap. Cold. Sharp. Real. And at this very moment, you were facing a dilemma—one that was resolved quite quickly.

“Fuck it.”

It was settled. Life was too short to deny yourself a good fuck, and you knew exactly where to find one, someone who wouldn’t flinch at the sight of you, who wouldn’t judge or hesitate.

By the time you reached his building, it was late.

00:27.

You hesitated for a second on the doorstep. He didn’t work Sundays, but he’d still have the week’s exhaustion clinging to him. You stared at the door, heart pounding in your throat, and prayed he wasn’t asleep when you finally knocked.

The door opened after a few seconds, and there he was—your ex. Ryomen Sukuna.

He looked the same and completely different all at once. Shirtless, of course. The dark sweatpants clung to his thighs, hanging lower on his hips than they should have, and for a fleeting second you wondered if he’d put on some weight. You knew those sweatpants. They hadn’t always fit like that.

The light from the hallway caught on the metal glinting from his skin, his piercings, a new one above his brow, small beads that shifted when he frowned at the sight of you.

“Look who came back,” he said, voice low, rough with sleepiness but laced with that familiar mocking edge. His mouth curved, not quite a smile while his eyes raked over your body. “Took your time.”

Walking here had drained you. Forty-five minutes alone with your thoughts had only made things worse. All you could hear was Liam’s voice replaying in your head, over and over again — fat girl. That’s what you were to the world. That’s what stuck.

Ryomen stepped aside, letting you in without a word. The door stayed open before you, he knew you’d follow. With a soft groan, he dropped back onto the couch, elbows braced on his knees watching as you locked the door.

You slipped off your heels by the entrance, the sound of the buckles filling the silence as he reached for the rolling tray. He must’ve been halfway through when you showed up—the blunt was nearly done by the time you joined him in the living room. For once, the timing felt right.

Leaning back against the cushions, he lit up and took a drag, eyes finding you through the smoke. His mouth curled into that familiar smirk as his gaze trailed down your dress. Another failed date—he didn’t have to ask. You could see the tease building behind his eyes, the words forming on his tongue.

“Do you think I’m fat?” you asked before he could say anything, your voice softer than you wanted it to be. The question hung there, naked, fragile. He was the only man you’d ever been able to ask.

He exhaled, smoke curling from his nostrils as he answered, simple, flat, without an ounce of doubt or hesitation. “No.”

When he caught the doubt in your eyes, the glint of tears you refused to let fall, his tongue clicked against his teeth, jaw tightening. “The fucker you were with,” he said, voice low, sharp. “He call you that?”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you dropped onto the couch beside him, the cushions dipping with your weight. He passed you the joint wordlessly, the ember glowing between his fingers.

You took a drag, coughed a little—it had been a long time—then another, slower one. The smoke burned its way down before melting into something warm that loosened your shoulders. It hadn’t reached your head yet, but your chest felt a little lighter.

“Said he wasn’t used to fat girls,” you muttered, eyes fixed on the smoke curling from your lips as you handed the joint back.

You heard him scoff, like what you’d said was the dumbest thing he’d ever heard. To him, it probably was. All those men you’d been dating clearly had a problem with your weight, just like little boys would. You needed real men, men who didn’t care about something so trivial.

“You really have poor taste in men,” he said, taking a long drag from the joint.

“You included?” you shot back.

“Especially me,” he smirked, winking.

Rolling your eyes, you got up suddenly and headed toward the bedroom. The dress felt suffocating, humiliating even. It was a reminder of how quickly all your hopes could be crushed with just two words : fat girl.

You rifled through his closet and felt a spark of relief when you found it : your favourite shirt of his. One you hadn’t been able to track down after moving out. It was old, soft, and faded, with the name of his high school rugby team barely visible across the chest.

He had been huge in high school, even back then. You swam in it now, a chubby girl, and it made you imagine just how massive he already was at seventeen.

For bottoms, you settled on one of his boxers, knowing anything else wouldn’t fit. Just the thought of how massive Ryomen was made your thighs clench together. That was when it hit you, how much you’d missed feeling small.

You returned to the living room and found him still holding the joint, offering it silently as you sat beside him.

“You ate this time?” he asked, raising an eyebrow, daring you to lie.

You nodded gently, holding the smoke in your lungs as long as you could before exhaling.

“Didn’t get my dessert, though,” you said, pouting at the memory of the lava chocolate cake you’d been eyeing all night. You’d watched it carried from the kitchen to other tables, but never yours.

Ryomen laughed from the other end of the couch, shaking his head. He knew your sweet tooth all too well—how, even when you were full, you’d never say no to dessert.

Silence hung for a few seconds before he heaved a heavy sigh and stood. Taking a last drag, you pushed the halfway-smoked joint into the ashtray on the coffee table watching him leave the room. It had been a while since you’d smoked, and you didn’t want to get sick.

A couple of seconds later, he returned, casually dropping your favourite ice cream into your lap. Another one of your habits he usually mocked : eating ice cream all year round. Winter, summer, spring, or fall—you didn’t care.

The next hour passed like that, quiet and easy. You both sat on his couch: you with your ice cream, him with his joint. On the TV, Love Is Blind: UK played, which was ironic considering you used to go to war just to get him to watch it with you back when you were together. Yet here he was, having put it on of his own free will. The gesture made you smile.

He was clearly trying to cheer you up. It was sweet. And, honestly, you didn’t need much more than that.

It almost felt like it used to—except now, you were both crammed onto one side of the couch, trying your very best not to touch. Painfully so. The slightest brush of knees or elbows and you’d stumble over apologies like you’d burned him while he would only smirk. It was all very… awkward.

You were so caught up in the show that you didn’t notice Ryomen’s eyes lingering on you. It took a low whistle to pull your attention back to him—and God, what a sight.

Still shirtless, the soft light of the living room traced the ink that cut across his skin and face. His eyes were a little bloodshot, but you knew him, it took more than one joint to really get him high. The new piercing caught the light on his eyebrow, and you couldn’t help but think—he was beautiful.

And how fucking hard you had fallen after him.

“Wanna shotgun?” he asked, voice low but clear, nodding toward the almost-finished joint between his fingers.

Oh.

This wasn’t new, you used to do it all the time. You never really liked smoking, but you loved the way it made you feel, and he loved it enough for both of you. It had always been an easy compromise. Still, you hesitated. Just for a moment. Then Liam’s words flashed through your mind, sharp and uninvited. Maybe this would help push them away.

“Yeah.” You moved closer, settling on your haunches, ready.

A soft chuckle left his lips as he watched you, shaking his head. You frowned, unsure what you’d done wrong. Was he joking?

“Giddy up,” Ryomen said simply, his thighs spreading just a little wider.

“Ryomen…” you sighed, rolling your eyes at the implication. Sitting beside him would’ve been easier, safer.

“Come on, woman,” he said, a teasing glint in his eyes as they flicked down to your thighs. “Or I’m smoking the rest myself.”

The look in his eyes made you flinch before giving in, lowering yourself onto his lap. The low growl that slipped from his lips as your full weight settled against him made you second-guess yourself—and the situation—but when he didn’t move you away, you forced the thought aside. Forcing yourself to remembered how much he used to love it when he could feel you.

Your gaze followed the motion of his fingers as he brought the blunt to his mouth, inhaling deeply before leaning forward to put the joint in the ashtray. One warm hand rested against your lower back, steadying you—too close, too sure. Once he was back against the cushion, his other hand found your thigh, his touch deceptively light, almost absentminded, but the look in his eyes told a different story: a challenge, a question, and something that felt dangerously familiar.

As you leaned closer, a flicker of doubt crossed your mind. This was a bad idea. You should’ve gone home. You knew exactly how this would end, and it wouldn’t be pretty. But when his warm hand found your hips, fingers kneading gently as if testing your resolve, you told yourself that something that felt this good couldn’t be all that wrong. Right?

You parted your lips, waiting. A moment later, he exhaled slowly, pushing the smoke into your lungs. The sensation was achingly familiar. You let your eyes fall shut, inhaling deeply before releasing the breath in a long, steady exhale.

And before you could open your eyes again, his mouth was on yours. Hard.

This was what you’d been afraid of. It always went this way—the shotgun, the kiss, and then everything that followed. It was the very thing you’d come here for, and yet, now that it was happening, you knew it was dangerous. Not because of the act itself, but because of what would come after.

You’d broken up for a reason. All those awful dates, all that emptiness, they were reminders of that reason.

He hadn’t been the best boyfriend : blunt, sharp-edged, quick to anger, and far too honest for his own good. Then again, you hadn’t been the perfect girlfriend either. But it hadn’t been your hard truths that drove him away.

All of that was forgotten the moment you felt his tongue press against your lips, demanding entry, his hands gripping your hips and pulling you flush against his body. Against a very hard part of him.

Once you were settled exactly where he wanted you, he let out a deep, guttural growl—one that sent a shiver down your spine and straight between your legs. The smirk you felt against your lips told you he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

His kisses were filthy, all tongue and spit, just the way he knew would make your head spin. Taking your hand in one of his, he guided it down to between his legs, where you could feel the weight of his very hard cock.

“Missed him?” he asked, voice low and mocking as he pulled back just enough to speak, his breath still hot against your lips.

Then his lips were back on yours, and with a gentle squeeze, his hand left yours on his covered dick. The kisses were desperate, hungry, something else entirely. His hands roamed, gliding from your thighs to your hips, gripping the nape of your neck to pull you closer.

His lips traced your jaw, your neck, your collarbone—anywhere they could reach. He was marking his territory, you could feel the not-so-gentle nip of his teeth against your skin. Ryomen had always loved leaving his mark, with teeth or fingers, and he didn’t care as long as only he saw it.

He usually hid them in your inner thighs, on your breasts, or biting hard enough on your ass cheek, that it left an imprint of his teeth. You had never complained, and you weren’t about to start now.

“You have impeccable timing,” he groaned against your skin. You didn’t understand what he meant, though you guessed it was the rhythm of the squeezes of your hand on him. And frankly, you didn’t care. “Getting it pierced on Monday,” he muttered, his words low and teasing.

"Your dick?" You asked, still catching your breath from his kisses. As a reflex, your hand grabbed a little harder, earning a low, approving hum from him.

You felt him nod and hum, still pressed against your neck. What was it with all the new piercings? Truth be told, he had always been a little on the edgy side, with the countless line tattoos across his body and face, and the few piercings on his ears when you first met. Getting his nose or eyebrows pierced wasn’t exactly out of character—but his dick? That was something else entirely.

“Don’t worry, brat,” you could hear the smirk in his voice. “I’ll found other ways to keep you satisfied. Don't need my cock for that."

“You're not scared?” you continued, your other hand gently caressing the nape of his neck.

The question pulled him back from your neck, his eyes locking with yours. He pressed quick, almost restless pecks to your lips before answering. “Of?”

“Infection?” you deadpanned, as if he were being ridiculous. “You could lose it.”

He barked out a laugh, his whole body shaking. “I ain’t gonna lose my dick, woman,” he managed to say between bursts of laughter.

Just like that, his lips were back on your skin, and this time his hands pushed your shirt off your body. Once it was gone, he lingered for a moment, taking in the view, before his lips traced the newly exposed skin he could reach.

The warmth of him against you went straight to your head, maybe it was the weed finally hitting, maybe it was just him, but either way, you didn’t care. You wanted him closer. Needed him closer.

Pushing yourself a bit forward, you moaned when your core met his, rubbing your covered clit in a rushed move. It felt good, it had been far too long since anything had felt that good. Even with Jean, it had mostly been bland, all for his own pleasure.

A shiver of disgust ran through you, and you shook your head, trying to push the thought away. When that didn’t work, you tried to focus on Ryomen’s lips, now tracing your breast, but that alone wasn’t enough. You needed to know it was him. You needed his voice.

“What are you getting?” you blurted out, desperate for a distraction.

“Ampallang,” he replied quickly, as if he didn’t want to lift his mouth from your skin.

Frowning, you racked your brain, trying to remember if you’d ever heard of the piercing or if he’d mentioned it before—but you came up empty. You only knew of two: the Prince Albert and the Jacob’s ladder.

Was this another name for one of those?

“Which one is that?” you asked curiously, the distraction working better than you expected.

His face was now right in front of yours. By the look in your eyes, you could tell he was starting to get a bit fed up with your questions, but he also knew you well. He could sense your nervousness, and when you were nervous, you talked. A lot.

“The one going through the head, horizontal,” he explained, not pushing his lips back on you. He just knew you’d ask more.

After a few seconds imagining it, you frowned at him. “Why?”

“Why not?” he shot back, raising an eyebrow.

“Because it’ll hurt… a lot?” you said, as if it were the most logical thing in the world.

He let out a mocking laugh. “You just know that turns me on. And it’ll be worth it in the end.”

You tried to imagine it—the way it would feel, the way it would change things. But at the same time, it felt so far away, something that wasn’t meant for you. Just another mistake you’d enjoy in the moment and regret a few hours later, swearing once again that you’d never end up here.

“Why now?” you asked, just as his lips found your neck again. He scoffed softly, resting his forehead against your shoulder for a few seconds before meeting your eyes.

“Better do it while I’m single, you know…” he said finally, his tone casual, but the meaning was obvious.

“You can’t fuck with it?” It was a genuine question, though you realized how dumb it sounded the second it left your mouth.

It earned you another bark of laughter. “Not for a little while,” he said between chuckles, “and then I’ve gotta wrap it up for a few months.”

“Oh,” you mocked, feigning pity.

You remembered vividly how, when things had started getting serious between you two, he’d insisted on both of you getting tested, just so he could fuck you raw. If there was one thing Ryomen Sukuna despised more than anything, it was condoms.

Grinning, you reached up and squeezed his cheeks together, forcing his lips into a pout. “Poor baby,” you teased, voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Gonna have to go back to latex.”

The words had barely left your mouth when his eyes—red, glassy, and blown wide from lust and weed—narrowed. Before you could blink, one of his hands came down hard on your ass, the sharp crack echoing in the room. You gasped, half from surprise, half from how good it felt.

“Fucking brat,” he growled, before his mouth crashed back onto yours, dragging you closer until your bare chests met.

God, how you’d missed his body. Last time you were here, you’d only been able to look, to touch without taking. He’d pleased you without asking for anything in return. But now, your hands roamed freely across him : his chest, his shoulders, the ridges of his stomach—each one harder, broader, hotter than you remembered.

“You’re so big,” you breathed against his lips.

He hummed, catching your lower lip between his teeth. “Been working out,” he said with a smirk. “You like it?”

You nodded, maybe a little too eagerly, your fingers pressing into the solid plane of his chest before sliding down to cup one of your own breasts. “Bigger than mine,” you mumbled, almost to yourself.

His much larger hands replaced yours, cupping your breasts like they belonged there. His mouth crashed back onto yours as his thumbs brushed over your nipples, slow at first, coaxing them to attention before his touch grew rougher, hungrier. He squeezed, kneaded, tugged at the soft flesh until your breath broke into moans and needy whines against his lips.

Somewhere in the blur of it all, your body started moving on its own, grinding down against him, your meeting his in a rhythm that was all heat and instinct, every drag of friction sending sparks up your spine.

Ryomen’s laugh rumbled low in his chest, the sound wrapping around you like smoke. “Look at you,” he drawled, voice rough and edged with something that felt too much like possession. “Always the perfect slut for me.”

His fingers dug a little deeper into your skin, a reminder of exactly whose hands were on you. “Those little boys you date…” he scoffed, lips brushing your ear, “they can’t do what I do.” Then his tone dropped lower, almost a growl. “And you know it. That’s why you keep coming back.”

Without another word, he stood, lifting you effortlessly with your legs still wrapped around him. His hands were warm and steady beneath you, guiding you higher as he ground against you with a low, impatient growl. He didn’t bother turning anything off, just strode straight for the bedroom, where he dropped you onto the bed without grace or hesitation.

He made an quick job of his boxer and your panties, pushing them both of your body before he had your thighs on his shoulder, mouth going straight to work between your legs. You had thought he would fuck you instead, but he wasn't one to refuse his favourite meal.

His mouth moved like a man starved, guided by muscle memory and obsession. It had been too long since he had taste you, and the last time had him relapsing like an addict. He devoured you as if you were his drug, as if nothing else existed beyond the heat of your thighs on his head and the taste of you on his tongue.

There was no shame in the way he consumed you. No gentleness, either. Just raw, focused hunger. His grip on your hips was firm—bruising even—grounding you while your spine arched, your hands searching for something, anything, to hold onto, ending up in his hair pulling hard just like he loved.

A deep growl left him as he felt your fingers pulling at his scalp. He moaned against you, the sound low and guttural, as if you were unravelling something deep inside him.

His tongue worked wonders between your clit and your entrance, shifting back and forth as if he couldn’t decide where he wanted to lose himself more. One moment he was flicking your clit with maddening precision, the next he was plunging his tongue into you, deep and eager.

He sucked, nipped, licked, bit. Never staying in one place for too long.

Every movement was a new kind of torment, a new kind of bliss. The sounds he made were obscene, wet, messy, shameless. Each slurp and grown echoed in the space around you, louder than they should have been, filthy like you remembered him being.

Your head tilted back, eyes fluttering shut as your hips rolled instinctively against him, chasing the edge he was dragging you toward with every decadent stroke. The moans spilling from your lips sounded obscene, your body incapable of staying still. This was what you’d been craving on all those useless dates.

You should’ve known better. No one could ever be as eager, as filthy, as Ryomen Sukuna. His grip on you was possessive, almost suffocating—one hand locked around your hip, the other resting casually on your stomach. His palm was so large it nearly covered you entirely, and the realization of just how much bigger he was made another moan escape your throat.

You felt dizzy, from the pleasure and from the remnants of the weed still buzzing in your veins, but you didn’t want it to stop. You wanted him everywhere—his mouth, his hands, his heat—consuming every inch of you.

When his lips left your cunt, you were going to whine just as two of his fingers entered you without much problem. You were soaked, from pleasure and from his spit, it was all really filthy and the wet noises coming from his fingers thrusting inside of you made you clench hard on them.

“Fucking messy brat,” he said, voice dark with amusement. Nipping at your clit, he laughed when that got your back off the bed. “Filthy little thing.”

He knew exactly how much it turned you on when he spoke dirty like this—pushing just to the edge without crossing it. In his mind, your old safe word still existed, a boundary he respected. But a flicker of doubt passed through him, just enough to slow his movements, keeping him aware of how far he could push you.

"Remember your safe word, right?" he asked, his voice low and serious, fingers stilling completely. You nodded quickly, hips still grinding against his hand. The free one pressed hard against your stomach, halting your movement. "Say it for me, then."

"Red," you said quickly, breath hitching. "Ryo… please…" you whispered, trying to push your hips back into him.

Your reward was his fingers moving again, he even added a third one without much problem, paired with teeth sinking hard into the plush of your inner thighs, leaving a mark that would last for days. He didn’t dare break the skin, last time he had, you’d been mad at him for days, and he wasn’t in the mood for your whining right now. He much preferred the little pornographic sounds spilling from your lips.

"Damn," he mocked, his voice low and teasing, "that old fucker didn’t fuck you good enough for you to sound like a goddamn porn actress right now?" Then his tongue was back on gently licking your clit.

"Fuck off." you breathed out, pushing his head harder against you.

Oh no. You knew you shouldn’t have said it. In these moments, when he slipped into this dominant headspace, insults weren’t taken lightly. Just as you had predicted, his tongue stopped, his fingers withdrew, and in a matter of seconds, you were flipped onto your stomach. You barely had time to register the sudden shift when a heavy hand landed on your ass—hard. Punishing.

Another sharp smack landed on the other cheek, and a mix of a pained whine and a loud moan escaped your lips. This was exactly what you had missed: his roughness. Everything about him screamed dominance, he didn’t let insults slide.

"You know better, brat," he growled, and you felt his weight lift from the bed. Though you could have turned to look at him, to plead for mercy, you knew it would be useless. "You fucking know better."

When he landed back on the bed, you tried to push yourself up onto your hands and knees, only for another hard smack to land on your ass. "Don’t. Fucking. Move."

Forcing your legs open with his knee, you felt the tip of his cock meeting your soaked entrance. He was teasing you, rubbing your pussy up and down with his dick, knowing how it used to drive you mad—how unfair he could be.

"And here I was being nice, eating your little cunt," he spat out, his anger gaining the best of him. "Was even going to let you suck my dick, could see you salivating."

You hated how much he knew you, how right he was. All you could think about when he was between your legs was how much you craved the weight of him on your tongue, the way you could toy with him with just a few soft kisses on his tip.

All those daydreams evaporated the moment he entered you, fully, without a single pause. He did grant you a brief moment once you were completely full, letting you adjust yourself. Ryomen knew he was bigger than average, and while you used to go at it like rabbits when you were together, he assumed you hadn’t had something his size in a long time.

That brief pause was shattered by another hard smack on what you were fairly certain was already a marked cheek, making you moan. His large hands gripped both cheeks, palming and kneading them like dough.

"Didn’t tell you," he murmured, leaning close to your ear as if sharing a secret. "But you look fucking insane with all your fat back, woman."

And then he pushed himself back up, thrusting deep and hard into you, and he didn't stop. Like he hadn't just complimented you.

His words sent a shiver through you, half from the praise, half from the dominance behind them. Every movement of his hips pushed you closer to the edge, his size filling you completely, his hands never leaving your body.

In just a few seconds, your entire body was on fire, shaking with every thrust. He was in complete control, and he was damn good at it. It never felt like a chore for him—not like it had with Jean, who had always whined that he was doing all the work. Ryomen never complained, at least not about pleasuring you properly.

You tried to focus on him, to cling to the sensation, but your mind kept drifting—back to the nights with Jean, the hollow emptiness of those mediocre dates. As if he had a sixth sense, his thrusts suddenly grew more brutal, hitting that perfect spot inside you while his hands gripped and kneaded your body harder.

He groaned, leaning into you for a moment, teeth grazing the shell of your ear. "All this is fucking mine… don’t even think about anyone else while I’m inside you."

When he reached between your bodies, his fingers found the most sensitive spots with unerring precision, making your hips buck involuntarily, grinding against him even harder. He chuckled low and dark, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours.

"Fuck… always the perfect fit," he breathed, gripping you tighter, his movements relentless. "You weren’t made for anyone else but me. My perfect little whore."

The possessive edge in his voice made your stomach knot and your core thrum. You didn’t question it. You didn’t resist. Every trace of shame or doubt dissolved under the heat, the weight, the sheer presence of him.

The noises filling the room were filthy, a mix of skin slapping against skin, wet sounds, your moans, and his guttural groans of pleasure. It was overwhelming, your pleasure coiling tight in your lower stomach. Every sensation intensified when one of his hands settled on your neck, lifting you against him as if you weighted nothing.

Sweat ran down his chest, mingling with the sweat on your back, your spine arching in pleasure with every deep thrust as he grew harder. His grip on your throat was precise, controlling the flow of air to your lungs, melting your mind further under his dominance.

One of your hands found his on your throat, not to push him away, but to feel him. To anchor yourself in the reality of this moment. Your other hand dug into his powerful thighs, nails leaving half-moon marks, but he didn’t flinch. Instead, he marked you in return, teeth sinking into the back of your shoulder, leaving a sting that only heightened your pleasure.

The combination of pain, the relentless pistoning of his hips, and his fingers teasing your clit was too much. For a few seconds, your vision blurred, then went black as your body erupted, every nerve alight. A raw, ugly mix of groans and moans tore from your throat, not graceful, not pretty, but he knew exactly what it meant. He had succeeded.

Ryomen felt it too, your pussy clenching fiercely around him, almost as if trying to claim him entirely, to tears it off his body. The spasm of your pussy around him, the strangled sounds leaving your throat, pushed him past his limit, and with a guttural growl, he finally let go, splitting himself inside you.

For a few seconds, his hand stayed firm around your throat before finally releasing you, pushing your body down onto the bed, his own weight following right after. The full press of him against your back grounded you, heavy and warm, just the way you liked it after he’d been rough. You’d always needed to feel him close after, to feel his presence rather than his strength.

The realization that he still remembered—that he cared enough to do it—made your heart stutter, butterflies erupting low in your stomach. It had been hard learning how to live without him, and the thought of what might come after this night sent a small tremor of fear through you.

But that talk could wait. Especially when you felt him twitch and swell again inside you, coming back to life. Talking meant feelings, and feelings meant tears. You wanted to cry for entirely different reasons now.

In one effortless motion, Ryomen manhandled you, pulling out just enough to shift positions before sitting back on the bed with you still in his hold. He guided you onto his lap, your body sliding easily onto his cock again until you were seated flush against him.

Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, a silent permission and a silent trust. You knew you wouldn’t have to move much, he would take care of everything, like he always did.

Your arms looped around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair as you leaned in to kiss him. The shift in energy was almost disorienting. The kiss soft, slow, a stark contrast to the bruising pace from before. His hips moved lazily beneath you, rolling rather than thrusting, as if testing your limits, checking if you could still take him.

The quiet, breathy moan that escaped you was all the reassurance he needed. His movements grew firmer, deeper. His mouth was restless on yours, nipping, tasting, licking between murmured breaths—like he couldn’t quite decide if he wanted to worship you or ruin you again.

Once you broke the kiss, his movements only grew faster, his eyes narrowing with lust as he watched your face. Soft, unrestrained noises left your lips, half whimpers, half moans, as his hands came up to grab your cheeks, pushing them together into a pout, just like you’d done to him earlier. Except this time, his thumb brushed harshly under your eye, coming away smudged black.

Oh.

You must have cried from pleasure earlier without realizing it. Of course, that meant your makeup was ruined. You probably looked like a mess, streaked with mascara and eyeliner. With anyone else, you might’ve felt insecure, embarrassed that you weren’t perfectly put together. But Ryomen was different.

He’d seen you in every kind of vulnerability—sweaty, sick, trembling, drunk, crying, laughing through tears. A little smeared makeup wasn’t going to turn him off. If anything, knowing he’d made you cry like that would turn him on more.

As if reading your thoughts, his thrusts grew heavier, rougher. His hand came down hard on your ass before gripping it tightly, lifting you just enough so he could drive into you at his pace, deep, demanding, relentless.

His feet were planted firmly on the bed, driving his hips forward with an ease that felt almost instinctive as he rested sitting. The realization of just how strong he was sent a sharp thrill straight through you, pulsing low in your core. You could feel yourself getting even wetter within seconds, your body reacting before your mind could catch up. You couldn’t help it. He was too hot for his own good.

The sounds filling the room were obscene: the wet slap of skin, the creak of the bed, your moans tangled with his low groans. It was a familiar soundtrack, one you hadn’t realized how much you missed until now. You’d always prided yourself on having a “healthy” sex life, but this—this raw connection—made you realize just how dull things had been with Jean.

You shook your head, trying to drive away the thought of him, and buried your face in Sukuna’s neck instead. Your teeth found his skin, nipping hard enough to leave small marks, bruises that would fade just above the dark lines of his tattoos. His hands moulded into the softness of your ass, guiding your every movement. The scent of him, strong, earthy, masculine, filled your lungs until you were dizzy from it.

When your teeth got a mind of their own, his sharp hiss filled the air before his hand caught your jaw, pulling you away from his skin. He liked the pain—you knew that—but this wasn’t about pleasure, it was about control. He was in charge, and just to remind you, he pressed his thumb past your lips, the pad of it heavy on your tongue.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” he growled when he caught the spark of mischief in your eyes. You didn’t hesitate. Before he could pull away, you bit down—hard. “Fuck,” he hissed again, half in pain, half in dark amusement.

He groaned deep, driving into you with a sudden, harder thrust as he yanked his thumb from your mouth. The shift in pace pulled a breathless laugh from you, tangled somewhere between a gasp and a moan.

“Open your fucking mouth.” He didn’t ask, it was an order.

And you obeyed, no hesitation, no fuss. Your eyes were still glassy and blown, that perfect mix of fucked-out and defiant. With your lips parted wide in front of him—god, if he hadn’t missed that sight.

You knew what was coming. You were waiting for it. Your cunt clenched around him in anticipation, the kind of instinctive, desperate reaction only he could pull from you. It felt good to be filthy again—to be handled, owned, ruined. No one could ever compare to Ryomen.

A smirk curved his lips at your eagerness before he spat into your mouth, giving you exactly what you were craving. “Swallow.”

After you obeyed, his voice dropped to a low rumble against your ear. “Good girl.” The praise was followed by a gentle slap to your ass, less punishment this time, more possession.

After that, it didn’t take long for both of you to reach another earth-shattering orgasm, your bodies moving in perfect harmony, every thrust and breath aligned. It had been so long since you’d felt this kind of connection : raw, consuming, unfiltered. As the high began to fade, a dizzy, quiet realization settled in your chest.

He’d been right all along.

All those times he’d said “no one will fuck you like me,” or “nobody can make you come like I do,” and “you’re my fucking slut, perfect just for me.” Every word you’d brushed off, every time you’d rolled your eyes at his cocky grin… it all came rushing back now. Because deep down, you knew. He hadn’t been wrong.

Your body slumped against his, your head falling to his neck as you pressed soft, lazy kisses against his sweaty skin. That earned you a low scoff before he let himself fall back onto the bed, taking you with him.

The anger from before, the haze of weed, and the aftermath of two intense orgasms hit you all at once—you felt heavy, drowsy. He was so warm, so familiar. It was too easy to just close your eyes and let sleep pull you under.

“Don’t fall asleep on me now, brat,” he tsked, giving your ass another quick smack.

This time it actually hurt. The pleasure had faded, and the sting made you flinch with a soft whine. His hand immediately smoothed over the sore skin, an unspoken apology in his touch.

“Go piss and take a shower,” he muttered, pushing you upright, though you were still seated on his softening cock. “Gotta change the sheets, you made a mess, woman.” The mock in his tone was gentle, his fingers tracing slow circles on your hips, completely at odds with his words. That was him, though : rough mouth, tender hands.

You got up on shaky legs and headed toward his en suite. “Kicking me out already?” you joked, but there was a flicker of unease behind the words, a small, irrational fear that maybe he really would.

He leaned back on his elbows, watching you disappear into the bathroom. “Ain’t driving you home at two a.m.,” he said flatly.

You smiled to yourself. That was as close to stay as Ryomen Sukuna would ever say.

When you returned to the bedroom, Ryomen was lying on the bed—still naked—scrolling through his phone, waiting for his turn in the shower. On the nightstand sat a large glass of water and your phone, now charging. You noticed the sheets had been changed.

“Gonna make you pay my water bills,” he mumbled, brushing past you to get into the shower, leaving the bathroom door open.

Gracefully, you flopped onto the bed, not bothering to put any clothes back on. You gulped down the entire glass of water and scrolled lazily through your phone until your eyelids grew heavy. Setting it back on the nightstand, you crawled closer to the wall, letting yourself sink into his freshly made sheets. The pillows were still the same, still ridiculously comfortable.

Halfway between wakefulness and sleep, you felt his warm body slip in next to you. In an instant, his strong arm wrapped around your waist, pulling himself close, your bodies sharing the same pillow. You didn’t say a word as you settled back on the arm that was now below your head, just let yourself feel his presence, his warmth—all of it lulling you into a deep, peaceful sleep.

Ryomen was about to follow when your phone buzzed insistently on the nightstand. At first, he ignored it, but the persistent vibration soon grated on his nerves. Who the fuck was texting you at almost three in the morning?

His irritation spiking, he grabbed your phone and unlocked it with the password you always used. Dozens of pathetic messages greeted him, apologies from the guy you’d been on a date with tonight. “I didn’t mean it like that.” “You’re not that fat.” “I’d still fuck you.”

From the sloppy way they were written, Sukuna assumed the idiot was drunk, trying desperately to fix his mistake. A smirk spread across Ryomen’s face as his eyes flicked toward you, catching the teeth mark on your shoulder. His teeth mark.

An idea sparked. Quietly, he snapped a single photo of you, praying the flash wouldn’t wake you. He admired it for a moment before sending it. You were lying against his broad, strong bicep, your naked back exposed, the harsh red mark from his teeth impossible to miss.

After double-checking that nothing else was visible in the photo, Ryomen sent it with a message : Bet your dick’s small anyway, fucker. She wouldn’t even feel a thing.

Satisfied, he muted your notifications. A quick “read” appeared under his message, and he smirked before setting your phone back on the nightstand. Burying his face back into your neck, he inhaled the mix of your distinct scent and his own lingering body wash.

Fuck. He really had missed this.

It was the sudden cold that woke you. You’d been warm and comfortable all night, drifting peacefully in a haze of dreams, but now, that comfort was gone.

Groaning softly, your foggy mind tried to pull you back into sleep, to chase that familiar warmth you’d been wrapped in. Instinctively, you scooted backward, searching for it, but all you found was the faint heat left behind. The warmth you wanted had a body attached to it. A strong, broad, tall body. This was only the ghost of where he’d been.

Frowning in confusion, you pushed yourself up, rubbing your eyes as the comforter slipped from your chest, leaving you bare and exposed to the chill in the air. The room was freezing, the cold clearly coming from the open window above the desk across the room.

Typical Ryomen. He always ran hot but still wanted you close, and this was his compromise—letting the cold air in while he slept, just enough to cool him off. Usually, though, he closed it before you woke.

Blinking at the clock on the nightstand, you frowned again. Barely six a.m. You’d only been asleep for maybe four hours. Where the hell was he?

You squinted into the dim room, eyes still heavy with sleep, searching for him but finding only shadows.

“Ryo…” you murmured, your voice small and rough as you rubbed at your eyes again, the sound half-whine, half-question.

“Go back to sleep,” he replied immediately, his voice rough but calm.

You blinked a few times, finally catching the sound of movement coming from the bathroom. By the time your eyes adjusted to the dim light, he was stepping out—fully dressed. A fitted black long-sleeve shirt clung to his torso, matching compression pants beneath loose gym shorts. He was tugging a sweatshirt over it all, the faint smell of his detergent still clinging to him.

“What are you doing?” you asked softly, your voice still thick with sleep, your mind foggy and slow.

“Going to the gym,” he said flatly, not looking up at first as he pulled on his socks. When his eyes did flick toward you, they lingered, shamelessly tracing over the curve of your bare chest where the blanket had slipped.

“Oh… okay,” you sighed, letting the covers fall away as you started to swing your legs out of bed.

Before you could stand, warm hands caught your shoulders and pushed you back down—not gently. The blankets were yanked back over your body with practised ease.

“Did I say get up, brat?” he tsked, the faint edge of irritation sharpening his tone. One hand gripped your cheeks, squeezing them together, while the other tucked the blanket snug around you as if daring you to move again.

You blinked up at him, silent, then shook your head.

“What did I say?” he pressed.

“Go back to shleep,” you mumbled against his fingers, your words slurred by the pressure on your face.

A small smirk tugged at his lips. “Good girl,” he murmured, the tease gentle this time, punctuated by a quick, soft kiss against your mouth before he straightened up again. “Be back in a few hours.”

And with that, he was gone.

You rolled onto his side of the bed, a stupid grin tugging at your lips. Surrounded by his scent, his lingering warmth, and the memory of his touch, you felt like some lovesick teenager with a crush. It was ridiculous and yet, it made it far too easy to fall right back asleep.

Just like he’d promised, a few hours later you were stirred awake again, this time by a still-damp—but always impossibly warm—body pulling you close. The sudden motion should’ve startled you, but it didn’t. It was too familiar, too safe.

“Time to wake up?” you mumbled into the solid curve of his bicep, which had slid under your head.

“No.” That single word rumbled against your skin, and with it, you let yourself drift back into sleep.

A couple of hours later, you were sitting in his kitchen, dressed in your favourite shirt of his—large enough to cover your panties.

Ryomen was shirtless, wearing only a pair of sweat shorts that were unreasonably flattering on him. Your eyes trailed lazily over his back, following the dark lines of his tattoos as they curved over muscle, only to end, inevitably, on his ass.

He was moving around the stove, putting together some kind of brunch for the both of you—it was too late for breakfast but too early for lunch. Sitting there, you became aware of how sore your body felt, how tired you still were. It was a good kind of sore.

The kind you’d never felt with Jean.

A chill of secondhand embarrassment ran through you at the thought of him, and before you could stop yourself, flashes of your relationship played through your mind, his words, his tone, the little digs that had wormed their way into your head.

Some in particular.

Before you could stop yourself, your mouth moved faster than your brain.

“Do you think it’s weird?” you asked softly, eyes dropping to your lap.

“What?” Ryomen didn’t turn around, his focus still on the stove.

“My pussy,” you blurted out, instantly regretting it.

A thick, almost deadly, silence filled the room. You watched him freeze mid-movement, shoulders tensing. You knew you should’ve bitten your tongue before saying anything, but it was too late now.

When he finally turned toward you, his expression was unreadable—cold, sharp, dangerous. He looked every bit the predator he could be, and if you didn’t know him as well as you did, you might’ve been scared.

“What the fuck did you just say?” he asked, voice low and simmering with anger.

“Never mind. Forget it,” you mumbled quickly, unable to meet his eyes.

He leaned over the kitchen island, getting right in your face. Irritation flashed in his eyes, his jaw clenched tight as he studied you, reading you the way he used to. When you tried to turn your head away, his hand caught your jaw, firm but not painful, forcing you to meet his gaze.

Clicking his tongue against his teeth, he scoffed, low and sharp. “Don’t listen to the little boys you let fuck you. They don’t know fuck all,” he snapped his tone full of anger, turning back toward the stove.

With his back to you, he spoke again, voice lower but still edged with heat. “She’s normal. She’s a pussy. Nothing weird about her.”

She. Her. He talked about it like it was its own person, and somehow, that made your cheeks flush even harder. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding and pushed yourself off the stool, deciding to retreat to the bedroom under the excuse of grabbing your phone.

You should’ve known it was a stupid question. There’s no such thing as a weird or ugly pussy.

But when you picked up your phone, the screen lit up with dozens of new messages, and every ounce of colour drained from your face.

“What the fuck…” you muttered, scrolling.

Liam. Fucking whore. Little bitch. Motherfucker.

Your frown deepened, confusion twisting in your chest, until you reached it. A picture.

Of you. Naked, tangled in Sukuna’s sheets. The photo was taken from behind, his bicep clearly visible beneath your head. It left no doubt that the picture was taken by someone.

The little fucker.

Liam knew about Ryomen, briefly. It wasn’t something you talked about often. He didn’t know what he looked like, though, he had no idea about the tattoos, the dyed hair, the piercings that made him unforgettable. You’d mentioned a few exes before, Ryomen included, so in Liam’s mind this could’ve been any random stranger from a night out.

Not that it excused his words.

“You’re a fucking little shit,” you snapped, storming into the kitchen, your cheeks burning with anger and humiliation. The picture hadn’t been fully revealing, but it was enough. Enough to make your stomach twist.

“Excuse me?” Ryomen’s head turned, eyes locking on you. The irritation from earlier was still there, simmering under the surface.

“Fuck you, you know what I mean!” you shot back, your voice rising with every word.

He raised a single eyebrow, unimpressed. The gesture alone made your skin prickle. It wasn’t unusual for the two of you to curse each other out like this—it had always been part of your language, even when things were good. But this time, it felt different.

“The picture, Sukuna.” Your voice cracked slightly as you shoved your phone toward him.

His reaction was immediate. He snatched it from your hand, dropped it roughly onto the counter with a thud, and turned his back to you. The sound of his low, mocking laugh filled the room, a sound that crawled right under your skin.

“He should be lucky he even got to see that,” he said finally, the smirk spreading across his lips as he went back to the stove, acting like nothing was wrong.

The casualness of it, the pride, made your blood boil.

“Fuck this,” you muttered under your breath, spinning on your heel.

Back in the bedroom, you grabbed the first thing you could find—one of his tight gym leggings—and pulled them on, followed by the sweatshirt draped over the chair. Your hands were trembling, part anger, part humiliation, but you ignored it as you scanned the room for anything you might’ve left behind.

Your eyes landed on the dress and bra you had on the night before. Hesitation a few seconds, you left them behind. He could keep them, you didn't care.

Once satisfied, you rushed toward the entryway, only to groan when your eyes landed on the heels from last night. The last thing you wanted was to limp home in those, so an Uber it was. You still had Ryomen’s card linked to your app anyway.

Turning back toward the kitchen, you moved quickly, reaching for your phone where he’d dropped it earlier—the screen now cracked, a spiderweb of glass reflecting your own frustration. But before you could grab it, his hand shot out, fingers wrapping around your wrist in that firm, immovable grip.

“The fuck are you doing?” His voice was low, almost rhetorical, but there was an edge underneath it.

“Going home,” you spat, jerking your arm, trying to break free. “What I should’ve done yesterday.”

A humourless laugh escaped him, sharp, dangerous. He didn’t let go. His eyes narrowed, pupils blown wide with irritation. “Is that so?”

Leaning in, his lips grazed your ear as he spoke, voice low and cutting. “Could’ve fooled me with those little pornstar moans of yours.”

Your turn to laugh, mocking, defiant. Rising onto your toes, your lips brushed his ear, your words deliberate and venom-sweet. “Yeah? That’s the only thing you’re good at. Fucking.”

Scoffing, you felt him nod slowly. “Okay.”

Just like that, he was behind you, turning you toward the counter, both your hands landing on the wood. His strong, heavy hands pushed your leggings and panties down just above your knees. With his feet, he spread your legs, and the hand that wasn’t holding you in place found its way to your cunt.

“Fucking soaked,” he mocked, sinking his teeth into your neck. “Little slut you are.”

His fingers began teasing and exploring the mess between your legs, all while the argument you two loved so much fuelled the fire. You could feel him pressing hard against your ass, shamelessly rubbing himself against you.

"But only for me," he growled as his fingers slid inside you. Without hesitation, he started moving them in and out, pushing out even more wetness. The sounds were filthy, just like his words.

"You're acting like I sent him a picture of your fucking cunt," he growled, his fingers never slowing.

You tried your best to stay quiet, but it was impossible. All your anger melted away, replaced by the sharp, building pleasure he guided you through.

"Did you even see why I sent it, hmm, brat? Did you see what he said?" His voice was low and dangerous, right in your ear, each word dripping with anger. "You're here all cute, trying to insult me, but did you see?"

When you didn’t answer, biting your lip to control the sounds escaping you, he spanked your already sore ass hard. "Fuckin’ answer me. Did. You. See?"

"No," you whimpered.

At your answer, his finger froze, still deep inside you. "Look," he ordered.

A heavy hand landed on your ass again when you didn’t move. Clumsily reaching around for your phone, you scrolled through the still-open conversation. Your tears blurred the messages, a mix of pain and pleasure clouding your vision.

Then you saw them, above the picture. The fucking messages.

You're not even that fat. I'd still fuck you.

"Ryo…" you whispered, feeling suddenly foolish.

The picture had been unnecessary, but now you understood why he’d sent it. He was mocking Liam, cucking him in his own way. It was Sukuna’s way of showing that Liam was a piece of shit who didn’t deserve you. His methods were questionable, but the intent was clear—he was defending you. In a very shitty way.

"Don’t fucking Ryo me now," he growled, his voice low and dangerous, his finger moving again in a relentless, punishing rhythm. Every thrust was a statement, every movement a reminder : you were his, and anyone else who thought otherwise was beneath contempt.

Only he could make you feel like this. Only he could ever fuck you the way you wanted.

Tears streamed freely down your cheeks, but you didn’t want him to stop. Even with your body still sore from the night before. Even with your orgasm building faster and hotter than before, your pussy still trembling and sensitive from earlier.

You clenched hard around his fingers, grinding and pulsing, desperate for release. Every nerve in your body screamed for it, but just as you were right on the edge, the gates slammed shut. Ryomen withdrew his fingers, leaving you hanging, your climax ripped away in an instant.

Of course. You should have known better.

“Ryo—” you gasped, pressing back against the counter, your thighs trembling as the sudden emptiness left you frustrated and aching. Your chest heaved, eyes wide and glistening, and every nerve in your body screamed for just a taste of release.

He smirked, watching you struggle, enjoying every second of your desperation. “Did you think it’d be that easy, brat?” His voice was low in your ear, thick with amusement and dominance, sending another shiver down your spine.

Before you could even protest, his strong hand landed on your ass, gripping tightly, pulling you flush against him. “You’ve been fucking mean, haven’t you? Thinking you can insult me and get away with it.” His other hand snaked around, teasing your clit, the friction building impossibly fast.

You whimpered, trying to find words, but they wouldn’t come. Your body was betraying you, hips jerking involuntarily against his hand, craving what he so deliberately withheld.

“You're my fucking slut, right?” he murmured into your ear, teeth grazing the shell as his fingers started moving again, slow at first, just enough to tease, making your frustration coil tighter.

“Yes… please… Ryo, please…” you gasped at the pleasure, voice breaking, body quivering.

He chuckled darkly, the sound vibrating in your ear. “Say it. Fucking say it.”

At this point, you would have done anything he told you just to come. You felt safe with him, knowing that even now, if you said your safe word, he would stop without question. It was with that comforting sense of safeness that you let out the next words, breathless and trembling. “I’m your slut, Ryo. Yours.”

“You’re fucking right,” he growled, his voice low and possessive. And just like that, his pace increased, fingers sliding in and out with expert precision, hitting exactly where you needed, dragging you closer to the edge but never letting you fall.

Your cries and whines filled the room, echoing off the walls, your body trembling under his control. He was relentless, a master of teasing, and every nerve ending in your body was on fire, screaming for release that he refused to grant… for now.

After what felt like an eternity of ruined orgasms, you finally felt the press of his cock at your opening, slick and insistent. Your cunt was dripping, your pelvis and inner thighs slick with your own wetness and his teasing fingers.

He entered you without mercy, driving deep in an instant, his hips snapping forward with brutal hunger. Every thrust was precise, punishing, and worshipful all at once, sending shock waves of pleasure through your body. You clung to the counters, nails digging into the wood, your breath coming in ragged gasps as he set a pace so wild, so unrelenting, you couldn’t even think, only feel.

He didn’t bother making it comfortable, standing at his full height as he drove into you relentlessly, forcing you onto your tiptoes with every brutal thrust. The angle he took was maddening, you could feel him entirely, every vein, every inch of him. Each movement pressed against that perfect spot inside you, making you see stars.

This was the advantage of being with someone you’d known intimately for so long : if they weren’t a complete idiot, they knew exactly what you liked.

“You know what,” he growled in your ear, breathless and hot, “since you defended him so passionately—”

“Didn’t defend—” Your protest was cut off as two of his fingers forced their way into your mouth, pressing against your tongue, deep enough to make you gag slightly before settling somewhere you could handle.

“Since you defended the fucker,” he repeated, voice low and spiteful, “I’m gonna let him hear you. Let him hear what he missed being so fucking dumb.”

Without ever slowing his hips, he unlocked your phone and started a voice message from Liam’s conversation. Even as you tried to stifle your moans, using his fingers in your mouth to quiet yourself, the sound of wet skin slapping against skin echoed through the kitchen—unmistakable.

“Come on, brat,” Ryomen commanded with a particularly deep thrust, forcing a loud moan from you. “Don’t get shy on me.”

He pressed his fingers harder against your tongue, eliciting a deep gag from you, and a low, amused laugh rumbled from behind you.After that, you couldn’t hold back anymore. Moans and whines spilled from your lips as the pleasure coiled in your lower belly, threatening to consume you.

“I’m being generous,” he said after a minute, though it was clear he wasn’t speaking to you. “Wank your tiny dick to this motherfucker.”

Then he ended the audio, sending it off, and pushed your phone away. In an instant, his fingers pinched your nipples beneath your shirt, teasing them hard. Drool dripped from your mouth, onto his hands, across the counter—but you didn’t care. All that mattered was cumming, and you were so, so close.

It was going to be a big one. After so many ruined orgasms, this one promised to be explosive.

“Oh yeah, I can feel you clenching around me. Perfect fucking pussy. Maybe I should send an audio to this dumb fucker too. What do you think?” he mocked, pressing soft, teasing kisses along your neck.

Shaking your head, you rejected the idea, and he rewarded you with a low, mocking laugh. “Bet he’s never heard you like this anyway.”

His fingers left your nipples, barely grazing your throbbing clit and that was all it took. Pleasure erupted. You bit down hard on the fingers still in your mouth, tasting metal as your body convulsed, your orgasm tearing through you with unmatched force.

“Fuck, baby,” he moaned behind you, his hips locking deep inside you, thrusts sharp and punishing.

The pain from your teeth breaking the skin only fuelled him, and you felt his own release pulse within you, the heat and weight of him driving both of you to the edge.

His hips continued for a few more thrusts before he finally stilled, his body slumping against yours. His forehead rested lightly on your shoulder as he tried to catch his breath. Reaching over blindly, he turned off the stove, and you glanced at the food, perfectly cooked.

He withdrew his fingers from your mouth, letting his hand settle gently on your stomach, pulling you closer. Soft circles with his thumbs traced comforting patterns across your skin. The gesture was unspoken yet clear : I’m sorry I was so rough.

As he pulled out, you let out a small wince at the movement. His other hand reached for a paper towel, carefully catching his cum before it could make an even bigger mess between your legs. The kitchen was filled only with the sound of your laboured breathing and the quiet intimacy of the moment.

Once he had cleaned you up as best he could, he tugged your panties back into place before kneeling behind you. He pressed two gentle kisses on your ass—one on each cheek—a quiet, almost reverent gesture that left a soft heat lingering in the air.

Still kneeling, you felt his forehead press lightly against your ass before he let out a heavy sigh. "Stay for the food?"

All the anger you had felt earlier had melted away, and the thought of going home didn’t appeal to you at all. Especially now, when your legs felt like they might buckle under you. A barely audible yes escaped your lips, and he responded by slowly sliding your leggings back up over your legs.

With a final gentle pat on your hip, he pulled his shorts back up—still dangerously low—then turned back to the stove. He filled two plates to the brim and poured two glasses of water.

"Go on the couch, I’ll be right there," he said, his voice soft and low.

Shakily, you made your way to the living room, ignoring your phone buzzing incessantly with texts and likely calls. None of it mattered. A twisted part of you had been impossibly turned on by Ryomen’s earlier actions, and anger felt distant and undeserved at this point.

Settling into the couch, you found yourself leaning against him, cuddling eagerly into his half-naked warmth while you devoured your food. Sukuna had resumed Love is Blind right where you had left off yesterday.

The conversation was light, focused on the couples on the screen. No mention of earlier, of the night you had shared, or what it had meant for the both of you. That was a conversation for another day.

A couple of hours later, you still hadn’t gone home. You were drifting in and out of sleep, fighting to stay awake just long enough to catch the couple drama in the new season. You were sprawled across Ryomen, fully pressed against him. One of his arm was draped across your back, caressing it softly while the other rested behind his head.

“What time do you get pierced tomorrow?” you asked randomly, remembering the conversation you’d had on this very couch.

“Six. Wanna come?” he replied immediately, eyes never leaving the TV.

Hesitating, you tried to remember if you had anything planned for the day. When your mind drew a blank, you nodded against his chest. “Yep.”

“Gonna miss fucking you raw,” he muttered.

“Who said I’m gonna let you fuck me again?” you teased, biting down lightly on his pec.

A soft spank landed on your ass in response, and he let out a low scoff, his lips curling into that infuriatingly smug smirk.

It was all so soft, so warm, so comfortable that you couldn’t fight sleep any longer. Not that it was unusual, Ryomen was used to you passing out anywhere, anytime. And unlike a certain someone from your past, you knew he wouldn’t mock you for taking it easy on your day off.

Just as your eyes were fluttering closed, a thought slipped out.

“You owe me a new phone,” you mumbled, pressing your cheeks deeper into his chest, as if trying to melt into him.

A gentle laugh rumbled through his chest, making your body tremble slightly. “Yeah… you’ve got a few people calling after you.”

©fromsil.

a/n : this man has taken over my life in seven episode...i can confidently say you can expect more jjk men soon

[velaenam]

what are we, again?

18+ SMUT! sanemi shinazugawa x reader (w.c: 25.9k)

tags: slow burn, angst, nsfw, smut, p in v, unprotected, bratty reader, hard to get trope, fucking, raw, dog, sex lol synopsis: you're not getting a synopsis. enjoy slow burn RN!!! notes: i am literally obsessed w/ this story. i stayed up for 2 days writing this. oh my god. writing utensil in the hands of a jester.

the light from your phone glows soft against your face, the only thing moving in the room besides the flicker of the fight on tv. sanemi’s sprawled on the couch beside you, one arm thrown over the backrest, the other gripping a can of beer that’s probably gone warm by now. you’ve been swiping for twenty minutes straight, giggling under your breath, legs lazily draped over his lap like you own the place—WHICH YOU DO.

“what about this one?” you say, tilting your phone toward him. there’s a picture of some guy at the beach, abs flexed like he’s auditioning for a thirst trap competition.

sanemi doesn’t even glance at it. “looks like he moisturizes too much,” he mutters, eyes fixed on the tv. the crowd roars; he doesn’t blink.

you hum. “so? hygiene’s important, y’know.”

he snorts, leans forward just enough to grab the remote and turn the volume up. “yeah, if you’re dating a goddamn commercial.” you roll your eyes, scrolling again, pretending you don’t see the way his jaw’s working. “you’re so picky for someone who’s single, nemi.”

he tenses when you say his nickname, quick glance cutting your way. “not picky. i just—” he gestures vaguely at your phone. “don’t get why you waste your time on idiots who look like they’d cry if their protein shake spills.”

you laugh, tapping the screen again. “then who should i be wasting my time on?” and that’s the thing about him. he doesn’t answer. doesn’t even look at you. just takes a long swig of his beer, the muscle in his jaw ticking, the tv light flashing across his face.

“not those assholes,” he says finally, quiet enough that you almost miss it. you grin, stretching your legs, brushing your feet against his thigh. “so who, then?”

he shifts, grabs the remote again. “watch the fight,” he says, voice low. you smirk, tilting your head. “you’re jealous.” his eyes flick toward you—sharp, unreadable—and then back to the tv. “in your dreams, princess.” but his grip on the beer can is just a little too tight.

you tilt your head toward him, still swiping, voice lilting with mischief. “you know beer isn’t good for you, right?” he doesn’t even look away from the screen. “yeah? neither’s wasting your time on tinder clowns, but here we are.”

you gasp, dramatic, pressing a hand to your chest. “nemi, stop being so mean to me.”

he grins at that, finally looking at you. that sharp, stupid grin that never quite reaches his eyes when he’s trying too hard not to show how soft he feels. “mean? that’s rich. you been ignoring me for the last half hour to flirt with men who probably can’t spell their own names.”

you stretch, feet nudging his thigh again, your smirk matching his. “i wasn’t flirting. just… evaluating.” — “yeah? evaluating what? which one’s gonna break your heart faster?”

you roll your eyes, laughing. “you’re insufferable.” he leans back, one arm still slung behind you, voice dropping lower. “and you like it.” the words hang there, heavier than he meant them to be. the crowd on tv cheers, the commentator shouting over the roar, but neither of you move. 

you hum, soft and teasing. “maybe i do.” and for a second, he just stares. eyes flicking to your mouth, then back up like he regrets it instantly. he clears his throat, turns back toward the tv. “you’re hopeless.”

you smile into your drink, small and knowing. “guess that makes two of us.”

you wait for the next sip of his beer before you say it. wait until he’s just started to lift the can to his lips, all distracted and grumbly and pretending not to watch the way your tank top slides down your shoulder. then you strike.

“for the record,” you say, casually, like you’re still talking about the weather, “i was evaluating who could break my back in bed the best.”

his sip stops halfway. he chokes. splutters. coughs once, hard, the can thudding to the coffee table as he glares at you like you just declared war. you just grin. slow. all teeth. and wink. “you’re not funny,” he rasps, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“i’m hilarious,” you hum, sinking deeper into the cushions, stretching like a cat, all long lines and lazy smugness. “but go ahead. keep pretending it doesn’t bother you.”

he shifts beside you, shoulders tense, jaw locked. his knee bumps yours when he adjusts, not entirely by accident. “you think any of those guys could even handle you?”

you glance at him. “nope. that’s why i was hoping someone might volunteer to show me what i’m missing.”

he stills. you watch the slow rise and fall of his chest. the way his fingers flex once against the cushion. “don’t play with me,” he mutters, voice like gravel and warning and something else you can’t name yet.

you smile, soft now. quieter. “who says i’m playing?”

and just like that, the silence between you stretches taut. no laughter. no flirting. just the slow thud of his pulse in his neck, and the way he’s finally looking at you like he’s trying to decide whether to ruin everything or say screw it and ruin you instead.

the notification pings soft between you, that little chime cutting through the low thrum of the tv. you glance down at your phone, grin curling slow.

“oh,” you murmur, thumb brushing the screen, “new match.”

sanemi doesn’t look right away. but he hears the tone, the way your voice tips at the end, and glances anyway. one look at your screen and his entire face changes.

“what the fuck—” he leans closer, squinting. “gyomei? gyomei?? what the hell is a monk doing on tinder?!”

you bite your lip, trying not to laugh. “guess he’s looking for love like the rest of us.”

“he’s a..” sanemi says, like that explains everything. his eyebrows are doing a full gymnastics routine. “he’s too— i don’t know—holy for this crap.”

you hum, tapping your finger against the phone thoughtfully. “so you’re saying he’s out of my league?” his head snaps toward you so fast it’s a miracle he doesn’t pull something. “that’s not what i said.”

“hmm. sounds like it.” you grin, clicking the heart without hesitation. “well, too late now.”

“you didn’t—” “i did.”

his jaw tightens, the muscle in it jumping. “you’re unbelievable.” you tuck your phone to your chest, tilting your head. “what, jealous of a match?”

“jealous?” he scoffs, but it sounds thin, brittle around the edges. “of some monk who probably meditates before sending a text? yeah, right.”

you lean in, your smile gone soft and daring. “so you wouldn’t care if i went out with him?”

he goes still. absolutely still. then, quietly, teeth clenched—

“you’re not gonna.”

and you laugh, sweet and taunting, pretending to swipe again while his hand twitches like he’s fighting the urge to snatch your phone away.

you open instagram like a bored habit and there he is right at the front, red ring around his icon practically pulsing. you tap and it’s him in the gym mirror, shirt off, sweat gleaming down the cut of his stomach, towel slung careless over his shoulder, knuckles bandaged. the caption is something criminally unserious like focus up with a sparkle emoji and you actually laugh, head tipped back against the couch.

you slide up before you can talk yourself out of it.

nice shoulders, shame about the personality.

the typing bubble pops up immediately, disappears, pops up again like he’s arguing with his own thumbs. then:

that mouth of yours really came on here to talk to me before breakfast

you grin, already ruthless.

be honest, you posted this for me. i see the thirst in your little vein

there’s a beat. a picture comes through, taken lower, closer, his hipbone peeking, water bottle against his thigh, the shadow of a smile in the mirror behind the flash. then his message lands:

calm down, menace. go ask your new boyfriend gyomei to like your little jokes

you snort out loud.

don’t be jealous, it’s unflattering on a man who moisturizes with motor oil

instant reply.

bold talk from a gremlin with a 5’2 wingspan

you gasp like it’s real. fingers fly.

that’s not even right. also your form on those curls was mid at best, get a spotter grandpa

he sends a voice note, the kind he only sends when he’s a little out of breath, low and scratchy in your ear. you hear the clink of weights and the faint echo of the gym, his laugh under it, rough. “you stalking my form now, short stack? that’s cute. save your critiques for the monks you’re courting.”

your smile gets mean and sweet at once.

you keep bringing him up, if you’re that curious maybe i’ll invite you to the wedding

“over my dead body.” another voice note, closer, you picture him leaning on the mirror, hand on his thigh, eyes slit low like he’s squinting at his own reflection. “and stop looking at my story like that.”

like what, you type, feigning innocent.

“like you want to bite.”

your legs pull up under you on instinct, blanket trapped in your fists, the way he says it sinks hot in your lungs. you angle for blood.

i do, i’m just deciding where to start

silence, then the little bubble stutters again. he sends a photo instead of an answer, not as revealing as it could be, somehow worse, a close crop of his throat and the line down his chest where sweat slicks into the valley, the caption typed lazy across the bottom. try me, coward.

you grin into your phone, wicked.

coward? okay then, flex again for the camera old man, make it worth my time

“you’re insufferable.” another voice note, and you can hear the smile he’s trying to choke down. “and you like it. don’t skip the part where you say you like it.”

your thumb hovers, indecisive, then you send a heart just to make him flinch, follow it with:

hit me with your best, nemi. impress me.

the dots appear. stop. appear again. your screen lights with an incoming call, his name bright and familiar, and when you swipe up he’s already flipped to the front camera, still shirtless, breath a little fast, grin all teeth and trouble as he lifts the phone enough to make your mouth go a little dry, the gym noise a soft band of sound around his voice when he says your name like he’s cussing and thanking someone in the same breath, like he’s about to ask what you’re doing later and if you’re still talking to monks or if you’re ready to be a nightmare exclusively on his time

you’re walking the produce aisle like it’s a runway, basket on your arm, sanemi half a step behind you with his hands stuffed in his hoodie like your personal homeless stray who decided he lives here now. he keeps bumping the back of your heel with the cart he insisted on grabbing, just to hear you yelp and glare at him. he grins every time.

“what about pasta,” you say, reaching for a box like you didn’t just grab the prettiest color. “cacio e pepe, easy, cute.”

he makes a face so offended, “box pasta and powdered cheese, that what you feeding your monk boyfriend.”

“he’s not my boyfriend,” you hum, dropping the pasta in the cart anyway. “and it’s not powdered. it’s aged.”

“aged my ass,” he mutters, picking the box back up to read the label like he’s conducting a crime scene sweep. he puts it down and reaches past you for a semolina brand you did not ask for. “this one doesn’t suck.”

you pivot to tomatoes, pop one from the vine to smell it, bright and green at the stem. he watches the way you do it like you just grew a second head. “you gonna sniff the basil too or you just pretending to know what you’re doing.”

“i know what i’m doing,” you say, which is funny because you promptly grab the saddest jar of marinara on the shelf. his hand snaps out, taps your wrist.

“absolutely not.”

“it’s convenient.”

“it’s sugar and shame.”

you stare him down, then toss it in the cart on purpose. he plucks it back out with a scoff and replaces it with whole peeled san marzano. “if you’re gonna corrupt your insides, at least do it with good ingredients.”

you wander to the meat section and point like a game show host. “chicken, steak, or something ground. decide your protein, sir judge a lot.”

he eyes the options, “that steak is too thin, that chicken is dry just from looking at it, and ground turkey is a cry for help.” he reaches into the case, picks a thick cut with practiced fingers, checks the marbling. “this. salt, pepper, pan hot. don’t touch it until it tells you to.”

“gordon ramsey?”

he rolls his eyes and adds a carton of eggs like an afterthought. you lift a brow. “midnight omelets,” he says, not looking at you. “in case your fancy noodles fail.”

you float toward the bakery, fingertips brushing glossy brioche. “bread is dessert that never learned self control.” he still grabs a loaf and throws it in the cart. “for sopping. you’re not wasting the juice.”

“don’t say that word, ‘nemi.”

“sopping.”

you detour for greens, start toward the bagged salad like a heathen, and he herds you by the hip with the cart, gentle and bossy. “we’re not eating plastic leaves. pick romaine that doesn’t look like shit.” he hands you a head that is crisp and smugly alive.

you add lemons, garlic, a fat bunch of parsley because it looks romantic in the basket. he’s trailing so close the heat of him whispers the back of your neck. every time you stop, he stops a breath from your shoulder. every time you move, he moves with you like gravity.

“wine,” you say, pointing.

“you’ll pick the label with the prettiest animal,” he says, already reaching for a bottle that looks more his style, “this one won’t fight the food.”

“so you are jealous,” you sing, and his eye twitches.

“of fermented grapes?” he deadpans. “yep. real rivalry going.”

you catch him sneaking a look at your phone in the crook of your elbow. his mouth goes flat. “if gyomei sends you a recipe recommendation, i’m blocking him from your contacts.”

“he sent a prayer hands emoji,” you say, delighted. “i think he’s rooting for me.”

“great,” he says, grabbing a pepper grinder the size of a bat. “you can ask him to season your steak through telepathy.”

at checkout he insists on bagging, rough hands careful with the eggs, careful with the tomatoes, careful with the bottle you know he picked so you’d like it. he tucks the herbs on top like a bouquet and pretends he really didn’t try to just lamely impress you.

outside, the evening is soft and gold and he falls in beside you, two bags on one forearm like it weighs nothing, your shoulder brushing his on the walk to the car while you argue about cast iron versus nonstick and whether you’re allowed to add chili flakes without him throwing a fit.

the bakery’s door chimes when you push it open, the kind of sound that already smells like sugar. the air inside is warm, heavy with butter and vanilla, cinnamon hiding somewhere in the back. you catch sight of her right away—mrs. yamada, her gray hair in a tidy bun, her apron dusted white. she looks up from behind the counter and her whole face lights.

“oh, it’s my favorite girl,” she says, wiping her hands on a towel. “and you brought your boyfriend!”

you don’t even have time to respond before sanemi’s brow goes up. his head turns toward you like he’s waiting for a correction, a flicker of something sharp and smug beneath the surface. like what’s your response for this one? 

you laugh, bright and easy, waving your hands. “oh no, mrs. yamada, he’s like a brother to me.” in the distance you could hear glass shattering. 

brother?!

the words barely leave your mouth before you feel it—the way the air behind you changes. he goes still. completely still.

mrs. yamada claps her hands together, unbothered. “oh! how sweet. you two bicker like siblings anyway.” she winks and bustles toward the pastry case, muttering about red bean buns, already pulling tongs.

you turn just enough to glance at him. his jaw’s tight, that tick again, the one you love to draw out.

“what?” you ask, grin creeping.

“brother?” he says it quiet. flat. like the word itself has insulted him.

you pick up a tray, light as ever. “yeah, brother. you’re always yelling at me to eat properly, scolding me for dating, telling me what to do—sounds pretty…. brotherly.”

he stares at you for a long moment, then exhales through his nose, low and rough. “yeah,  you’re outta your fuckin’ mind.”

“what? it’s not an insult.”

he leans in then, slow, voice pitched just for you. “you ever call me that again in public, and i’m takin’ that bun right outta your mouth.”

your fingers pause over a sweet roll, eyes flicking up, pulse skipping. “you wouldn’t dare.”

he tilts his head, that wolfish smile curving. “try me.”

mrs. yamada turns back, handing over a neat little box tied with string, humming softly. you take it, thank her, and when you turn to leave, he’s already holding the door open for you, mouth set in that infuriating half-smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

outside, the air’s cooler, but his mood’s gone molten. “brother,” he mutters again, shaking his head. “you just love testin’ me, don’t you?”

you hum, skipping a step ahead, the pastry box swinging from your hand. “maybe i do.”

his hand finds your waist before you can take another step, firm, fingers pressing into the fabric just enough to make you catch your breath. “then don’t act surprised when i start playin’ too,” he says, quiet and low, and lets go before you can answer, walking ahead like nothing happened, like your pulse isn’t still fluttering against the place his hand just was.

he keys the ignition and growls at you to buckle up. you loop your seatbelt, already hunting through your phone. the second you claim the aux, bubble-bright synth fills the cab, sugary vocals skipping over the beat. sanemi winces.

“turn that off,” he says, fingers drumming on the wheel, knuckles pale.

“relax, brother,” you croon, savoring the spark in his eyes when you use the word. the volume nudges higher. the bass rattles the cup holders.

he mutters something about crimes against music and pulls out of the lot. streetlights smear across the windshield, gold on wet asphalt. you hum along, bite into the bun mrs. yamada wrapped for you: flaky shell, sweet white cream rushing over your tongue. perfect.

then the asphalt dips. the truck lurches. your elbow bumps the door and the bun smacks a fat dollop of cream straight onto your cheek. a splatter kisses the corner of your mouth, another dotting the curve of your jaw.

sanemi’s eyes flick sideways. linger. linger too long. the traffic light ahead blooms red.

you swipe a thumb across your cheek, lick the sugar clean. “eyes on the road, nemi.” your voice turns to pure mischief. “or were you admiring the view?”

his jaw works. “fuck off.” but he still hasn’t looked away. the red light halos the sharp line of his profile, the way his throat bobs when you suck cream from the pad of your finger.

“want a taste?” you offer the last bite, waving it under his nose. the light flips green; tires squeal as he punches the gas, your laughter tumbling with the pop song’s glittering chorus.

“keep that shit to yourself,” he snaps, but the flush cresting his ears and face glow hotter than the dashboard LEDs. you smirk, sink your teeth into pastry, let the cream ooze slow while the city slides by.

he clears his throat halfway through a chorus, knuckles tight on the wheel. “i need a plus one,” he says, like it’s nothing. “there’s an event. friend of mine’s throwing it. you’re coming.”

you snort into what’s left of your bun. “no, i’m not.”

his head jerks. “yes, you are.”

“no,” you sing, twisting the volume higher just to be a menace. “i hate those stuffy things. shoes that hurt. small talk that makes me want to chew glass.”

“it’s not stuffy….kinda” he argues, even though you know it absolutely is. “there’s an open bar. there’s food you’ll like. and i’m not showing up alone so you’re coming.”

you peep at him over the glow of your phone. “ask one of your gym girls.”

his jaw flexes. “i don’t want one of them.”

“aww,” you coo, dangerous sweet. “so you want me.”

i do, he exhales through his nose like he’s counting to ten. a red light paints his face. “i need you to do this. new suit. stupid theme. networking. i’m not making small talk sober and alone.”

you drag out the pause on purpose. “still no.”

he throws a small fit, the kind that lives in his shoulders and his hands. taps the wheel. mutters. changes lanes like he is punishing the asphalt. “you owe me,” he tries. “i fixed your sink. i carried your couch up three flights. i watch what you eat.i stood in a grocery aisle for twenty minutes while you chose pasta with your eyes. i have suffered.”

you grin slow. “dramatic.”

“yes,” he bites back, quick. “now say yes.”

you pretend to think. eyes on the window, city lights sliding syrupy and gold. “i guess i could be persuaded.”

his gaze flickers over. hopeful, sharp. “yeah?”

“yeah,” you say, and then twist the knife, lazy. “because i would never miss a chance to meet your hot friends. maybe they can take me home after.”

the silence sharpens. both hands clamp on the wheel. the tendons in his forearms pop. you watch the way he breathes slow, like he has to remember how.

“nobody is taking you anywhere,” he says finally, voice low and very steady. “you’re leaving with me.”

you lick cream from your thumb just to be cruel. “we’ll see.”

“no,” he says, firmer. “we won’t.”

the light flips green. he rolls forward, eyes forward, ears a little red now. you can feel the stubborn in the air like heat off a grill.

“what’s the dress code,” you ask, all innocence.

“black tie,” he says. “do not show up in those sparkly shoes. heels. the black dress. the one that makes me want to pick a fight with a wall.”

“you noticed that dress,” you murmur, pleased.

“everyone noticed,” he mutters, and then louder, like he can outshout his own admission, “be ready at seven. i’m knocking at 6:59. do not make me drag you out.”

“oh, i’m making you,” you say, sugary, and his hand twitches on the signal like he might miss the turn if you keep talking like that.

his phone buzzes on the console. you glance at the name. giyu. he flips it over, like it pissed him off, “and tell your monk to stop sending you emojis.”

“prayer hands is supportive,” you say. “he believes in me.”

“i believe in stopping this conversation,” he grinds out. “text me your size. i’m getting you a wrap. and earrings. you’re not wearing those cheap ones that turn your ears green.”

“so you are jealous,” you hum.

“i am prepared,” he says, which is funny because he looks anything but. “eat your bun. turn down this nightmare music. and text me yes so i can send you the details.”

you type a single heart and the word fine, dot dot dot, and then, because you live to watch him unspool, you add can’t wait to meet the hot ones with a winky face, and he pulls to the curb outside your place with a brake that says he is one second from climbing out and coming around to tell you with his mouth what no means, and when you unclip your seatbelt he leans in just a fraction, soft heat in the cab, voice rough.

“7,” he repeats. “don’t make me come get you.”

you slide out with your box of pastries and the softest laugh, call over your shoulder that you’ll be an angel, promise, and he mutters liar while you walk backward toward your door, his headlights painting your legs, his eyes on your mouth like he already knows what shade you’ll wear to the ball and exactly how long he’s going to stare at it while you pick your wrap and answer texts you shouldn’t be answering at all

you dress slow just to be evil about it. the black dress slides over your hips, satin catching the light where it clings. the push up bra does exactly what you bought it to do, tipping you up and together so the neckline looks dangerous and soft at the same time. you fasten the necklace last, a thin line of metal that drips from your throat all the way to your sternum, an arrow that says look here and keep looking. heels on. perfume at your pulse. gloss that makes your mouth look bitten.

he knocks at 6:59 like he promised. you open.

sanemi in a suit is a problem you are not morally prepared for. jacket fitted clean across his shoulders, shirt open one button lower than it should be so his collarbone teases you, tie loosened like he got annoyed trying to make it perfect. he’s all sharp edges with nowhere to put his hands. then he sees you.

the first look hits like a punch. his eyes catch on the line of the necklace and do not move. you watch his pupils kick wide. the second look is lower and meaner and something else, like he wants to curse and pray at the same time but refuses to give you the satisfaction of either. he remembers how to breathe and then promptly forgets again.

“go change,” he says, hoarse.

you tip your chin, innocent. “no.”

he swallows. tries to glare. fails. “you’re not leaving the house like that.”

“i am,” you say, picking up your clutch. “with you. be nice.”

he stands there a full two seconds, fighting god and himself, then exhales like he just lost. he thrusts a small bag at you. “wrap. earrings. put them on.”

you peek inside, grin. the earrings are simple and expensive. the wrap is soft, heavier than it looks. “you got me presents. romantic.”

“i got you armor,” he mutters. then, softer, “turn.”

you do. he steps in close to fasten the earrings, fingers steady even though you can feel the heat of his palm where it braces your jaw. he smells like subtle cologne and something darker that lives in his collar. he moves to lay the wrap over your shoulders and hesitates at your nape, thumb barely skimming the chain where it meets your skin. the touch is nothing. your body treats it like everything.

“nemi,” you say, sweet. “eyes are up here.” his gaze drags up slow like it costs him. “do not start with me tonight.”

“who started it when he told me to wear the black dress that makes him want to punch drywall,” you say, turning to face him. “hm?”

his mouth flattens. his cheeks are pink. “we are late.”

in the elevator he stands at your back, a full breath closer than polite, one hand braced above you on the rail like he can block the world with his arm if he has to. the doors open and he guides you out with a palm at your lower spine, not pushing, just there, anchoring.

you reach for the aux out of habit the second you slide into his truck. he swats your hand away, starts the engine, stares through the windshield like it will save him from you. “no pop. my brain cannot take chords that sound like glitter.”

you hum and queue a chorus anyway, low enough to make him sigh but not reach for the volume. city lights skim over the inside of the cab. at the next red he looks again. the necklace catches the dash glow and paints your sternum in a thin line of silver. his jaw flexes.

“you look unreal,” he says finally, like a confession.

“you should tell your friends so they know to be nice to me,” you say. “and to ask for my number.”

he laughs once, ugly and soft. “nobody is asking you for shit.”

your phone buzzes in your lap. you angle it so you can see and so he can see you see. a preview from gyomei sits there like a stone in a pond. hope your evening is lovely. take care. you send back a heart because you like watching sanemi pretend nothing moves him.

“text him again and i’m taking your phone,” he says.

“you can try,” you say, crossing your legs. the hem slides higher. he notices and immediately refuses to acknowledge that he noticed.

the venue eats the block when you pull up. glass and stone. warm light spilling across the sidewalk. he parks like a man preparing for war, kills the engine, rests his hands on the wheel for a second. then he turns to you and the pose shifts from careful to feral, something in him leaning forward like gravity got meaner.

“you stay with me,” he says, quiet. “if you need anything you look at me. not anyone else. not tonight.”

you smile. “clingy.”

“prepared,” he says, and gets out. he comes around, opens your door, offers his hand like he is a gentleman and not the same man who threatens to take pastries out of your mouth when you call him brother. his palm is warm. you step down, and his eyes dip one more time to where the necklace ends and you swear he flinches.

inside, the lobby is all polished stone and soft chatter. he checks you in with your name on his tongue like he is not used to saying it out loud. he sets the wrap more snug around your shoulders even though you try to shrug it off. he leans in to your ear. “be good.”

“define good,” you murmur, and he breathes out hard, one corner of his mouth betraying him.

you feel the turn of the room before you see it. a friend of his clocks you both from across the floor and comes over, tall, handsome, smile wide, tie undone, the kind of charisma that belongs on stages. sanemi’s hand tightens on your waist as the other man says your name like he wants a piece of you, eyes dropping to your necklace with appreciation that is not subtle at all, and your own smile goes bright and sunny as you say hello and watch sanemi try to decide whether to introduce you or set the entire building on fire while a server drifts by with champagne flutes that you take out of spite and because you like bubbles on your tongue, and a string quartet in the corner slips into something lush while the room starts to swell with more bodies and more heat and more eyes that find you and then find him and linger, the night just beginning to tip forward into a story you plan to make very difficult for him to survive without losing his mind at least once

sanemi’s hand has been at your waist since you walked in, warm and heavy, grounding and possessive in a way he won’t admit out loud.

but you’ve made an art out of escaping him.

he gets caught in conversation—something about work, or fighting, or whatever men with too much ego talk about—and you use the moment to slip from his grasp, light as a ghost.

you wander, half bored, half watching. the skirt of your dress flares as you walk, catching whispers of light. and then you see her.

kanae.

she’s stunning, of course. all delicate shoulders and petal-pink lipstick, the kind of woman who glows without trying. beside her stands her boyfriend—douma, tall and glassy-eyed, grin like a blade dipped in sugar. they look like a painting together.

you don’t even mean to smile, but you do. you smooth your hair, straighten the strap of your dress, and make your way toward them with the kind of grace that’s part confidence, part mischief.

“hi,” you chirp, voice sugar-sweet. “i don’t think we’ve met. i’m sanemi’s plus one.”

kanae turns, polite surprise in her face. “oh! hello. it’s nice to meet you. i’m kanae, and this is my boyfriend, douma.”

“boyfriend,” you echo, soft laugh slipping out. “right. i’ve heard so much about you.”

she tilts her head, curious. “all good things, i hope?”

“depends who you ask.” your grin is effortless. “but honestly, i see what the fuss was about. you’re even prettier in person.”

she flushes a little, smiling modestly. douma laughs under his breath, a sound that’s too smooth to be harmless. “and you,” he says, “must be the reason sanemi hasn’t looked away from this corner in the last two minutes.”

you glance over your shoulder—and sure enough, he’s watching.

arms crossed. jaw locked. eyes dark and narrow, cutting through the crowd like smoke.

you can feel it, even from across the room—the coil of irritation under his skin, the weight of every thought he’s trying not to have.

you bite back a giggle. fail miserably.

“he’s just shy,” you say innocently, then lean a little closer to kanae, conspiratorial. “or maybe he just doesn’t like seeing his ex-crush in the same room as his current date.”

kanae blinks. “ex-crush?”

“oh, didn’t he tell you?” you say, smile too wide. “never mind. i’m sure it was ages ago.”

douma laughs again, low and knowing, eyes flicking toward sanemi. “you’re quite the little troublemaker.”

you shrug, sipping champagne. “depends who you ask.”

across the room, sanemi’s already moving. the kind of stride that cuts clean through the chatter. you can practically feel the heat of his stare crawling up your neck.

and you—terrible, delighted you—just tilt your glass, watch the bubbles catch the light, and murmur to kanae, “uh oh. i think i’m in trouble.”

she blinks again, soft voice uncertain. “did you… do something?”

“not yet,” you say, smiling, eyes locked on sanemi as he closes in. “but i’m about to.”

he reaches you before you can finish your champagne. one big hand closes around your wrist, not hard, just enough to make your breath catch. “we’re leaving,” he says, voice too low to argue with.

the room hums on around you—music, laughter, heels clicking—but all you can feel is the heat of his palm and the crackle of whatever storm he’s swallowing down. he steers you through the corridor that leads to the back terrace, every line of him tight and vibrating. the door shuts behind you, soft click swallowed by the hush of night.

“what the hell was that?” he says, facing you now.

you blink, all wide eyes and false innocence. “what was what?”

“don’t play dumb.” his jaw jumps. “what did you tell kanae.”

you lean against the rail, tilt your head just a little. “only the truth.”

he takes a step closer. “which is?”

you smile, lazy, like you’re testing the edge of a knife. “that you used to have a crush on her.”

his eyes go wide for a beat—shock, then irritation, then something darker. “you actually told her that?”

you shrug. “she deserved to know.”

“she’s got a boyfriend,” he grits out. “why would you—” he cuts himself off, drags a hand down his face. “you can’t just— christ, you never think before you open your mouth.”

the sting hits harder than it should. you cross your arms, chin lifting. “it’s not like i said you still like her.”

“you shouldn’t have said anything at all.” he turns away, looking out at the city lights. “you don’t get it, do you? she and i— that was years ago. and now i gotta deal with that smug bastard she brought thinking i’m still hung up on her.”

you blink at him, trying not to flinch. “why are you so mad?”

“because you—” he stops, exhale sharp. “you just don’t know when to quit. always pushing. always teasing until you hit something you shouldn’t.”

you fold your hands around the edge of the rail, press cold metal into your palms. “you were fine when i teased you. what changed?”

he looks at you then, eyes cutting through the dark. “you made me look like an idiot.”

silence. long, thick.

you try to smile it off, but it doesn’t stick. “you didn’t seem to care what anyone thought before.”

“yeah, well,” he says, quieter now, “maybe i started to.”

his words hang there between you, fragile and half-meant, and for once you don’t know whether to laugh or to apologize, so you just stand there, heart beating too loud, wondering when teasing stopped feeling so safe.

you lift your chin and meet him with something meaner. “oh, please,” you say, rolling your eyes like it doesn’t hurt. “you’re acting like i ruined your reputation or something.”

he opens his mouth but you cut him off, the words spilling faster now, slick with anger. “it’s not like you were flirting with me in front of her or anything. i was just making conversation. you didn’t need to drag me out here like i kicked your dog.”

he blinks, startled, but you’re already moving past him, reaching for your phone. “whatever. i’m done talking about it. i’ve got more men to scout after anyway.”

his head jerks up. “what?”

you wave your phone at him, flashing the screen like a trophy. “managed to get a few numbers already. ball’s full of possibilities.” your smile is syrupy sweet, the kind that hides the ache sitting behind your chest. “maybe one of them will actually like my teasing.”

for a second, he doesn’t move. doesn’t breathe. the city hums below, soft and golden, and he just stares at you with that awful stillness that always comes before the storm.

“you’re lying,” he says finally, voice low.

you arch a brow. “what, can’t handle a little competition?”

his tongue darts against his teeth, jaw working. “competition?” he echoes. “i don’t compete.”

“no, you just scold,” you snap back. “and sulk. and act like you don’t care while glaring at anyone who looks at me for more than three seconds.”

the words hang there, too bare. you swallow and look away, thumb swiping at your phone though you’re not really seeing anything. “don’t worry, nemi. you can have your pride, and i’ll have my—”

“don’t,” he cuts in, a step closer now, voice taut. “don’t finish that sentence.”

“why not?” you fire back, still not looking at him. “afraid i’ll hurt your feelings?”

“because you didn’t get anyone’s number,” he says, almost to himself, like he’s reminding both of you of something that shouldn’t matter this much. “you just want me to think you did.”

your breath catches, fingers stilling against the screen. “so what if i did?”

he laughs once, bitter, rough around the edges. “then i’d still be standing right here. because you can say what you want, but you’re not walking out of this room with anyone else.”

the air between you folds in on itself, heavy and hot. you force a laugh, small and trembling. “you’re … crazy.”

“yeah,” he says, stepping closer, eyes dark, voice a scrape of want and frustration. “and you love it.”

the distance shrinks to a heartbeat. you can smell him again— cologne, anger, the faint trace of your own perfume clinging to his jacket. you’re not sure who moves first, but his hand is suddenly at your hip, fingers curling just enough to make you shiver, and he’s looking at you like you’re the thing he swore not to want and lost that battle ages ago.

you step back from sanemi, heart hammering, that mixture of spite and thrill bubbling hot in your chest. he’s watching you, mouth a flat line, eyes sharp, and that’s what makes you do it.

you slip out of the terrace, slip back into the blur of the ballroom. soft light, laughter, clink of glasses—everything glows a little too bright. you scan the room and pick the first stranger who looks kind enough not to take you too seriously. tall, dark hair, pleasant smile.

you drift his way with the kind of confidence that feels borrowed. he notices you immediately—how could he not—and smiles.

“hi,” you say, sweet, a little breathless. “i just wanted to tell you that you might be the most handsome man i’ve seen tonight.”

his laugh is surprised, not cocky. “that so?”

“mm.” you nod, all sugar. “absolutely.”

he reaches for his pocket, still smiling. “then i guess you should have my number. just in case you change your mind tomorrow.”

you hold your phone out. he types. the exchange takes seconds, light and harmless, your heart still beating like it’s a crime.

“thanks,” you say, voice soft. “you’ve made my night.”

he grins, says something polite, and you’re already walking away, phone warm in your hand, a small proof of something you don’t even believe in.

when you look up, sanemi’s there. still in the same place. hands in his pockets. watching.

he doesn’t say a word when you stop in front of him, just looks from you to the phone to the stranger across the room. his jaw ticks. you tilt your head, smile too wide. “what?” you ask. “you told me not to lie about it.”

“you called him the most handsome man,” he says, low, like he can’t quite believe you.

“i did.” you hum, pocketing your phone. “you can’t argue with facts, nemi.”

his laugh is short and ugly. “facts. right.” he steps closer, enough that you have to look up, his voice rough at the edges. “you like making me crazy that much?”

you grin, pretending your pulse isn’t fucked. “it’s my favorite hobby.”

he stares at you for a long, unbearable second. then his hand finds your wrist again—careful, not pulling this time, just holding, his thumb sliding once over your pulse.

“congratulations,” he says finally, low enough to barely hear. “you found the handsomest man in the room.”

you smirk. “thank you—”

“but he’s not him,” he cuts in, eyes holding yours. “and you know it.”

you blink, the words catching on your breath. the air between you is all heat and gravity again, the noise of the ballroom fading until it’s just him and the space you haven’t decided to close yet.

you tilt your head, that teasing curl already finding your mouth. “oh yeah?” you murmur, voice honey-thick. “if he’s not the handsomest man in the room, then who is, nemi?”

he doesn’t hesitate this time. his voice comes out low, steady, all gravel and pride. “me.”

you blink at him once. twice. the corner of your mouth twitches up slow. “you?”

“you heard me,” he says, chin lifting just a little, that same impossible confidence threading through the heat of his words. “go ahead. argue.”

you laugh—bright, delighted, a little breathless. “in your dreams, nemi,” you say, eyes sparkling as you take a deliberate step closer. “you are attractively challenged.”

his jaw drops, and for a second, the air between you goes quiet before he huffs out a laugh—real, sharp, teeth flashing. “what?”

you grin wider. “you heard me.”

he drags a hand down his face, the smile tugging despite himself. “you’re outta your fuckin’ mind with that one.” he mutters, but his eyes are soft now, that mix of frustration and something warmer that keeps sneaking through no matter how hard he fights it.

you shrug, brushing past him just enough for your shoulder to graze his. “buuut you like it,” you throw over your shoulder.

he catches your wrist before you can take another step, fingers curling gentle this time. “yeah,” he says, quieter now, close enough that you feel it more than hear it. “i really do.”

the laughter and the music swell around you again, but he doesn’t let go right away. you stand there in that half-lit corner, your pulse thudding against his thumb. you shake your wrist loose with a soft little scoff, the kind that says you’re not touching whatever weird mood he’s in. he mutters something under his breath as you walk back toward the light and chatter, and you pretend not to hear it.

the rest of the night smooths itself out. you dance when someone tugs you into the crowd. you eat too many hors d’oeuvres, drink champagne until your laugh gets loose again. sanemi hovers, never too far, a shadow orbiting your radius, but you keep him out of arm’s reach. when you catch his eyes across the room, you lift your glass and grin like nothing in the world is wrong.

by the time you’re in his truck again, the city’s gone quiet, all sodium glow and empty streets. he drives with one hand on the wheel, the other drumming restless against his thigh. the radio hums low between you. it’s comfortable, almost—just the sound of the tires and the air conditioner and the small space you’re pretending isn’t full of things unsaid.

he drops you off out front, headlights washing your legs pale in the dark. you thank him like. he just nods, gaze somewhere near your shoes, mutters “night,” and pulls away before you can wave.

inside, your apartment feels too still, the kind of quiet that makes you aware of your own breathing. you kick off your heels, toss your clutch on the couch, collapse beside it with your phone in hand. a little smirk curves your mouth before you’ve even opened messages.

you scroll until you find the number from the man at the ball. type fast, thumbs moving on muscle memory.

you: hey, tonight was fun. hope to see you again sometime :)

you hit send, toss the phone onto the cushion, and stretch. outside, a car passes, tires whispering over asphalt. the air smells faintly of perfume and the sweet bread you brought home from the bakery.

somewhere across town, sanemi’s probably pacing his living room, still in that half-undone suit, cursing himself for caring. you tell yourself it doesn’t matter. that you had a good night. that you’re not waiting for the vibration of a text back or for his name to flash on your screen.

and when the phone lights, soft and unexpected, you can’t quite help the small, knowing smile that follows.

the week that follows turns into a blur of outfits and bad lighting and half-interesting conversation. you make a game of it—dates like checkpoints, stories to tell later. sanemi finds out because you tell him, of course. because you love watching him pretend not to care.

the first guy takes you to a rooftop bar, the kind with too many lights and not enough personality. he talks about crypto and his gym split. he has nice arms and no follow-through. you text your best friend a review after:

6/10. good lighting, mid conversation, smelled like axe and capitalism.

sanemi texts back in under a minute:

you’re kidding. axe  and capitalism? stop dating idiots.

the second one takes you to a ramen place. he slurps too loud but makes you laugh once—real, sharp. you tell sanemi over takeout the next day, just to see him flinch.

“he said my laugh was cute,” you say, smiling into your noodles. he doesn’t look up. “he sounds blind.” 

you send him the formal review later: 8/10. slurped like a vacuum cleaner but at least listened.

his reply: you’re losing your standards. get a hobby.

by the third date you’re in full chaos mode. a museum, quiet and gold, the guy polite and boring in equal measure. you text the rating before you even get home: 5/10. educated, boring, kissed like a man who studied geometry for funsies.

sanemi’s answer comes five seconds later: stop using tinder. i’m begging.

you don’t.

there’s a coffee date. a dinner date. one short walk in the park that ends with you pretending to check your phone just to escape. each review is a new jab, and each time his responses get shorter, tighter, rougher.

why are you telling me this

do you want me to lose my mind

this is not funny anymore

you tell yourself he’s just being protective. you tell yourself he’s always like this. you tell yourself you don’t notice how he’s started showing up at your place more often, how his texts hit midnight, short and sharp.

on friday, you come home from your latest date—a man who looked good on paper and nowhere else—and find him waiting on your steps. hands in his jacket, jaw set. 

“how was it,” he asks, voice low.

you smile, too bright. “oh, you know. 7/10. good smile, boring taste in wine. might see him again.”

he stares at you for a long moment, the muscle in his cheek ticking. “don’t,” he says finally.

you tilt your head, all false innocence. “don’t what?”

“don’t go,” he says, quieter now. “don’t keep going on these stupid dates just to tell me about them.”

you blink, heartbeat quickening. “who says i’m doing it for you?”

his laugh is sharp, no humor in it. “because you never shut up about them otherwise.”

you take a step forward. “maybe i just want someone who doesn’t look at me like i’m a bad idea.”

he looks up then, really looks, and it’s all teeth and ache. “then stop going out with men who aren’t me.”

the words hang there, a rough confession wrapped in anger, the kind you can’t take back. you stare at him, the night pressing close, the air gone electric again.

you could laugh. you could kiss him. you could run.

you just breathe, soft and shaky, like the story’s about to tilt either way. you blink at him, slow, brain still trying to catch up. “what?” it comes out half a whisper, half disbelief, the kind of word you say when your body refuses to process what your ears just heard.

sanemi exhales like he’s been holding it for hours. runs a hand through his hair, mussing it worse. he looks everywhere but at you—the streetlight, the sidewalk, the cracks in the concrete—before finally meeting your eyes.

“shit,” he mutters. “i didn’t mean— no, i did mean it, just not like that.”

you frown. “what the hell does that mean, nemi?”

he swallows, shoulders tight. “i’m not good at this. you know that. i don’t—” he gestures vaguely between you. “whatever this is, i don’t know how to say it without sounding like a jackass.”

you cross your arms, voice small but steady. “try.”

he drags a hand down his face. “you’re driving me insane. i don’t even know when it started. one second we were just—” he waves his hand, helpless— “you being annoying, me telling you off. normal. and then all of a sudden, every time i see you with someone else, i feel like i’m gonna break something.”

you just stare. no snark this time. no grin.

he keeps going, quieter now, like the words have been sitting behind his teeth for too long. “i hate hearing about those dates. i hate the reviews. i hate that you come back and tell me what you like and what you didn’t like about them, because all i can think is that it should’ve been me.”

your breath catches.

he laughs once, dry. “and i know how that sounds. i know i act like a dick half the time. i just—” he hesitates, looks down. “you’re it for me, alright? and i’m too stubborn to figure out how to say that without screwing it up.”

for a long, stretched heartbeat, neither of you moves. the streetlight hums faintly. somewhere down the block, a car door slams.

you take one small step forward, voice soft. “you’re saying this now?”

he looks up, eyes a little wild. “yeah, well, apparently watching you flirt your way through half the city was the only way i’d get my head outta my ass.”

you huff a breath that’s almost a laugh, almost a sob. “you’re unbelievable.”

“yeah,” he says, and there’s that crooked half-smile again, the one that’s all apology and longing. “but you like it.”

you roll your eyes, but it’s softer this time. “god help me, i really might.”

he lets out a breath like he’s been underwater, and it fogs in the night air between you, close enough to touch.

you can’t help it—you start laughing. it bubbles up before you can swallow it down, high and bright and a little nervous, because his face is so damn serious.

“this is funny,” you say between breaths, shaking your head. “you—this— whatever you’re doing right now, it’s a funny joke. ten out of ten, nemi. really sold it with the tortured tone.”

he just stares, jaw tight, brows drawn like you just punched him instead of laughed.

you take a step back, still half-smiling. “but i’m not in the mood for jokes tonight, okay? it’s been a long week.” you turn, start toward the door, rummaging through your bag for your keys.

he moves quick. his hand catches your wrist again, not rough, just firm, the way he always does when he’s trying to keep you from disappearing.

“hey,” he says, quiet but solid, right behind you.

you twist a little, the laugh still on your mouth, gentler now. “nemi, stop being weird. you’re freaking me out.”

his thumb drags once against your pulse. “i’m not joking,” he says, voice low, the words sticking like heat. “you think i’d make something like this a joke?”

you try to pull free, half-hearted, still smiling even as your chest tightens. “well you sound insane right now, so maybe.”

he sighs, shoulders slumping. “you laugh every time i try to be serious. every. single. damn. time.”

“because you’re you,” you say, giggling again, softer, like maybe you can keep things from tilting. “and you’re never serious. you make fun of my cooking, my music, my—everything. now suddenly you’re out here confessing under a streetlight like some rom-com reject? come on.”

he doesn’t move, doesn’t laugh, just watches you. the silence stretches, heavy. your smile falters a little, but you still tug on your hand, murmuring, “let me go, nemi. you’re being weird.”

he does, slowly, fingers slipping away. you step back, your laugh catching on something that feels too real, too close.

“goodnight, sanemi,” you say finally, still half laughing as you turn toward your living room. you don’t look back, not right away, not even when he mutters your name under his breath, the sound threading through the quiet like he’s not sure if he wants you to hear it or if he just can’t stop saying it at all.

the rhythm slides back in like nothing ever happened. like that night didn’t hang in the air between you for days afterward, heavy and awkward and strange.

he still texts before he comes over. still raids your fridge like he pays rent. still drops his shoes at the door with a sigh.

but now there’s this new quiet.

you notice it that friday, sprawled together on the couch, your favorite show flashing in the dim. usually he’d be heckling the dialogue, making stupid comments about the characters, snorting every time someone cried. tonight, though, he’s still. too still. one arm slung across the back of the couch, fingers drumming slow against the fabric.

you glance over. “you good?” he looks away from the tv, mouth tipping up just a little. “yeah. why?”

“you’re quiet.” he shrugs. “watching.”

you raise a brow. “you never just watch. you always talk over it and make me threaten your life.” he huffs out a small laugh, not quite meeting your eyes. “maybe i’m trying to be less annoying.”

you smirk. “weird resolution, but sure.”

he goes back to staring at the screen, except you can tell he’s not actually watching. he’s listening—to you, to the way you laugh at the same scenes, to the soft sound of your chips crunching, to every damn breath.

halfway through the episode, you toss a pillow at him. “what’s your deal? you’re acting like a cat that got yelled at.”

he catches it, presses it against his chest. “just tired, i guess.”

you squint, suspicious but too lazy to dig. “tired sanemi is a rare and beautiful creature. should i take a picture?”

he smiles faintly. “nah. i’ll ruin it if i move.”

so you let it go. keep watching. the glow from the tv flickers across the both of you—your hand halfway to the popcorn bowl, his eyes catching on it and then darting back to the screen.

a quiet kind of warmth settles in. the kind you don’t want to name, because naming it would make it real.

and when the episode ends, he doesn’t jump up to leave. just leans his head back against the couch, eyes soft, voice low. “play another?”

you nod, pretending not to notice the way he’s sitting a little closer than usual, his arm brushing the side of your shoulder, or how his breathing slows to match yours when the next episode starts. you pull your blanket tighter around your shoulders, curling into the corner of the couch. the air conditioning hums, colder than you remembered. you glance over at him—arms now loose across his chest, eyes half on the screen, the glow from the tv making the lines of his face look softer somehow.

you shiver once, dramatic, just for the bit. “ugh. freezing.”

he glances over. “want me to turn it down?”

“nah,” you say, voice sing-song and teasing. “unless you’re offering to cuddle me, i guess i’ll suffer.”

you mean it as a joke—really, you do—but he doesn’t blink. doesn’t smirk. doesn’t call you a brat like he usually would. he just says, low and easy, “yeah. sure.”

the room goes very still.

you blink. “what?”

“you said you’re cold,” he says, matter-of-fact, eyes still half on the tv. “come here.”

and just like that, your mouth goes dry.

“you’re—” you laugh, nervous. “you’re actually serious?”

he turns his head toward you finally, one eyebrow raised, that calm steady look that makes your stomach drop. “yeah. unless you were lying.”

“i—no, i—” you stutter, fumbling with the edge of your blanket like it might save you. “fine.”

you scoot closer, awkward at first. his arm shifts automatically, making space for you, and then it’s done—you’re tucked against him, shoulder pressed to his chest, the slow, steady sound of his heartbeat replacing the noise of your thoughts.

he’s warm. too warm.

you mumble, half into his shirt, “you’re like a space heater.”

he chuckles, low and quiet, his breath brushing the top of your head. “and you’re dramatic.”

“shut up,” you say, but it’s soft, lazy. his arm settles around you, fingers resting lightly at your side.

you tell yourself you’re only doing this because you’re cold. that it doesn’t mean anything. but then you feel him breathe out, slow and careful, like he’s afraid to move too much and ruin it.

“better?” he asks, voice rough.

“yeah,” you whisper.

the next laugh track from the tv rolls over you both, and for once, you don’t even hear it.

the warmth settles into something easy. your body molds against his like you’ve done this before a hundred times, and maybe you have—in dreams, in half-jokes, in the space between “i don’t care” and “don’t go.”

you start talking again halfway through the next episode, voice soft in the low-lit room.

“you’d be him, y’know,” you say, pointing at the screen. “grumpy, mean, secretly emotional.”

sanemi snorts. “you’re saying i’d die in a trench while yelling about honor?”

“exactly,” you grin. “except instead of dying, you’d just wake up angry and make it everyone else’s problem.”

“and you’d be the one who gets possessed by an ancient crystal and makes it worse for everyone else. cause you’re stupid.”

“rude.”

“it’s true.”

you swat his chest and wriggle out from under his arm, standing to stretch. “i’m getting water. don’t finish the episode without me.”

“wasn’t planning to,” he mutters, eyes following you. 

you’re halfway across the room, blanket trailing behind you, when it happens.

smack.

you yelp, spinning around, hand flying to your hip. “what the hell, sanemi?”

he’s lounging back, one arm behind his head, looking absolutely unbothered. “what?”

“you smacked my ass.”

he shrugs, lazy. “ain’t the first time. won’t be the last.”

you gape at him. “excuse me?”

he lifts his brows, deadpan. “there was a fly.”

“a fly?”

“big one,” he says. “real mean. dangerous.”

“oh my god,” you mutter, turning back toward the kitchen, ears burning even though you’re trying to look unaffected.

behind you, you hear him chuckle to himself, voice low—almost fond. “you’re welcome, by the way.”

you don’t answer, but the grin curling your mouth betrays you, even as you open the fridge and glare into it.

water retrieved, dignity somewhat intact, you head back to the couch—only to pause behind him, lean in close, and whisper:

“hope you’re ready to die in a trench, soldier.”

he snorts so loud he nearly chokes, and the two of you dissolve into a fresh round of bickering just as the episode picks up again, your shoulder pressing back into his like you never left.

the next few days settle into that easy orbit you and sanemi do so well. grocery runs. you stealing his hoodie and pretending you did not. him pretending he did not notice and then stealing it back out of your laundry basket. shows on the couch. late night food runs. you keep your phone flipped face down, no more play by plays, no more stupid little reviews. he acts normal, mostly. he slants looks at your phone anyway.

then it happens. gyomei. a quiet wine bar with low lamps and a piano that never drowns you out. he pulls your chair in with one hand like it weighs nothing. asks what you like to eat and actually listens. his laugh is warm in his chest. he touches your wrist when the server drops the check, gentle like a question. he walks you to your car and stands a half step back so you do not feel crowded. you get home glowing, fingertips buzzing like you stuck them into a light socket, the good kind.

you cave. you text nemi.

you: just got home

you: date was… yeah

his reply lands in under fifteen seconds.

nemi: define yeah

you chew your lip, then type the truth.

you: ten out of ten. perfect gentleman. kind eyes. big hands. i like him

dot dot dot. then nothing. then your doorbell rings.

he is on your stoop in a t shirt, jaw tight, eyes narrowed at nothing in particular. you let him in because you always do. he toes off his shoes like he lives here, because he sort of does, and stands in your kitchen with his arms crossed like he is trying not to grab anything and break it.

“so,” you say, leaning into the counter, still a little breathless from your own happiness. “gyomei.”

“yeah.” his mouth barely moves. “i heard.” you smile small. “i told you.”

“you did.” he stares at your fridge magnet like it owes him money. “can’t see him dating a hoe.”

your laugh bursts out, loud and offended and fake wounded all at once. “that is so mean. what the hell, sanemi.”

he lifts a shoulder, eyes still on the magnet. “takes one to know one.”

“wow,” you say, hand to your chest, milking it. “slut shamed by my personal homeless stray. tragic.”

his gaze finally cuts to you, sharp and hot. “you put on that black dress and go around collecting phone numbers like trading cards and i am the problem.”

you fold your arms, chin up. “you hit on half the city with your shirt off and want a medal.”

“that is fitness,” he says, dead serious. “different category.”

you snort. “you tried to fight my necklace with a wrap.”

“your necklace was starting a problem,” he mutters. “and now you’re giddy over a monk with forearms.”

“do not reduce him to forearms,” you say, though you are thinking about them. “it was nice, nemi. it felt nice to be liked.”

that lands. the line of his mouth falters. he rubs a palm over his face and sighs like something heavy got set down inside his chest. “i like you.”

you shake your head, a little smile you cannot help. “jokes are closed for the evening.”

“not joking.” his voice drops, rough. “i know i say it like a dick. i know i don’t say it right. i still like you.”

you move around him to the sink for a glass, the air close with the warmth that always lives between you. his eyes follow the line of your shoulder like he is tethered to it. you fill your cup, sip, stall. “gyomei wants to see me again.”

“bet he does,” he says, quiet. “bet he tells you you’re beautiful with both hands in his prayer beads like a saint.”

“maybe,” you murmur, leaning on the counter, meeting his stare. “maybe he will.”

nemi’s throat works. he steps closer, not touching, just a new temperature in the room. “and you’ll go.”

“maybe i will,” you say again, soft. “unless you have something better to offer than calling me a hoe on my own tile.”

his laugh is ugly and low, his ears a little pink. “you liked it.”

“only because you looked like you wanted to bite your tongue in half after,” you say, smile curving mean and fond at once.

he crowds a breath closer, palms braced on the counter beside your hips. he smells like soap and the night air. his lashes cast little shadows under the kitchen light. “say you’re not going,” he says, not quite a plea. “say you will stay. right now.”

your phone buzzes where you left it on the table, a new message lighting the screen, your name and a good night tucked inside it, and sanemi’s eyes flick that way then snap back to you like he refuses to give the text any oxygen, like he can keep it from existing if he does not look twice.

his palms flatten on either side of your hips, the laminate squeaking under his weight as he bends, breath warm against the hollow of your throat. the kitchen light flickers across the sharp cut of his jaw, across your necklace where it pools like liquid silver between your breasts. his eyes drag slow from the shine of it to your mouth, back up, as if strategizing all the places he plans to bruise with attention.

you lift your brows, pretend you do not feel your pulse thrum against the thin chain. “you lost, nemi? the fridge is the other way.”

he huffs a laugh that barely breaks the tension, pupils wide, voice rough at the edges. “i’m right where i need to be. say you’re done with him.”

you toy with the pendant, sliding it back and forth over the swell of your push-up, letting his gaze follow. “i’m not in the habit of taking orders from strays.”

his fingers curl against the counter, white-knuckled. he leans closer, so close your knees brush his legs, so close you can taste the mint on his breath. “call me a stray again, see what happens.”

“stray.” you breathe the word like a dare, let it glide over his lower lip. his nostrils flare, one hand lifting, thumb tracing the corner of your mouth, soft, at odds with the tension in his shoulders. he ghosts lower, thumb grazing the sticky spot at your collarbone where perfume meets sweat, where your heartbeat drums so loud you know he hears.

your phone buzzes on the table behind him, another polite ping from gyomei. sanemi’s gaze snaps past you, then back, fiercer now. “answer it,” he murmurs, teeth flashing, “and i’ll take that pretty necklace as payment for my patience.”

your laughter is shaky, half thrill, half warning. “bold of you to assume i’d let you touch it.”

his brows rise, a slow predatory grin tipping the balance. “bold of you to think you could stop me.”

you slide a hand up his chest, feel the muscle jump beneath thin cotton, tug the open collar until his breath stutters. “might be fun to try.”

he dips, lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice a scrape of heat. “thought you liked ten-out-of-tens. what happens when eleven is standing right in front of you?”

you turn your face, noses almost touching, your smile all teeth and promise. “guess i’ll need a better rating system.”

his answering hum vibrates through his chest to yours, hand finally settling at your waist, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your top. you exhale, catch his wrist before it climbs higher, but you do not push him away. his pulse thuds under your thumb, fast, eager.

the phone buzzes again, insistent. neither of you moves toward it. outside, a car passes, headlights sweeping through the blinds, washing both your faces in silver stripes. the moment stretches, taut as wire, waiting to snap.

his breath is right there, heavy and hot and the air between you stretched so thin it could tear, but you move first. you duck under his arm in a rush of perfume and laughter, slip out from between his body and the counter before he can catch you.

“hey—” he starts, reaching.

you’re already out of reach, giggling, bare feet quick on the tile. the phone glows and you snatch it up like a prize, thumb swiping before he can protest. “what’s the worst that could happen, right?” you sing, teasing in your voice.

he leans against the counter behind you, breathing out hard, watching you with that half-frustrated, half-hungry look he wears too easily.

“you’re a fucking menace,” he mutters.

“you started it,” you say without looking up, scrolling through the messages. gyomei’s words are simple, gentle: i enjoyed seeing you tonight. you looked lovely. i’d like to take you somewhere quieter next time, if you’d like that.

you smile, soft. “see? gentleman.”

sanemi snorts. “yeah, all saints till they aren’t.”

you turn toward him, back pressed to the edge of the table, grin still playing around your mouth. “you sound jealous again.”

he rolls his eyes, pushes off the counter, moving slow this time. “nah. just wondering how long it’s gonna take you to figure out you like trouble better.”

you laugh, holding the phone out of his reach as he steps closer. “trouble smells like motor oil and lies.”

he smirks. “and yet you’re still standing here.”

you lift your phone higher, giddy, light catching on the chain that hangs between your collarbones. “i might be.”

he stops just short of you, enough that you can feel the heat rolling off him, eyes dropping to your mouth, then to the little screen that still glows in your hand. “so what’s the message say, then?”

you glance down, thumb hovering over the keyboard. “wouldn’t you like to know.”he huffs a quiet laugh, shakes his head. “one day you’re gonna run out of room to run, you know that?”

“maybe,” you say, smiling at the text, at the way his reflection shivers faintly in the glass of the window behind him. “but not tonight.”

you type back, quick: i’d like that. when? and hit send before he can see.

you hook a finger in his collar and tug him from the hallway into your room, the soft laugh in your throat barely hiding the thrum in your pulse. “you staying over?”

he drops onto your mattress like he owns it, knees spread, eyes dark. “yeah. might as well keep you out of trouble.”

“please.” you grin, sliding open the closet. “help me pick something that’ll behave.”

first you shrug on the knit midi, neckline polite, hem grazing shin. you step out, sway your hips. he tips his head, lazy. “church bake sale.”

you peel it off right there, toss it aside. next a floral sweetheart—puff sleeves, ribbons, hopes and dreams. you spin once. he clicks his tongue. “honor roll ceremony. needs pearls.”

you laugh, already unzipping, the floral puddling at your feet. black jersey slip follows, scooped low, grazing mid-thigh. you walk to the foot of the bed, let the chain between your breasts glitter under the lamp. his gaze drags slow, mouth parting.

“sit,” he says, voice sand-rough.

you perch on his thigh. he tugs the hem lower, knuckles brushing the crease where fabric meets skin. heat flickers under your ribs. he tests the dress like it’s a fuse, slides one fingertip up until your inhale hitches, then snaps the elastic seam and shakes his head. “too much.”

“you’re the one lighting matches,” you murmur, pulse racing.

next comes the red silk. bias-cut, backless. you step out and everything in him goes still, like prey scenting a trap. he stands, walks a circle around you, fingertips skimming the dip of your spine, never quite giving the pressure you want. “spin slower.”

you do and the slit opens, high, higher. his hand cups your outer thigh, heat blooming up your side. “wear this and i will break every polite bone in my body,” he says, breath against your neck.

“sounds fun,” you whisper, but you’re already reaching for the hanger he hasn’t seen.

black halter, satin, knotted at your nape, slit cut mean. you shimmy in, leave the zipper half undone. “zip me?” you ask, hands braced on the wall.

he steps in close, palms sliding up under the loose back until they rest at your ribs, thumbs brushing the swell beneath your bra. his mouth grazes the shell of your ear. “holding you together might be my new hobby.”

goosebumps rises along your arms. he pulls the zipper slow, teeth scraping fabric, lips ghosting down your spine as the dress closes. when he finishes, he stays there, breath hot through the silk, hands framing your hips.

“walk,” he murmurs, stepping back.

you turn, take two slow strides. fabric parts, flashing thigh, the chain dancing at your sternum. his eyes track every sway, hunger slick in the low light.

“this one,” he says, voice almost ruined. “but only if you swear those legs come home wrapped around my waist.”

you bite a smile, tug the chain, and reach for the gloss. his gaze follows the wand to your mouth. “help me with earrings?”

he closes the distance, fingers brushing your jaw as he hooks the studs in place, mouth a breath from yours, scent stirring heat low in your belly. your phone buzzes across the room—gyomei, probably—and neither of you flinch. his thumb drags over your bottom lip, glossy, slick.

“if you leave in that,” he murmurs, tasting the flavor off his thumb, “don’t expect me to stay on my side of the halo when you get back.”

you smile, heart hammering, slip into your heels. “then polish your halo now, nemi. i have picked my fit.”

he’s  leaning against the doorframe when you reach behind you and pull the zipper down, the sound loud in the quiet of the room. the halter slips away from your shoulders, satin sighing as it slides to your ankles. you bend to scoop it up, hang it over the closet door, start sorting through hangers, the small clack of metal and fabric filling the air.

his eyes stay on you, heavy. you can feel them moving, tracing skin, following the slow stretch of your arm when you reach high for another hanger. the room smells faintly of your perfume, of soap and the soft hum of the air conditioning.

you glance over your shoulder, half-smile curling. “what’s your problem this time, nemi?”

he doesn’t answer right away. his mouth works like he’s chewing on something he can’t spit out.

you step closer, still holding the dress. “what?” you ask again, teasing. “cat got your tongue? or are you going to give me another lecture about how i’m supposed to act on my date?”

he exhales through his nose, looks away, looks back. “it’s not a lecture.” his voice is rough, lower than usual. “just didn’t know you’d start doing wardrobe changes in front of me like i wasn’t even here.”

you laugh, light and sharp. “you’ve seen worse.”

“that’s the problem,” he says.

you raise a brow. “because i’m leaving to meet someone who actually wants to see me naked?”

his gaze flicks to the floor, then back up. “because i keep forgetting i’m not supposed to look.”

the words land between you, simple, hot. you swallow and hang the last hanger, fingers trembling just enough to betray you. you turn toward him, the question still half-formed on your tongue when he pushes off the doorframe, shoulders tight, the air between you thick with everything you keep pretending not to notice.

the tension breaks like it always does with the two of you—sharp, sudden, and ridiculous. later, maybe you’ll think about the way he looked at you near the closet. maybe you’ll replay the way his voice dipped when he said i keep forgetting i’m not supposed to look.

but for now, you’re back on the couch, legs curled under you, wrapped in a blanket and some unspoken agreement to pretend like none of it happened. the episode is halfway through, and he hasn’t said a word in ten minutes. his arm is along the back of the couch again, warm behind your neck, pinky brushing your shoulder like it means nothing.

you shift closer, innocent at first.

then your fingers twitch at his ribs.

“don’t,” he warns, voice low. you grin. “what?”

“don’t start.”

you do.

he jerks once, the sound he makes halfway between a grunt and a laugh, swatting at your hand. “quit it.”

“make me.”

you dive in again, both hands now, fingers digging into the sensitive spot just under his ribs and he jolts, actually laughs, loud and startled.

“fuck,” he wheezes, trying to twist away, but you’re already crawling over him, straddling his hips, blanket falling off your shoulders as you pin his arms with your knees and go in for the kill.

“say you surrender,” you sing, fingers relentless.

he’s squirming, breath coming hard, actual laughter shaking his chest—deep and wild, a sound you rarely hear from him. “you little— stop—*”

you hit the spot again and he curses, tries to grab your wrists. “okay, okay, you’re done—”

“not until you admit i’m stronger than you.”

he barks a laugh. “not in this fuckin’ life.”

you’re both breathless now, hair messy, tangled in each other. his grip finds your waist, fingers flexing once, and then—

flip.

he surges up, muscles rippling beneath your legs, and in one clean motion, pins you under him. your back hits the cushions, a huff escaping your lungs as he settles between your knees, one hand catching your wrists above your head.

you’re grinning, chest rising fast. “you cheated.”

he leans in, voice smug and wrecked with leftover laughter. “you picked the wrong guy.”

you try to twist, but his free hand finds your side and tickles.

you squeal, immediately kicking, breath hiccupping into laughter as he gets you right under your ribs, under your arm, where he knows you’re weak.

“nemi—! stop—!”

“oh no,” he says, mock serious, “we’re committed now.”

you’re laughing so hard you can’t breathe, squirming under him with your legs still wrapped tight around his hips, both of you a mess of tangled limbs and flushed cheeks and breathless curses.

he stops suddenly, both hands braced beside your head, breath coming fast. the air stills.

you’re still under him, laughing dying down, but the quiet creeps in as his eyes lock onto yours, your thighs locked around his waist, his breath brushing your cheek.

you’re both holding too still.

too close.

you blink up at him, chest rising. his eyes flick to your mouth, then back to your eyes, and he doesn’t move away. not yet. not even a little.

you yawn, the sound breaking the quiet. “okay,” you mumble, still half-laughing, “i’m tired. get off me, nemi.”

he doesn’t budge. one corner of his mouth tips up, breath still rough from laughing. “no.”

you squint at him, voice slurring a little with amusement and exhaustion. “no?”

“you started this,” he says, settling his weight just enough to make you squirm.

you groan, half-dramatic. “you’re heavy.”

“good,” he says, smug. “maybe you’ll learn.”

you stare up at him for a beat, then your hands dart up fast, fingers digging under his ribs again.

he jerks like you hit a live wire. “don’t—” he wheezes, already laughing again.

“get off!” you say between giggles, your hands finding every sensitive spot you discovered earlier.

he tries to block you, twists to the side, laughter shaking his chest again. “you’re—impossible—”

“say it!” you insist, still tickling, breathless now, both of you dissolving into laughter that fills the whole room.

he rolls, trying to trap your wrists, both of you a tangle of limbs and blanket and half-hearted curses. he manages to catch one of your hands, then the other, holding them tight. “you’re gonna regret that,” he says, eyes bright, grin breaking across his face.

“yeah?” you say, breath hitching, hair a mess, cheeks warm. “prove it.”

he laughs again, the sound low and rough, still breathless, and for a second the air between you softens—still bright from laughter, but slower now, the kind of warmth that lives under everything you keep pretending isn’t there.

you’re still grinning, eyes half-lidded. “get off me, nemi,” you say again, voice quieter this time.

he shakes his head, resting his forehead against the couch cushion beside your ear. “no,” he murmurs, still catching his breath. “not until you promise you’re done tickling.”

you smile, the kind of tired, small smile that feels too real. “fine. i promise.”

he hums, releases your wrists, and finally rolls off, both of you breathless and wrecked with leftover laughter. you pull the blanket up and he stretches out beside you like he’s been there forever, still muttering about how you cheat, your laugh fading into a soft hum that fills the quiet.

you tuck the blanket around yourself, still catching your breath, the last of the laughter curling soft in your chest. the tv’s gone to a low hum, flickering blues across the room. he’s sprawled beside you, one arm thrown over his eyes, breathing even again.

you shift, glance at him sideways. “so,” you murmur, voice a little hoarse from laughing, “where do you want to sleep, nemi? my bed or the couch?”

he slides his arm down just enough to look at you, eyes half-lidded, a lazy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “that a real question?”

“it’s called being polite.” you stretch your legs out, bump his knee. “guest choice.” he huffs a quiet laugh. “you think i’m fitting on the couch? the thing’s built for barbie dolls.”

“then the floor?” you tease.

he sits up a little, scrubbing a hand through his hair, grin crooked. “you’d like that, wouldn’t you. me on the floor, you up in the fancy bed.”

“maybe,” you say, leaning your head against the cushion. “you snore.”

“lies.” he yawns, long and low. “you drool.”

you laugh, flicking his arm. “so what, bed then?”

he looks toward the hallway, then back at you. “bed,” he says finally, tone easy, like it’s obvious. “but i’m staying on top of the blanket. you can have your side, princess.”

you roll your eyes, push yourself up, and the two of you shuffle down the hall in comfortable silence. he kicks off his shirt before sliding in, muttering something about how your comforter weighs too much, and you slide under it on your side, facing the window.

the room goes quiet except for the faint sound of traffic outside. his arm brushes your shoulder once, accidental, then stays still.

“you good?” he asks softly.

“yeah.” you breathe out a small laugh. “you?”

“yeah,” he says again, already half-gone to sleep.

you smile into the dark, eyes closing, the warmth of him bleeding through the blanket between you.

morning leaks through the blinds in thin stripes, warm against your cheek. you blink, stretch, the sheets soft around your legs, and turn your head without thinking.

he’s there. sprawled on his back, hair a mess, one arm thrown over the pillow you didn’t end up using. his mouth is slack, the faintest curve of a snore ghosting out when he exhales.

you stare for a second too long. the light hits him unfairly, catches on the white line of a scar by his temple, softens the hard edges he wears all day.

for a heartbeat, you think, he looks—

then you stop yourself.

what the hell am i doing admiring this stray’s face.

you laugh under your breath, quiet so you don’t wake him, and slip out of bed. the floor is cool under your feet, the air smells faintly of him and sleep. you pad to the kitchen, flick the stove on, and start pulling things out of the fridge—eggs, bread, whatever you can find.

the sizzle of the pan fills the quiet. you hum to yourself, still grinning at how ridiculous it all feels. every now and then you glance toward the hallway, half expecting him to appear, half hoping he stays asleep long enough for you to finish.

you pour the eggs in, watch them bloom yellow in the pan. it’s domestic in a way that makes your chest tighten and you shake your head, muttering, “this is so stupid,” but you keep cooking anyway.

you’re sliding the last bit of eggs off the pan when you hear it—low, half-awake grumbling from down the hall. it’s the sound he makes every time he realizes he’s not in his own bed, something between confusion and complaint. you snort under your breath and reach for another plate.

he’s going to need more than you, always does. you pile an extra egg, two more slices of toast, the end of the bacon. protein for the musclehead, you think, grinning.

the floorboards creak and you glance over your shoulder.

he’s standing in the doorway, hair sticking up in every direction, squinting against the light. underwear only. broad shoulders, chest marked with old scars, stomach cut into muscle that moves like it was carved by a god. he rubs the back of his neck, still blinking sleep out of his eyes.

for a second you just stare.

your brain short-circuits into a loop of holy shits, before it remembers itself. you cough, turn back to the counter, fumble with the spatula like it’s suddenly fascinating.

“morning,” he mutters, voice gravel-rough.

“uh-huh,” you manage, still facing the stove. “you hungry?” he pads closer, the air shifting warmer. “smells good.”

“made you extra,” you say, trying to sound normal. “bodybuilder metabolism and all that.” he snorts, leaning on the counter beside you. “so you admit i look good?”

you risk a glance up—bad idea. he’s grinning, that sleepy-smug kind of grin that makes the scar near his mouth pull just right. your eyes dart away again.

“i admit nothing,” you mumble, as you carry the plates to the couch, mugs of coffee balanced between your fingers, and drop onto the cushion beside him. the tv’s off; the only sound is the soft hum of the city outside.

he chuckles, low in his chest. “sure.” he picks up the fork, starts eating like he hasn’t in days. you follow suit, trying not to notice the way his abs tighten every time he reaches for the salt, or how the morning light cuts a golden edge over his skin.

“you’re staring,” he says without looking up. “i’m thinking,” you correct, deadpan. “about how i let a half-naked stray into my kitchen.”

he laughs, the sound warm and easy. “and yet you keep feeding me.” you roll your eyes, hiding the small smile that threatens to give you away. “yeah, yeah. eat your breakfast.”

you nudge his knee with yours. “so what’s the plan today, nemi?”

he takes a swallow of coffee before answering, voice still rough with sleep. “got a client this afternoon. should only take a couple hours.”

you perk up, a grin sliding across your face. “finally. my stray’s actually going home.” he shoots you a look over the rim of his mug. “real funny.”

you laugh, kicking his shin lightly. “hey, someone’s gotta remind you you’re a guest and not a squatter.” he shrugs, leaning back into the couch. “if you stop feeding me, i might remember that.”

“never gonna happen,” you say, waving him off, setting your empty plate on the table.

he glances sideways at you, smirking. “that an invitation or a threat?”

“both,” you say, then yawn and stretch, settling deeper into the cushions. “come back after your thing, though.”

he pauses, fork halfway to his mouth. “why?”

“so we can, i don’t know—finish the show, make dinner, do whatever.” you wave a hand, like it’s no big deal, but the words sound too easy, too familiar. “you know. continue our day.”

his eyes flick to you, unreadable for a second. “our day?” he repeats, slow, like he’s tasting the phrase.

you feel the heat crawl up your neck. “don’t.. say it like that. you make it sound—”

“domestic?” he supplies, that smug half-grin back again. “gross,” you say quickly, kicking him again.

he laughs, low and real this time,. “fine. i’ll come back.” — “good,” you say, looking anywhere but at him.

he leans in just a little, voice dropping. “didn’t sound like a request, by the way.” you roll your eyes, smiling despite yourself. “shut up and finish your eggs.”

he does, still grinning, while the two of you sit in the easy quiet that always fills the room after the teasing’s run out, warm and stupidly comfortable in a way neither of you bothers to question.

later 

you had decided to take a bath while he was gone. steam clings to the edges of the mirror, softening your reflection to a blur. you sink deeper into the water, stretching your legs, bubbles brushing your skin. the bath is hot, bordering on scalding, and you let your head tip back, eyes half-closed, letting the quiet soak in.

it never lasts. not when your brain is always busy, always circling back to him.

sanemi, with his impossible arms and that stubborn scowl. the way he makes your life a mess—tracking metaphoric mud in, picking fights, eating you out of house and home. but god, he’s hot. you picture the line of muscle along his stomach, the cut of his jaw, that laugh when you tickle him just right. and then you roll your eyes at yourself, sinking a little lower until the water almost covers your ears. he’s a hindrance, you think. a stray, a pest. you can’t get anything done when he’s around, he eats all your leftovers, he leaves his shirts on your floor. you’re an adult, you don’t need someone orbiting your world just because he makes you laugh until your ribs ache and sometimes, at night, looks at you like he wants to ruin your whole universe.

your hand drifts lower, lazy, skimming bubbles and slick skin. you reach for your toy, lips parting with anticipation as you sink deeper, letting yourself forget everything but sensation. the hum is low, sweet between your thighs. you gasp, head falling back against the tile, hips shifting with each pulse. the head of your wand hitting just right, the steam, the sound, the memory of sanemi’s hands on you—everything collides.

you get louder than you mean to, breathy moans echoing off tile. every sound sharper, every wave hotter, your body curling as you chase the edge until you finally break, shuddering in the water, back arching, bubbles scattering.

you blink, heart pounding, chest heaving, heat painting your skin.

it’s only then that you notice the faint static sound—soft, familiar, like voices muffled through a wall.

the tv. the living room.

you freeze, blood running cold. oh fuck.

he’s here. the question burrows deep and mean into your chest—how long has he been here?

the thought tangles through your body, your breath catching for a different reason as you stare at the bathroom door, the reality of your stray somewhere just on the other side, and the echo of your own voice still ringing in your ears.

you wrap yourself in the biggest towel you can find, tucking it tight under your arms, your skin still flushed from the heat and something else you don’t want to name. you listen at the door for a second, heart drumming hard, but all you hear is the sound of the tv and a crinkling bag—takeout, probably. your stomach twists.

you open the door slow, steam swirling out around your ankles, and step into the hallway. sanemi is sprawled on the couch, a takeout bag open on the table, chopsticks already working on a container of noodles. he glances up, eyes dragging over you, towel and bare shoulders and wet hair dripping down your collarbone. his mouth curls into a slow, knowing grin.

“nice towel,” he says, voice lazy and full of trouble. “bath treat you good?” you blink, playing dumb. “just needed to relax.” he hums, eyes gleaming, leans back with all the smug confidence of a man who knows exactly what he heard. “yeah? sounded like you were fighting for your life in there.”

you flush hot, tug the towel higher. “door’s thin, you know.” he pops a noodle into his mouth, chewing slow, gaze never leaving yours. “didn’t realize a bath could make someone so…vocal.”

you shoot him a glare, cheeks on fire. “keep talking and you’re eating in the hall.”

he grins wider, tapping his chopsticks against the lid. “that an invitation or a threat?”

“shut up, nemi,” you mutter, but you can’t quite keep the laughter out of your voice.

he just winks, tosses a fortune cookie onto your plate, and pats the spot beside him. “c’mon, towel girl. food’s getting cold.”

you roll your eyes, but the heat in your chest lingers as you cross the room, sinking beside him on the couch, towel and all, the faint echo of your own voice mingling with the sound of his low, satisfied laughter.

it’s late, that soft kind of quiet where you should be doing anything else but scrolling. the light from your phone paints your thighs blue. you’re in the kitchen, still in shorts, hair half-up, coffee cooling on the counter. the moon through the window makes everything silver, including the curve of your back when you lean forward to reach for the mug.

you take the photo without thinking — reflection in the glass, the sweep of your legs, nothing too much, just enough. caption: late night caffeine crisis.

you post it. forget about it.

it takes him seven minutes.

a notification slides up: nemi replied to your story.

what the hell are you doing posting that at this hour.

you grin, thumb already moving. drinking coffee, obviously.

a pause. the typing bubble appears, disappears, returns.

you know what i mean.

no clue, you reply, sweet. elaborate?

that picture.

you don’t like it?

that’s not the point.

then what is?

this time, a photo comes through — your post screenshotted, his cursor circled around the curve of your backside, followed by his message: delete it before someone else sees what’s mine to complain about.

you laugh out loud, half-shocked, half-thrilled. possessive much?

realistic, he shoots back. you knew what you were doing when you took that angle.

what angle? you type, pretending innocence, biting your lip.

the one that’s going to get me in trouble, he answers.

you send him a winking emoji, close your phone, and take another slow sip of coffee, warmth curling low in your stomach as you think about how easy it is to wind him up without even trying.

when he tells you, it’s casual — tossed out between bites of takeout. “housewarming thing this weekend,” he says, like it’s an errand. “kanae and douma. you’re coming.”

you almost drop your utensil. “kanae? as in your kanae?” he sighs. “not my kanae.”

“uh-huh,” you hum, already smirking. “the kanae who makes you go all quiet when she walks into a room? the kanae you crushed on in, what, 2015?” he rolls his eyes. “you’re insufferable.”

“and yet you invited me,” you sing, leaning back. “should i wear something pretty? or something that’ll make her nervous?”

“don’t start,” he warns, but the twitch in his jaw gives him away. “oh, i’m starting.” you lean your chin on your hand, watching him with a grin that could kill. “what if she thinks we’re dating? should i hold your hand? sit in your lap? ooh, should i call you babe?”

“don’t even—”

“babe,” you interrupt, dragging the word out, tasting it.

he groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “you’re going to make this a nightmare.”

“i’m going to make it memorable,” you correct, eyes gleaming. “besides, aren’t you curious what she’ll say when she sees me on your arm?” he glances at you then, and for a second, something shifts in his expression — that tight, quiet thing he never admits to. “you’re something,” he says finally then looks away, fighting a smile. “just—don’t cause a scene.”

“me? never.” “—you,” he says, dead serious. “exactly you.”

you sip your drink, already thinking about outfits, already picturing the party — kanae’s perfect smile, douma’s too-friendly eyes, and sanemi somewhere behind you, trying not to combust while you make sure everyone remembers that you clean up beautifully.

the drive over is all small talk and static. you’re in something soft, easy—linen that falls just right, sleeves rolled to your elbows, a neckline that dips enough to catch the evening light. he doesn’t say anything about it, but you catch him looking once at a stoplight, jaw tight, eyes flicking back to the road too fast.

kanae’s place glows warm when you walk in, laughter spilling through the open door. she’s already there waiting, bright and perfect, her hair pulled up in that careless way that never looks careless. you hug her—she smells like peonies and summer wine—and she smiles like she means it, squeezes your hand. “i’m so glad you came,” she says, and you nod, mean it, but your eyes flick past her before you can help it.

sanemi’s by the kitchen counter with douma, already caught in one of those too-loud exchanges. when kanae calls to him, he turns, and you see it—his whole face softening for half a second. not romantic, maybe, but gentle in a way that guts you.

something in your chest tightens. ridiculous, really. you laugh at yourself under your breath, brush a hand over your hair. it’s nothing. you knew this. it’s always been this.

kanae pulls you into the group, introducing you to people you half-recognize. you smile, chat, sip whatever’s handed to you. sanemi keeps orbiting close, close enough that you can feel him there even when he’s talking to someone else, close enough that you can see his eyes slide toward kanae when she laughs.

you shouldn’t care. you don’t, you tell yourself. you’re just here to tease him, to play the game you both built. but it’s hard to make a joke when your heart’s doing that awful squeeze, when the part of you that loves being around him suddenly hates the idea of him looking at anyone else like that.

you lift your drink, force a grin, and find your voice. “so,” you say lightly, leaning toward him when he finally drifts back to you, “you gonna tell her how much you missed her, or should i?”

he gives you a look—half a glare, half a plea not to start—and you swallow the sting under your tongue, hide it behind your smile.

the sound of the door opening cuts through the low hum of chatter and laughter, and you turn instinctively, your smile already polite. then you see him.

gyomei. taller than you remembered, shoulders filling the doorway, warmth following him in like he brought the sunlight with him. he smiles when his eyes find yours—soft, genuine, that same calm gravity that drew you in the first time.

you feel the heat climb up your neck before you can stop it. a quiet, traitorous flutter under your ribs. you set your glass down and start toward him, smoothing your shirt like it matters. “hey,” you say, the word coming out lighter than you meant. “you made it.”

“of course,” he says, voice low and gentle. “i wasn’t going to miss seeing everyone. you look…” he trails off for half a beat, eyes kind, “…well.”

you laugh under your breath, brushing a strand of hair back. “so do you.”

the room seems to fade a little at the edges—the chatter, the clinking glasses, the sound of kanae’s laughter drifting from the kitchen. for a heartbeat it’s just you and him standing by the door, the faint scent of rain still clinging to his coat, the warmth of his hand when he shakes yours lingering a second too long.

from across the room, you can feel sanemi’s gaze. heavy, sharp, unreadable.

you don’t look right away. you keep your eyes on gyomei, ask him something about how he’s been, how work’s treating him, but your pulse won’t settle. because even while you’re smiling, part of you can sense it—the weight of that stare from the other side of the party, the quiet thrum of someone who suddenly doesn’t find this game funny anymore.

you wait until the chatter thickens again, until kanae and douma are laughing about something by the bar, and then you tug gently at gyomei’s sleeve. “hey,” you murmur, “can we talk outside for a second?”

he follows you to the quiet edge of the garden, where the air smells like mint and damp stone. soft music drifts out through the open windows. you twist your fingers together, feeling clumsy under his steady calm.

“i just wanted to say,” you start, words tumbling, “i’m really sorry if i gave you the wrong idea. i didn’t mean to lead you on or make it weird. you’re… really good company. i just—” he watches you with that patient half-smile, the one that makes you feel both safe and seen. “you’re interested in someone else,” he finishes gently.

your breath catches. “yeah.” you laugh quietly, awkward. “guess it’s obvious?”

“not really,” he says, shaking his head, “but it makes sense.” he pauses, gaze soft. “sanemi?” you blink. “oh?” your voice goes higher than you mean. “how’d you deduce that?”

his smile widens, the edges kind. “he talks about you a lot,” he says simply. “even when he’s pretending not to.” the words hit you like a slow sunrise—warm, creeping under your skin. you look away, laugh under your breath. “does he now?”

“he does,” gyomei says, hands folded in his pockets. “it’s usually in the form of complaints, but he talks about you all the same. since you became friends.”

you shake your head, smiling at the ground. “that sounds like him.” he nods once. “he’s the only one i’ve seen glare at his phone like it insulted him.”

you both laugh softly, the sound easy. he pats your shoulder, a quiet benediction. “it’s alright,” he says. “i’m glad you told me.”

“thank you for being kind about it.” he nods again, eyes warm. “be kind to yourself too,” he says, then glances toward the house. “he’s inside, you know.”

you circle the edge of the living room, glass in hand, half-searching, half-trying to steady the beat in your chest. the crowd’s thinned a little—people scattered between the patio and the kitchen—but you hear him before you see him.

his voice, lower than usual, roughened to something careful. “—just wanted to say sorry,” he’s saying. “for her being weird at the last thing. she didn’t mean it. she’s just—”

you stop near the archway, hidden by the plant kanae’s sister probably gave her, the soft thread of her voice following. “it’s alright, sanemi. i thought it was… kind of sweet, actually.”

your breath catches. “sweet?” he echoes, startled, the sound of a laugh that doesn’t know where to go.

“you always were easy to read,” she says, voice gentle. “i knew you liked me back then.”

you can almost hear the silence between them—heavy, full of old nerves. he clears his throat, words tripping. “yeah, i—uh—yeah. i did. i mean, who wouldn’t, right?”

she laughs softly, the sound of it twisting something small in your chest. “you were always so honest, sanemi. i liked you, too. but… you know how things turned out.”

“douma,” he says quietly.

“yeah.” her voice warms with something soft and final. “he makes me happy. he really does.”

“good,” sanemi says after a long moment, and it’s quiet, unconvincing.

you stand there for another breath you don’t mean to take, staring at the doorway, the edges of the world blurring. you don’t know if you’re more relieved that she said in the past or more stung by the part of him that still sounds 2015, still standing under her window with all that clumsy wanting.

you swallow, fix your expression into something neutral, and step forward into the room like you didn’t hear a thing, smile already ghosting back onto your face. you tell yourself it doesn’t matter. that it’s ancient history, that what you overheard was just two people closing a door that should’ve been shut years ago. but your chest aches anyway, that stupid tight ache that creeps in under your chest when you’re not paying attention. you can feel it swelling, heavy, stubborn. you press your nails into your palm and keep walking.

the noise of the party folds around you again—music, laughter, clinking glasses. kanae catches your eye, smiles like nothing’s out of place, and you smile back, too wide, too practiced. sanemi joins you after a while, his hand ghosting against your elbow when he brushes past, and you swear you can still hear her voice echoing under his.

you drink more than you mean to. laugh when you should. talk about nothing with people you barely know, pretending your stomach isn’t knotted, pretending you don’t notice the way he glances at you like he’s trying to read something in your silence.

eventually it’s late enough to leave. the drive back is a blur of streetlights and shallow music. he keeps looking over, opens his mouth once or twice, doesn’t speak.

you stare out the window, jaw tight, grinding your teeth so hard your temples ache. the city slips by in streaks of gold and gray, and the words you won’t say sit heavy on your tongue: why does it even matter? why does it feel like this? you rest your head against the glass, pretending you’re tired. he drums his fingers against the steering wheel, quiet.

the space between you hums with all the things you won’t admit, and the only sound that fills it is the low growl of the engine, carrying you both home through the thick, unspoken quiet.

you unlock the door to your place, the lights still half-on, the air too still. your shoes come off in slow, dragging movements. “’night,” you mumble, not looking at him. he nods, or maybe he doesn’t—you don’t check.

the floor creak under your weight. once the bedroom door clicks shut behind you, you let out a sigh that sounds too much like a groan, pressing your forehead to the wood for a beat before pushing away. your reflection in the dark window looks like someone else; your eyes are glossy, your smile gone.

you’re halfway to unzipping your dress when the knock comes. three soft raps, unsure.

you freeze, then roll your eyes at the ceiling. “what,” you call, flat, trying to keep your voice even. “you okay?” his voice filters through, rough, cautious.

you stare at the knob, throat tight. “yeah,” you say after a second, too quick. “just drunk out of my mind, i think.”

there’s a pause. the sound of him shifting his weight outside. “you don’t sound drunk,” he says quietly.

“that’s ‘cause i’m very, very functional,” you shoot back, forcing a laugh that sounds more like air leaving a balloon. “go home, nemi.”

you can almost hear him thinking on the other side, the small scrape of his thumb against the doorframe. then, softly, “right. night, then.”

his footsteps retreat down the hall, slow.

you exhale, lean back against the door until your knees hit the carpet. “drunk,” you whisper to yourself, the lie echoing small in the quiet. the hum of the street outside fills the space he leaves behind, and you sit there listening to it until it’s the only thing that keeps your chest from shaking.

the next few days slide by the way ordinary days always do: alarm, shower, coffee. work. errands, noise, the sun on your back. you smile when you should, laugh when people expect it. from the outside, everything looks fine—normal even.

inside, that small ache sits quiet under your chest again, a dull weight you keep busy enough to ignore. you work later than usual. you take longer routes home. you tell yourself it’s just the aftermath of too much wine and a night that hit too many nerves.

sanemi texts like he always does.

you alive?

you eat yet?

show me you’re not dead.

you keep your replies light. busy. errands. maybe later.

he calls once; you let it ring out, thumb hovering over decline until it stops. when he drops by unannounced, you answer the door with a towel on your head and some half-truth about a deadline, about being exhausted, about not wanting him to catch whatever “cold” you swear you’re fighting off.

he squints at you, unimpressed. “since when do you get sick?”

“since i started talking to you,” you shoot back with a grin that doesn’t reach your eyes. he narrows his, but lets it go. “fine. i’ll bring soup tomorrow.”

“no, really—”

“too late. see you then.”

he leaves before you can argue more, and you shut the door, lean against it, breathing out a curse under your breath.

by the third day, the questions get sharper.

“you’ve been weird lately.”

“something happen?”

“you mad at me or just forget how to text?”

you smile each time, the kind of practiced, easy smile that’s saved you from a hundred awkward conversations before. “nah. just tired, nemi.” but he isn’t buying it anymore. you see it in the set of his jaw, the way his messages get shorter, the way he lingers near your door a little too long when he drops something off.

you keep dodging anyway. because every time he looks at you with those eyes—worried, confused, a little too open—you feel that same ache twist deeper, sharper, like it’s asking you to say something you don’t have the courage to name.

you’re halfway through pretending to nap on the couch when the lock clicks. your eyes snap open just in time to see the door swing wide, the faint jingle of his keychain hitting the doorknob.

you sit up fast, blanket sliding off your legs. “what the—nemi!”

he stands in the doorway holding a plastic bag that smells like dinner, brows furrowed, eyes scanning you head to toe. no fever, no cough, no blanket fort of tissues. just you, alive and annoyed.

“so,” he says, voice low, “you lied.” you roll your eyes, reaching for your phone. “you can’t just break in, you psycho.” — “spare.key.” he shoots back, stepping inside, letting the door swing shut behind him. “you gave it to me.”

“yeah, for emergencies, not for whatever this is.”

“this is an emergency,” he says, dropping the bag on the counter. “you disappearing for a week and feeding me bullshit about being sick.”

you cross your arms. “i wasn’t feeling great.” “ —bullshit.” his voice sharpens. “you look fine.”

“thanks for the compliment,” you snap. “don’t twist it.”

“then stop acting like my parole officer.” “ —then stop acting like you don’t know why i’m pissed off.” the words hang between you, sharp and heavy. the silence after is worse—filled with all the things you’re both avoiding.

you sigh, push to your feet, glare at him. “i don’t need you barging in here like you own the place, nemi. you’re not my boyfriend.”

for a second, he just stares at you, the words hitting harder than either of you expect. his jaw flexes, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek, and that flicker of hurt flashes in his eyes before it sharpens into something meaner, something to hide behind.

“yeah,” he says finally, voice low, rough. “no shit.” he laughs once, short and humorless. “trust me, sweetheart, if i was, you wouldn’t be scrollin’ tinder in the first place.”

he runs a hand through his hair, pacing once, too restless to stand still, then turns back to you, eyes glinting under the kitchen light. “but you sure as hell don’t act like i’m not,” he adds, quieter, the words landing heavy between you again.

you open your mouth to answer, but he’s already looking away, shaking his head like he’s trying to swallow whatever else he was about to say. “yeah,” he mutters, half to himself, “i’m not your boyfriend. got it.”

the air crackles, both of you standing too close now, breath fast, anger curling under something else entirely. 

his jaw works, voice quieter now, tight. “then tell me why you’ve been avoiding me.”

you look away, heart beating too fast, throat tight. “i’m just tired, nemi.”

“of me?” you flinch before you can stop it, and his eyes soften for half a second, all that frustration bending into something like more hurt.

you bite your lip, reach for your coffee cup just to have something to do with your hands. “go home, nemi.” he exhales, long and rough, the sound full of things he doesn’t say. “fine,” he mutters, grabbing his bag from the counter.

you don’t look up until the door clicks behind him, and even then, your chest aches worse than when he walked in.

a week buys you nothing. you keep moving through it anyway. work. laundry. a playlist that skips every song that sounds like him. you answer texts late. you turn your phone face down. when he calls, you stare at his name until it stops ringing.

the lock turns. you sit up too fast on the couch, blanket sliding to your ankles. “nemi, i swear to god.”

he shuts the door with his heel and tosses his keys on the counter like a gauntlet. shirt clinging from the cold, jaw set ugly, eyes gone dark. there’s food again, but he doesn’t even look at it. it crinkles in his grip like a neck he wants to wring.

“a week,” he says, voice low. “you give me silence for a week and think i’m just gonna sit with my thumbs up my ass.” you roll your eyes because if you don’t, you’ll break. “you can’t keep using my spare like it’s a hall pass.”

“you gave it to me!” he snaps. “you said use it if i ever needed to. i need to!”

“for what. to argue in my living room?”

“to see you,” he throws back, louder now. “to figure out why you’re ghosting me like i didn’t just spend months glued to your hip.”

your laugh comes out thin. “maybe i wanted space.” he steps in, heat rolling off him. “you wanted distance and you didn’t say from what. from me or from the truth.”

you square your shoulders. “don’t try to therapy me.”

“then talk to me.”

“i am talking.”

“you’re hiding,” he says, and something in his voice frays. “you think i don’t notice the way you duck my calls. the way you text like an intern. the way you breathe like you’re trying not to be heard in your own apartment.”

you look at the far wall like it might offer mercy. “go home, nemi.”

he laughs, harsh. “no.”

“you don’t get to say no.”

“i do when it’s about us.”

“there is no us,” you fire back, and it hits both of you like a slap.

he goes very still. then, softer, deadly steady, “why did that feel like a lie when you said it.” your mouth opens. shuts. you move to the kitchen just to move, palm flat on the cool counter. he follows, slower now, hands braced on either side of you like he’s caging himself in as much as you.

“you wanna be honest?” you say, too bright. “fine. i heard you and kanae.”

the words land. his eyes flicker. “when?”

“housewarming. hallway.  you apologized for me. she said she knew. she liked you too. past tense. happy with douma.” you swallow. “and my stupid chest did a thing i didn’t know it could do.”

he flinches like the truth has teeth. “you were there.”

“i left,” you lie, because you didn’t. you listened. “it shouldn’t matter. it was years ago. but you looked at her and i felt small. and i hate feeling small.”

his throat works. he steps closer, careful, crowding without touching. “i was closing a door.”

“looked open from where i stood.”

“you weren’t standing anywhere,” he says, gentle and furious at once. “you were hiding behind a plant making yourself bleed on a story that ended before it started. i liked her. yes. i was young and stupid and she was kind. that’s it.”

“you went soft when she laughed.”

“i go soft when you breathe,” he says, and the room tilts. you stare at him. he doesn’t blink. “i apologized for you,” he adds, quieter now, “because you’re mine to defend even when you say you’re not.”

your laugh cracks. “there it is. the possessive. you don’t even want me, you want to guard a door.”

his jaw knots. “i want you like a problem i can’t stop solving. i want you like a habit i don’t want to quit. i want you in my hoodie and in my bed and in my bad moods and in my good ones and at my stupid table eating the stupid eggs you pretend you don’t love.” he inhales, rough. “i don’t want to be your damn ‘stray’. i want to be your man.”

your heart climbs into your mouth and kicks there. “you’re late.”

“i’m here,” he says. “and i’m not leaving because you’re scared.” you push at his chest because it’s easier than saying yes, “don’t tell me what i am.”

he catches your wrists, not hard, just anchoring. “then tell me what you are.”

“annoyed,” you bite out. “tired. confused.”

“and jealous,” he says.

you glare. “of who.” — “of a ghost that never learned your name.”

you look away, blinking hard because heat is licking at your eyes and you refuse to let it fall. “you don’t get to make me feel crazy for feeling anything.”

“i’m not,” he says, harsh, and then softer, “i’m telling you i feel it too. every time you text another review. every time you look past me. every time i hear bathwater and a noise i want to be the reason for.”

“nemi,” you warn, voice shaky. “choose me,” he says, and it’s not pretty at all. “i know that sounds greedy. i know i don’t say things right. but choose me and i will spend every day trying to deserve you.”

silence. the kind that buzzes. the kind that stretches tight and hot.

you pull your wrists free. he lets you. your fingers find the chain at your sternum and toy with it just to have something to do. his eyes track the movement.

“what if you break me,” you whisper. “then i’ll fix what i broke,” he says, simple and brutal. “and if you break me, then you’ll fix what you broke.”

you laugh, a helpless sound. “you’re a disaster.” — “so are you,” he says, and one corner of his mouth tips up like he can’t help it. “we already match.”

he reaches past you and kills the kitchen light. the apartment falls into that soft, blue hour dark. the distance between you feels smaller here. his voice drops into it.

“tell me to go and i will. tell me to stay and i will. just stop pretending you don’t care either way.” your phone buzzes on the counter. you don’t look. he doesn’t either. he’s waiting, shoulders squared like a man bracing for a hit, hands empty like he’s finally learned not to grab.

you breathe, slow. the ache in your chest shifts, not gone, but different. you can taste the next choice on your tongue, stupid and sweet, the kind of risk that feels like standing at the edge of a pool in summer, heat at your back, water waiting.

you lift your chin. he leans in a fraction, caught there, eyes on your mouth. the takeout bag sighs again in the quiet, the promise of something warm cooling by the minute while the space between you goes electric and holdable, the whole room perched on what you say next.

you look at him like you’re searing the moment into your skin—like every inch of him matters, every shadow and line and scar, all at once. it’s the kind of stare that makes your cheeks burn. the kind of stare that pins him to the spot, makes his next breath stutter loud in the dark.

he doesn’t ask for permission. his hand finds your waist, palm broad and sure, pulling you flush against him. you yelp, half-surprised, half-shy, your fingers caught between the two of you. the sudden heat of his body short-circuits whatever protest you almost had.

your blush goes up to your ears. “sanemi—” his grip firms, but not rough, just anchoring. “look at me.”

you try, but your eyes flick away—first to the countertop, then to the takeout, then to the slice of streetlight leaking in at the edge of the blinds. his other hand tips your chin, thumb ghosting the line of your jaw. “look at me,” he repeats, softer this time.

you do for a second, then the nerves trip you up, eyes darting down to his mouth, away to his collarbone, anywhere but the storm in his gaze. he laughs, low and almost fond, breath brushing your cheek. “thought you were the bold one,” he teases.

you grumble, not trusting your voice. “i usually am.” his smile is small, patient. “scared?”

“yes,” you admit, voice trembling. his forehead drops to yours, breath slow and warm. “me too,” he confesses, so quiet only you can hear it.

your hands wind into his shirt just to steady yourself. he noses along your jaw, soft, as if you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted to touch. every time you look away, he follows, keeps tilting your face back to him until you’re forced to meet his eyes—bright, hungry, gentle, all at once.

“stay,” he murmurs, not a command, not a plea—just a hope laid bare. your chest aches in that new, dizzy way. you bite your lip, nodding, heart thudding wild beneath his touch.

the street outside is silent. your kitchen has never felt so small, or so infinite. in this light, neither of you look away. your nerves crack just enough for you to joke, voice breathless and shaky. “well, i’m staying—obviously. it’s my apartment.”

he grins, sharp and hungry. “smartass,” he mutters, and before you can protest, his hands slide lower, grip sure around your hips.

he lifts you like you weigh nothing, your feet leaving the floor, a surprised yelp spilling out of you as your hands grab at his shoulders for balance. you twist in his arms, laughing now, the nerves turning electric as he carries you down the hallway, bumping the doorframe with his elbow like you’re both drunk on the moment.

“nemi—put me down—” he just shakes his head, the smile never leaving his lips, “not a chance.”

the bedroom is dim and quiet, sheets half-made, pillows tossed. he lays back on the bed with you sprawled on top of him, your knees bracketing his hips, your hands pressed to his chest for balance.

he lets you settle, his palms finding your thighs, holding you there. “see?” he says, voice low, gaze bright. “told you i wasn’t leaving.”

your cheeks burn, your heart racing as you shift on top of him, feeling the way his muscles tense and relax beneath your touch. “yeah, well,” you breathe, your voice softer, “guess you’re my problem now.”

he laughs, hands tightening, like he means to keep you here forever. “always have been,” he says, eyes never leaving yours, “and you’re mine.”

the weight of everything unspoken settles between you—hot, alive, dizzy with promise. the sheets shift beneath you as you both settle, still a little tangled, still laughing in the hush between words. his hands curve around your thighs, steady and warm, but the wildest part is how gentle his eyes are. they move over your face—your flushed cheeks, your bitten lip, the shimmer at the corners of your eyes from laughter or nerves, he can’t tell.

you hold his gaze, knees braced on either side of his hips, breath slowing, all the noise of the world slipping away until it’s just him and you and the blue-dark hush of your room. his thumb traces a lazy circle at the dip of your waist. “look at you,” he murmurs, voice gone low, almost shy. “never figured i’d get this lucky.” his eyes dip to your mouth, then back to your eyes, linger there like it’s the only place he wants to be.

your heart is a frantic thing in your chest. “you’re so sappy,” you whisper, but there’s no bite to it. he shakes his head, mouth curving, eyes softer than you’ve ever seen. “nah. not sappy. just… honest.” he shifts, propping himself up on his elbows, bringing you closer until your noses almost touch. “i love you,” he says, no theatrics, no smirk—just plain, like it’s the only true thing left in the world. “been in love with you since you made fun of me at that awful ramen place. probably before that.”

you blink, stunned by how steady his voice is. the air feels thick, charged. your hand finds his jaw, thumb tracing the sharp line. his eyes flutter half-closed at the touch. he swallows, jaw tight, but his eyes never leave yours. “it’s always been you. even when i didn’t want it to be. even when it was easier to call you trouble and pretend i didn’t mean it.”

you stare at him, everything in you swelling, soft and sharp at once, hope and terror braided together. for once, you can’t find a joke to break the tension. you just look at him, letting yourself be seen, letting him see you right back.

your voice is a whisper when it finally comes. “say it again.”

his thumb brushes your cheek, and he smiles like you put the stars in the sky. “i love you,” he says again, and it feels like the only thing that matters.

your breath catches. the world shrinks to the press of his hands at your waist and the way his eyes hold you steady. you lean down, slow and trembling, letting your forehead touch his for a second, letting yourself breathe him in—warmth, a hint of that familiar trouble.

then you kiss him.

it starts soft, just the gentle meeting of lips, his mouth slow against yours, as if you’re both afraid to break it. but there’s years behind it, years of tension and longing and missed chances, so it deepens without you even thinking—his hand finding the small of your back, drawing you closer, your fingers sliding into his hair.

the air between you sparks, every tiny shift dragging a low hum from his chest. he tastes like a promise, like everything you didn’t let yourself hope for. he kisses you again, open-mouthed, hungry in a way that still feels careful, still feels like he’s trying to remember every second. your hips rock down into his, and the way his hands tighten at your waist says he feels it too. his tongue teases at your lip, slow and coaxing, and your hands slide to his jaw, thumbs brushing his cheekbones.

you break for air, both of you panting, your foreheads pressed together, laughter bubbling up because you can’t help it. he’s grinning, eyes wild and soft all at once, breathless as he murmurs, “god, you’re trouble.”

“you love it,” you whisper back, voice shaking with the sweetness and the want.

he kisses you again, deeper this time, and every inch of your skin feels awake, hungry, like there’s nothing else in the world but the heat building between you—sweet, lovely, and so electric you think you’ll never want anything else.

he kisses you until your lips tingle, until you’re dizzy with the heat of it, the sheer weight of wanting. then, in a rush of motion, he flips you both—his body over yours, caging you in with a knee on either side, hands braced on either side of your head.

you gasp, breathless, your legs falling open to make room for him, and your hands fist in his shirt. “nemi—” you whisper, the sound nearly a plea, sweet and shaky in the dark. his grin turns wicked, pupils blown wide as he looks down at you, hungry and smug all at once. “oh, you sound better than i thought you would,” he says, voice rough, like gravel dragged through honey.

your cheeks burn. “shut up.”

he just chuckles, leaning down to kiss the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the spot beneath your ear that makes your breath stutter again. “nah, i like this,” he teases, lips trailing down your neck, “—wanna hear you say my name again.”

your fingers curl in his hair, tugging gently, but he doesn’t let up—just presses closer, lips ghosting over your collarbone.

then his voice drops, a wicked glint in it: “so, about that… noise in the bathtub the other night.”

your whole body tenses. you blink, words caught in your throat, heat climbing up the back of your neck. “i—I don’t—” he laughs, low and sharp, delighted by your stuttering. “oh, you’re cute when you lie,” he whispers, mouth at your ear, teeth grazing the shell. “thought you were a lot louder than that.” your face is on fire, embarrassment tangled with the ache he’s building in your stomach. “sanemi—” you protest, voice cracking, but he just grins wider, fingers teasing down your side, catching on your shirt.

“yeah?” he prompts, mischief thick in his voice. “gonna tell me what you were thinking about in there?” you squirm, both mortified and aching, and he kisses your jaw again, softer, slower, letting his laughter melt into something sweet. “don’t worry,” he breathes, “you can show me later. i wanna see how loud you can get for real.”

his words settle into your skin, and all you can do is pull him back down to you, desperate to drown in him and the heat blooming between you—lost in a night that feels like it’s finally, finally yours. his mouth is hot and slow at your throat, the air charged between you, laughter and want tangled up in every heartbeat. you gasp his name, hands threading through his hair, his body heavy and grounding over yours.

in between kisses, voice shaky, you whisper against his jaw, “i was thinking about you, you know. in the bath.”

he goes still for half a beat, groans into the pillow next to your head, the sound wrecked, hot, and so raw it makes your breath stutter. his hips press closer, the weight of him settling heavy and hungry.

you giggle, catching your breath, your hands sliding up his back. “are you okay?” you tease, grinning into the space beside his ear. he lifts his head, eyes wide, cheeks flushed, that crooked, almost desperate smile on his lips. “yeah,” he rasps, voice thick, “just—fuck—hearing you say it just made me harder.”

his hand slides up your thigh, grip tightening. “you’re not allowed to confess shit like that when i’m already losing my mind.” you lean up, kiss him slow, your smile pressed into his mouth. “maybe i want to see what happens when you lose it.”

he laughs, half a growl, half a plea, and buries his face at your neck, breath coming fast as he mutters, “keep talking like that and you’re never leaving this bed.”

you shiver, wrapping your legs tighter around him, your body arching up into his as the laughter dissolves into something thick and wanting, the air in the room going sweet and hungry and desperate for everything you’ve been holding back.

your laughter shakes beneath him, sweet and nervous and bubbling up from somewhere soft inside. you tilt your head, breath ragged, fingers curling in the hair at the nape of his neck.

“since this is our first time,” you whisper, a little shy, a little daring, “are you… are you gonna be good to me?” he smirks, leaning in, lips ghosting your cheek, voice dropping hot and rough right against your ear. “of course not,” he breathes, his grin wicked. “i am fuckin’ the shit out of you.”

your pulse jumps, eyes wide, but he doesn’t stop. “you’re a brat for teasing me—posting those photos, running your mouth, making me watch you walk around like you didn’t know what you were doing.” he kisses you hard, then bites your lower lip, not enough to hurt, just enough to make your whole body clench tight.

his hand slides down, squeezing your thigh, his hips pressing against you, everything hungry and trembling. “so i’m gonna need my compensation tonight, babe. every last bit you owe me.”

your cheeks burn, heat surging through you, and you let out a shaky breath, your own voice turning breathless and desperate. “then take it, nemi.” his eyes spark, wild with want and victory, and he kisses you again, deeper, rougher, every inch of him promising to make good on every word.

he works your shirt up and off with a hunger that leaves your skin prickling, hands warm, touch not quite gentle. his mouth finds your shoulder, your collarbone, dragging slow and open-mouthed kisses across every inch of exposed skin. you feel the muscles in his arms flexing as he pins you steady, your legs already tangled around his waist.

he leaves you in your underwear for a beat, sitting up on his knees, stripping off his own shirt and letting it drop carelessly to the floor. he’s just in his briefs now—hard lines and muscle, skin flushed, eyes fixed on you with a look that makes your heart thud.

his hands slide down, tracing your hips, his thumbs tugging at the waistband of your panties, pausing just long enough to ask, “these matter to you?”

you shake your head, voice breathless, teasing, “no. why?” his mouth curls, wicked and wild. “good.”

the fabric tears in his grip, ripped right down the seam, the sound sharp and thrilling in the quiet. you laugh, pure instinct, something in you bright and open and delighted at the roughness, at the strength he holds so casually.

he catches your smile, leans in close, his lips ghosting the shell of your ear. “oh, princess likes that?” he purrs, voice thick with pride and promise. your hips arch, answer written all over your skin. “maybe i do,” you breathe, hands finding his back, nails skimming over muscle.

his mouth finds yours again, hungrier this time, and his hand trails down between your legs, fingers teasing, slow, dragging out every shiver he can coax from you.

“good,” he murmurs against your lips, “because i’ve been waiting to ruin you all night.”

his voice drops lower, heat coiling in every word. he mouths along your jaw, voice ragged and raw, lips barely brushing your skin as he spills every filthy promise he’s been holding back.

“you have no idea how long i’ve wanted you like this,” he growls, teeth grazing your neck, tongue smoothing the sting. “all those nights you played hard to get, strutted around in those stupid little dresses… you thought you were so slick, didn’t you?”

his hands roam your body, fingers squeezing, kneading, memorizing. “you remember that night you tickled me until i was out of breath? all i could think about was flipping you over, pinning you down, and fucking you until you cried for me.” he nips at your ear, a slow, dirty smile curling against your skin. “should’ve done it right there on the couch.”

your breath hitches, thighs parting wider for him, his touch and his words making you dizzy. “and that dress-up night?” he grinds against you, voice rough, “when you twirled in front of me, acting like you didn’t see how hard i was? i almost lost it. should’ve made you sit on my lap and show me just how much you could take.” he grabs your chin, tilts your face up to meet his eyes, wild and dark and burning. “you’re mine,” he breathes, possessive and hungry. “i’ve waited long enough, and tonight—” his lips crush yours, the words swallowed between your mouths— “tonight you don’t get to tease and run.”

his hand slides between your legs, fingers parting you, dragging slow and heavy through your wetness. he swallows the moan you give him, then breaks away just enough to whisper, “every single time you walked away, all i could think about was bending you over the nearest surface and making you remember who you belong to.”

he presses his forehead to yours, breath mingling, all heat and promise. “you’re mine,” he repeats, voice so low it’s almost a growl. “say it.”

your words fall apart, stuttering, breath coming in short, needy bursts. you try to answer him, but the only thing that leaves your lips is a whimper, your body shivering with how much you want him. he notices, of course—he always does. his hand, steady at your waist, pulls you in close and he grins against your skin, voice warm with laughter and want. “look at you, all worked up. you’re a mess, baby.”

you feel him fumbling below, the press of his hips, the snap of fabric as he frees himself, hard and hot against your thigh. he lines himself up but hesitates, leaning over you, his lips brushing your ear.

“missionary, huh? little too outdated for you and me,” he teases, a low rumble of laughter in his chest. “that’s baby-making position—we’re not there yet.” his words make you blush hotter, but before you can protest, he’s already shifting you, hands firm but careful, flipping you over and guiding you onto all fours.

the sheets bunch under your knees, your cheek pressing to the cool pillow, the world narrowing to the feel of his body moving behind you. you feel the rough, calloused slide of his palms along your hips, steadying you as he kneels close, chest brushing your back.

his mouth finds your shoulder, warm and open-mouthed, sucking marks you’ll find later, his teeth dragging just enough to make you gasp. “that’s better,” he murmurs, voice thick with approval.

his hand slides between your thighs again, two fingers slipping easily into your wetness, curling and pressing just right, dragging a long, broken moan out of you. he holds you tight against him, his other arm braced around your waist, making you arch back into his touch.

“god, you’re perfect like this,” he breathes, lips dragging along your shoulder blade, voice all praise and filth and something possessive that makes your heart beat wild. “so fuckin’ wet for me. can’t believe how much you tease and act like you don’t want this.”

he thrusts his fingers deeper, his thumb rubbing soft, messy circles, every movement careful but demanding, his kisses trailing up your spine. “tell me you’re mine,” he growls, nipping at your skin. “say it.”

your voice trembles, but you force the words out, eyes glazed, body pulsing with want. “i’m yours,” you gasp, barely above a whisper, “i’m yours, nemi—”

his hand slides up, fingers tangling in your hair, gentle but unyielding, forcing your head to the side until your cheek meets the sheets and your eyes can find his over your shoulder. he leans in, breath hot at your ear, his gaze fierce and unblinking.

“good girl,” he murmurs, and there’s something almost apologetic in the way his thumb sweeps over your cheek, softer than you expected. his other hand still between your legs, fingers buried deep, drawing out those sweet, desperate sounds you can’t control. then he pauses, voice rough, honest, trembling just a little. “i’m sorry for how i’m about to treat you, sweetheart,” he rasps, lips pressed to your jaw, “i promise i’ll be more careful next time. tonight, i just—can’t help it. need you too much.”

his hand withdraws, slick and sure, and you whimper at the loss, but then you feel the heat and weight of him, his shaft rubbing slow and heavy through your wetness, dragging against your clit, making you arch back helplessly, mind going white-hot.

his hand slides up to cup your cheek, holding you steady, forcing you to keep your eyes locked with his. the look in them is wild, dark, raw want tangled with something softer, something that aches for you even as he claims you.

he drags the tip of his cock over your slick, circling, teasing, both of you breathless, lost in the mess of it.

“look at me,” he demands, low and rough, “don’t look away.”

his grip tightens on your face, his hips lining up, the tension electric and unbearable as you wait for him to take you, your heart pounding, his gaze burning into yours—like there’s nothing else in the world but you, the heat between you, and the way you both come undone.

he sinks into you in one smooth, deep thrust—your slick, hot, needy body giving way around him, the stretch so sharp and sweet it knocks the air right out of you. you whimper, back arching, thighs trembling, and he stills, hands gripping your waist with a possessive, steady hold, letting you adjust, giving you just a moment.

“that’s it, baby,” he breathes, voice low and almost holy as his fingers dig into your hips, holding you firm. “fuck—you feel better than i ever imagined.”

his palms slide to your ass, spreading you open, thumbs pressing into your skin as he lets himself savor the way you clench around him. his hips twitch, barely holding back, and he rubs slow, soothing circles along your skin.

he leans down, mouth at your ear, his voice soft, gruff, honest. “don’t ever change for me. you hear me? you’re perfect just like this—every part of you.” his lips brush your jaw, your shoulder, praise spilling from him in messy, hungry words. “so fuckin’ perfect, sweetheart. mine.”

your head shifts, forehead sinking into the pillow, breath coming fast and hot, the moans muffled by cotton. but he doesn’t let you hide, not even for a second. his fingers tangle in your hair, tugging you back up, forcing your head to the side so your flushed cheek presses against the pillow but your eyes are still on him—so he can see every gasp, every flutter of your lashes, every messy, desperate sound you make just for him.

“nah, don’t hide,” he says, voice thick and dark as he starts to move, hips rolling deep and slow, filling you up again and again. “want to see you—want to watch you fall apart for me.” his hand in your hair is tight but gentle, guiding, claiming you over and over.

you sob his name, the pleasure and pressure building, and he just groans, fucking you deeper, eyes burning into yours, like you’re the only thing he wants to see for the rest of his life.

his thrusts start slow and deep, each one dragging another sweet whimper out of you, your body rolling back into his like you can’t get close enough. every time he fills you, his grip on your hips tightens, his palm dragging over your waist, your ass, your lower back—touch everywhere, holding, grounding, claiming.

he leans over you, lips ghosting your ear, voice ragged and warm and full of feeling. “fuck, you know how long i wanted this?” his breath stutters with each thrust, his words tumbling out between groans. “being your best friend—always over, always here, eating your food, stealing your bed. everyone thinking i’m your boyfriend but i couldn’t touch you like this. drove me crazy.”

he snaps his hips harder, the bed creaking, your skin heating under his praise. “traditions, movie nights, you walking around in those little shorts—knowing you trusted me, knowing you wanted me close, but not letting me have all of you. so fucking hot, baby. nearly lost my mind every damn time.”

you choke on a gasp, the words and rhythm combining until your head spins. he lets go of your hair just long enough to run his hand down your spine, fingers splaying possessively. “but this?” he moans, thrusting deep, grinding into you, your whole body shuddering around him. “getting to be inside you, to feel you like this? nothing’s better. not a damn thing in the world.”

he presses a kiss to your shoulder, his voice all tangled-up love and hunger. “don’t want to be your best friend anymore. want to be your man. want to come home to you, every. fuckin’. night.”

your hands fist in the sheets, your body arching, the words hitting you as hard as his body does, every stroke pushing you closer to unraveling. all you can do is cry out for him, again and again, his name raw in your throat as he pounds into you, every compliment, every promise making you melt for him, over and over.

he presses his chest against your back, the angle deeper, harder, until you’re trembling, gasping, barely able to hold yourself up. he leans forward, lips finding yours—soft and messy, mid-moan, swallowing every shaky cry you make. his hand never leaves your waist, holding you steady as he rocks into you, slow and devastating.

“love you,” between kisses, “love you,” between thrusts, he breathes it against your lips—“love you, love you, love you”—each word a brand, each movement making you feel more owned, more wanted, more his than you’ve ever felt in your life. your own voice fractures, breaking on his name, tears streaking down your cheeks from the overwhelming stretch, the pressure, the sweetness of him everywhere.

“nemi—god—feels so good, you’re so—fuck—you’re so big—can’t—” your words shatter into another moan, hips bucking, your body arching into every stroke. he coos, low and gentle, lips nipping your ear, voice husky and kind. “shhh, you’re taking me so well, baby. look at you—so perfect, crying for me. you feel incredible, so fucking tight—so proud of you, pretty girl.”

he wipes a tear away with his thumb, kissing the corner of your eye, slowing just enough to draw out the pleasure, to let you feel every inch. “that’s it, let me hear you. let me have it all. you’re mine, aren’t you?”

“y-yours,” you sob, voice cracking, your whole world reduced to the way he fills you, the way he says your name like a precious prayer, the way he pours out every filthy, loving word until you’re lost in him, body and soul, undone and remade with every praise, every thrust, every promise in your ear.

his thrusts slow for a moment, his hand cupping your face, eyes searching yours, dark and wild. “wait—baby, you on birth control?” you’re too far gone to lie, breathless, needy. you shake your head, voice breaking on a moan. “no—‘m not—sanemi—”

he lets out a sharp, breathless laugh, something wicked curling in his voice.

you whine, trying to catch your breath, your body clenching around him. “what’s so funny?” you gasp, half-crying, half-laughing at the edge of it all.

he leans down, mouth at your ear, grin hot and possessive. “nothing,” he teases, nipping your earlobe, hips rolling rougher, faster, “just means i gotta be careful, or i’ll end up really making you mine.”

he punctuates it with a hard thrust, knocking another cry out of you, the sound muffled against the pillow as he picks up the pace, pounding into you, relentless and deep, hands locked on your hips to hold you steady.

“can’t help it, baby,” he growls, voice ragged, “feels too fucking good. fuck—you make me want to ruin you for anyone else.”

all you can do is sob his name, the rhythm driving you higher, your body shuddering as he chases both your pleasure and his, every word, every thrust making you his in ways you never even imagined.

your body tightens around him, everything winding up impossibly tight—every stroke, every filthy praise, every sweet, hungry word turning into heat and lightning beneath your skin.

his hand slides down, two fingers circling your clit, unrelenting, just the right pressure, just the right rhythm, and the pleasure crests hard and fast. your thighs shake, your breath comes in sharp, desperate little cries, and then you’re coming—squeezing tight around him, pulsing, your whole body shaking as the orgasm crashes through you.

you buck back against him, helpless, sobbing his name, the pleasure blinding and sharp and so, so good you can barely breathe. he groans, hips stuttering as your body milks him, his fingers never letting up on your clit. “that’s it, baby—there you go, just like that. fuck, you’re perfect—look at you, falling apart for me.”

you try to move away, too sensitive, but he holds you tight, not letting you run, his hand stroking you through it, coaxing every last shiver, every last drop of pleasure from you. “i got you,” he soothes, voice low and sweet and ruined. “ride it out, pretty girl. give it all to me. that’s it—just like that, i’m right here.”

his thrusts turn ragged, hips snapping faster, the heat in his voice barely restrained. he groans your name, then pulls out at the very last second, hands sliding under your arms, lifting you upright—breathless, hair messy, eyes still hazy with pleasure.

he tugs you up so you’re kneeling in front of him, mouth parted, blinking up, and he fists his cock, rough and desperate, stroking himself while you watch. it only takes a few strokes before he’s falling apart, head tipped back, muscles tight, cum spilling hot and thick across your cheek, your lips, your chin.

his free hand cups your jaw, thumb smearing a bit of the mess across your skin, the sight making him groan even deeper. “fuck, you’re beautiful like this,” he murmurs, voice ragged and awestruck, his eyes glued to you—wrecked, painted with him, the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

he leans in, kisses your forehead, your hair, your lips if you let him, still tangled up in the aftershocks, still holding your face like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever touched. “mine,” he whispers, soft and possessive, “so fucking perfect—could look at you like this forever.”

he’s still catching his breath, fingers trembling as he reaches for his phone on the nightstand, screen lighting up in the blue-dark. his eyes search your face for a second, soft and hungry, voice almost shy beneath the rasp. “can i? let me take a picture,” he asks, thumb hovering over the camera, his other hand still warm on your cheek. “need to remember this. need to see you like this, just for me.”

you’re still flushed, streaked with his release, lips parted, pulse fluttering. you nod, a little breathless, eyes shining with mischief and trust. “yeah, nemi. go ahead.”

he snaps the picture, the soft click echoing in the hush. his gaze is a little awed. he turns the phone, checks the photo, his smile going crooked, pupils wide with adoration and want. “fuck—look at you.”

he tucks a piece of hair behind your ear, tilting your chin so you’re looking up at him, cum glistening on your face, every inch of you marked by him. “always wanted to see you like this,” he admits, voice thick, “wanted to keep you just for me. you’re gorgeous, baby. can’t believe you’re mine.”

his thumb traces your cheekbone, gentle now, pride and love tangled up in the mess. “i’ll keep it safe. only for me. promise.” he kisses you slow, deep, tasting the sweetness of everything you are, never once looking away.

he grabs a tissue from the nightstand, hands careful as he cleans your face, soft little touches, thumb lingering at your jaw like he’s not ready to stop touching you. his voice drops, gentle, teasing, “hold still, pretty girl. can’t have you walking around all marked up.”

when he’s done, he tosses the tissue aside and pulls you into the bed, sheets cool against your bare skin. you tuck yourself into his side, head pressed against his chest, one leg slung over his thigh. he leans back against the headboard, one arm behind his head, the other wrapped tight around you, grounding you in that way only he can.

the room is quiet, heartbeats settling, the smell of sex and sleep and him curling through the air.

you tilt your head up, cheek squished against his ribs, and with a silly, too-tired grin, ask, “so… what are we now, nemi?”

he barks out a laugh, loud and bright, squeezing your waist. “what, you need a label for this?”

you poke his side, making him jump. “yeah, i do. c’mon, i wanna hear you say it.”

he grins down at you, mouth twitching, scoffs in that old familiar way that’s half affection, half bravado. “we’re best friends,” he deadpans, eyes sparkling.

you groan, snuggle closer, pretend to pout. “liar. best friends don’t do… that.” he shrugs, voice warm and playful, “guess we’re just really, really close.”

you roll your eyes, laugh bubbling out as he tugs you impossibly closer, his arm a solid band around your waist. “shut up, nemi.”

he presses a kiss to your temple, laughter rumbling deep in his chest. “never. but we’re dating now. that’s what we are.”

and in the hush after, it feels like the easiest truth in the world.

likes, reblogs, comments are appreciated!

link for taglist!

t͟a͟g͟s͟: @iwishiwerespecialll, @zhahzu, @sarabat85, @mrsx-alberich, @butterflycore, @d3m0nsi4y3rreader, @shinmonwifey, @vngelofsmvlldevth, @coollytinymeteor, @never-brooks, @valleyorchid92, @jammyys-stuff, @acometevery65yrs, @nemigiirlie, @miffysoo, @flowerpowertae, @mushroomgal98, @deanzelly, @silverianni, @aeveden, @immaswallowurkids, @patrioticarcreactor, @missblushie, @everybodyloveslevi, @niyyanic-blog, @sapphireserpens, @lunaryst, @izzyscissorhands, @cousinconnie, @productofparadis, @dustybustyy, @camgod78, @bontensbabygirl, @kombuchaaaaa, @i-messed-up-big-time, @theedgesofprint, @joelmillerlvr, @leashortcake, @sebastiansssmasterrr, @icarusthefoolish, @fuckyeahporcogalliard, @asdfghjkl7things,

[kryptidfiles]

Handle With Care (Pt 1/?)

David!Clark Kent × Metahuman Female!Reader

Tags: ANGST, GUN VIOLENCE, Superman/Clark Kent x Reader, Metahuman!Reader, Hurt/No Comfort, Established Relationship, Jimmy Knows Clark Is Superman, Lois Knows Clark Is Superman, Healing/Regeneration, Body Horror (Injury Transference) Jealousy / Love Triangle (Clark x Lois), Emotional Trauma, Protective!Clark, Jimmy is A Good Friend, Emotional Cheating Maybe

In a city of heroes, some sacrifices are invisible. You can heal anything—but at a cost no one suspects. When a gala turns deadly, you must decide how far you’ll go to save the people you love, even when it breaks your heart. Clark thought he knew you. He was wrong. You tried again, breath shaking. “Clark. I'm serious. I’ve never healed—like this,” you said, voice thin. “Through the chest. I’d never—this could kill me—” “I don’t care!” he snapped, louder than you’d ever heard him. “Just fix her! Please, please, I can’t— I can’t lose her—"

wc 5k

Wrote this all in one go, this was just one of the metahuman angst I thought about 😩 oops sorry

.

You were eight the first time you learned what pain could do when you touched it.

It was a July afternoon that smelled like hot asphalt and orange popsicles. The neighborhood kids were racing their bikes down the hill, and you remember thinking the world was endless—until your neighbor’s son Tommy hit a rock and went flying. There was a sound that didn’t belong in summer: metal twisting, a cry that tore through the cicadas. You were already running before you realized what you were doing.

He was on the ground, his knee sliced like a peach, blood pooling dark and fast, and his wrist angled in a way that made grown-ups panic. You didn’t think. You just pressed your hands on his injuries and whispered please, please, don’t cry. It’ll be okay.

It worked.

The skin knitted, the bleeding stopped, joint straightened, swelling ceased—and then your own scream broke the air. The pain slammed into you like a wave. Your vision went white. When you woke up, your knee was bandaged, your wrist was in a make-shift sling, and Tommy was fine, blinking at you like nothing had happened.

That night your mother sat on the edge of your bed, eyes red from crying.

“You can’t let people see how far you can fix them,” she whispered, voice trembling. “You’ll scare them.”

You learned to smile through the pain after that. You learned to hold steady even when it burned. You learned that people liked their miracles clean — painless, neat, without cost.

You practiced when no one was watching—small cuts on your own skin, bruises taken from stray cats and scraped knees. You learned the pattern of it: pain first, then the warmth of closing flesh and mending muscle, then exhaustion that sank into your bones. Only the deeper wounds left marks, faint silver ghosts that lingered after healing.

You were able to hone the process to just mere miraculous minutes.

Despite the short-term pain, you started dressing modestly—long sleeves, high collar, pants even in the summer—to keep others from noticing the evidence. People called you polite, shy, gentle. They didn’t see the way you clenched your jaw when you helped them up after a fall, or how you’d retreat somewhere quiet to breathe through someone else’s pain for just a few moments.

You told yourself it was a gift. You told yourself it meant something—that maybe if it hurt this much, it had to matter.

You never imagined that someday, someone would ask you to use it for the one wound that could break you completely.

.

Years later, you were a name on a registry—filed neatly under Metahuman, Type C: Healer.

Officially, you were part of LordTech’s Collaborative Medic Initiative, a glorified way of saying “human first aid kit with paperwork.” The Justice Gang had been your assigned team for an indefinite period of time. You were allowed to call Metropolis home —its skyline of steel and sunlight, its endless pulse.

You didn’t mind. There was something about this city that felt like forward motion. You had a small apartment with thin walls and a view of the train. You had a modest salary, a LordTech badge, and a second job you actually looked forward to starting: copy editor at The Daily Planet. Between the two, you figured you could build a life here—quiet, purposeful, almost normal.

Almost.

That afternoon’s mission had gone as smoothly as any “routine” alien tech containment could. The Justice Gang returned bruised and winded, except for one new piece—Superman. You hadn’t met him yet, though you’d patched up everyone else at least once. You weren’t sure what to expect.

“There’s our girl!” Rex Mason—Element Man—called as soon as you entered the hall, flopping onto a plush chaise. His arm oozed a faint shimmer of copper and mercury. “How good are you at treating Guy’s bruised pride?”

“I didn’t bruise shit,” Guy Gardner snapped, cradling his wrist, jaw tight. “Except maybe that robot.”

Kendra Saunders—Hawkgirl—let out a tired laugh as she leaned her mace against the wall. “You tried to punch a tank, dude. Look where that got you.”

The sweat sliding down Guy’s temple made him look less like a soldier and more like a stubborn kid caught in a lie. He finally turned to you. “Just fix this so I don’t get benched.”

You had grown to loathe that phrase. Fix it. As if you were an appliance, a thing that hummed and healed on command.

You knelt beside him, inspecting the swelling along his forearm. “You want me to ‘fix’ it,” you asked softly, “or actually heal it?”

He blinked. “Difference being?”

You smiled faintly. “The intentions.”

He groaned something unintelligible, but he didn’t pull away when your hands hovered over the break. The warmth flickered through you, the fracture crawling into your own bones before smoothing under your skin. By the time Guy flexed his wrist, your knuckles ached and your fingers trembled, but as your body repaired yourself you hid it well. You always did.

“Better?” you asked.

“You… actually did it,” Guy said, eyes flicking from his healed wrist to your calm face. “Didn’t even flinch. That’s badass.”

"That’s what they hired me for.”

When the others dispersed, the room quieted. You were cleaning up unused gauze when you heard a deep voice from behind you.

“You okay?”

You turned.

Superman stood there—taller than you expected, broader too. His voice was steady but softer than the headlines made it sound, carrying warmth that startled you. His cape hung behind him, a faint smudge of dirt along his jaw the only sign of a fight.

He looked at you, not with the distant awe you were used to seeing in past heroes, but something quieter. Concern, maybe. Empathy.

You hesitated, unsure how to respond. People usually asked how bad it was, or if you could fix them next. No one had ever just… asked you.

You gave him a practiced smile and your usual cover. “Most wounds just take energy out of me. Should be good in a few minutes! Which is good for me—I don’t want to show up to my first day at work tomorrow already slacking.”

It wasn’t an entire lie. Superman seemed to move past the excuse you made up for your powers.

“Work?” His brow furrowed slightly. “You mean LordTech?”

“The Daily Planet, actually. Copy editor.”

His expression softened, almost boyish. He offered a small smile that made something unfamiliar flutter behind your ribs. “Good luck tomorrow.”

.

That night, your apartment smelled like cardboard and takeout. You were halfway through unpacking a box labeled kitchen stuff, probably? when a knock came at your door.

Standing there was a tall man with curly hair, glasses slipping down his nose, and an awkward smile that made him look harmless in the most deliberate way. He held a small potted plant like a peace offering.

“Uh—hi,” you said, confused. “Neighbor?”

“Not exactly.” He shifted the plant between his hands before handing it out to you. “Thought I should introduce myself properly. I’m Clark Kent.”

You blinked as you cradled the new bloom in your arms. I have heard of that name before, reputable, honest. “Hi, Clark. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Actually, we’ve met before,” he said with a sheepish grin. “I got your address from Kendra.”

Your breath hitched. There was only one Kendra you knew, and while you pieced it together, Clark continued. “I figured I should get ahead of the surprise. I’m a reporter for the Daily Planet, too. We’ll be seeing each other a lot at and outside of work, I feel.”

He looked at you expectantly, his blue eyes piercing through you. For a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

“Well, Superman,” you managed in a soft voice, smiling despite yourself, “I’m glad to know a familiar face at work.”

He looked just as relieved. “Likewise.”

.

It didn’t take long for your orbits to start closing in.

Clark introduced you to Lois Lane and Jimmy Olsen on your first day. His tone was casual, but his smile was too wide to ignore. They were two whirlwinds of brilliance and chaos who made the newsroom feel alive.

Lois shook your hand without question and immediately made you laugh; Jimmy showed you the fastest way to break a copy machine and fix it again; Perry barked something about deadlines in the background like a father who secretly worried too much.

They welcomed you in so quickly, so freely.

Lois took you out for drinks the first week and made sure everyone at the Planet knew you were off-limits to office jerks. You liked her instantly — a force of nature that was sharp, funny, and impossible to intimidate. She teased Clark relentlessly until he blushed. It hurt a little more when you noticed how Clark looked at her when she wasn’t looking.

It wasn’t lust. It was tenderness. Familiarity. History. That quiet ache that belonged to people who’ve already said goodbye once.

Jimmy caught you staring once during a late edit and smirked. “You noticed it too, huh?”

“Noticed what?” you deflected.

“The thing,” he said, gesturing vaguely between Clark and Lois, who were bickering shoulder to shoulder over phrasing, pointing comically at Clark’s monitor. “They’ve got that… tragic exes who still text energy.”

You laughed, though it came out strangled. “They’re just good friends.”

Jimmy raised a brow, “Whatever you say.”

You tried to believe in yourself instead. You pretended that watching them didn’t sting in your chest. Even though it did.

Still, there was no denying the pull between you and him.

It wasn’t some grand, sudden thing; it crept in like sunlight through a cracked window. Late nights at the Planet editing side by side, shoulders almost touching, your laughter muffled between the hum of printers and Clark’s habit of reading every line out loud before you approved it. He’d lean over your screen, glasses slipping, voice low as if the words themselves might shatter if spoken too loud.

Lunches became coffee breaks, coffee breaks turned into dinner because neither of you wanted the conversation to end. He listened the way most people didn’t — not just waiting for his turn to speak, but really hearing you. Sometimes he’d bring you snacks from vendors you’d never tried, or a thermos of tea because he’d noticed you never finished your coffee. Small things, but they stacked up quietly into something whole.

He started showing up more often at the Hall of Justice after the Gang’s long missions. He never asked for anything except “How are you doing?” and “How’s your energy holding up?”

He always placed a warm hand on your shoulder and with a smile, “You did good.”

And you’d always say, “You too.”

It still caught you off guard, how gentle he could be even when covered in soot and sweat.

Superman was invincible — but Clark, Clark carried softness like armor.

And maybe that’s why it scared you, the way his eyes always found yours in a crowded room, how he’d grin when you rolled your eyes at Guy’s ramblings, how he’d offer his hand like he wasn’t sure you’d take it but hoped you would.

You started seeing patterns: the way his cape brushed your shoulder during field briefings, the way he’d drop his voice to say your name like a secret. Every day, the orbit tightened a little more.

You thought about sharing the true nature of your powers with him. That every healing came at a cost. The deeper the wound, the longer it took for you to crawl back to yourself. That there were limits, and you’d never dared test them, not yet.

But you didn’t.

You didn't want to scare him.

Eventually, friendship blurred into something deeper — slow, inevitable, tender.

The first time he kissed you, it wasn’t fireworks; it was relief. Like two people who’d been holding their breath too long finally remembered how to exhale.

He told you he’d never met anyone who made him feel so human. You told him you weren’t sure you remembered what “human” even meant anymore. He smiled, hugged you close to his chest, and said you could figure it out together.

You let him in.

You let yourself believe that love didn’t have to hurt to matter. That maybe you could hold something fragile without breaking it — or being the one broken by it.

.

The Metropolis Art Museum gleamed like something carved from light. The city’s elite crowded its marble atrium in black suits and glittering gowns, champagne flutes catching the reflection of chandelier stars. You had never felt so aware of your own heartbeat.

Perry White, in his rare generous mood, had managed to secure you a press badge despite your title being copy editor. “Consider it a morale booster,” he’d said, which you suspected really meant, We’re short-staffed and you clean up everyone’s typos.

Jimmy, Lois, and Clark were here officially: camera, notepad, and recorder in hand. You were just trying to look like you belonged.

Your dress was simple but elegant—dark navy, gloves up to your elbows, hair swept back. You caught Clark’s expression when you walked in, his eyes going wide for just a moment before he ducked his head with a blush and straightened his tie. It was enough to send a small, dangerous warmth through you.

Clarak leaned in, whispering as he brushed his lips to your temple, “You look beautiful, honey.”

You laughed, hooking an arm through his, and picked imaginary lint off his red tie. “You look pretty sharp yourself, handsome.”

“Well, you both are showing us up tonight!” Jimmy chimed in from your side, adjusting his camera bag.

“You’re wearing sneakers,” you laughed. He grinned back, unbothered.

It was easy with Jimmy—like a brother who saw everything but never judged. He, like Lois, knew what you were. That you could heal others. Neither asked questions they didn’t need to, which you appreciated. You weren’t sure what they thought of you and Clark, though Lois had a way of smiling that made you feel like she knew exactly how far things had gone.

And beneath all the laughter and banter, that quiet history between her and Clark hummed like a radio left on low volume.

.

Later, you found yourself shoulder to shoulder with Clark before The Life Line by Winslow Homer, tucked away in the Nineteenth Century American Art wing.

A storm-tossed sea consumed the canvas: a man clutching an unconscious woman, both suspended on a rescue line above furious waves. Her face half-shrouded by the red blanket he held around her, his own face obscured entirely by her weight and the spray of the sea.

Clark’s voice was quiet beside you. “Homer painted this after a real rescue off the Jersey coast,” he said. “He was fascinated by people at their breaking points. By… what we’re willing to risk for someone else.”

You tilted your head, gloved fingers resting at your chin as your eyes traced the ropes cutting across the frame. “It’s strange,” you murmured. “The man’s saving her life, but he’s… faceless. The hero disappears.”

Clark hummed, thoughtful. “Maybe that’s the point,” he said, the glass of his lenses catching the reflected light. “Sacrifice isn’t about being seen.”

You studied the canvas again, heart tightening. “Do you think the man made it?”

“I’d like to think so.”

You wondered what kind of person Clark was if the sea came for him. Would he reach for you, too?

“And her?” you asked softly.

He turned to look at you then—eyes catching the painting’s dim gold light. His mouth parted like he might answer, but Jimmy’s voice came echoing from down the hall, calling you both to join the others.

The moment dissolved.

.

The night bloomed with laughter and light until it didn’t.

The gunmen burst in without warning—four of them, ski masks and rifles.

“Everyone on the ground!” a deep voice barked.

They shouted for phones, wallets, and jewelry after that. Panic tore through the crowd like lightning. You dropped low, your mind snapping to triage mode as the elite of Metropolis huddled together on the floor, trembling, whispering.

Clark was tense beside you. You could feel it in the air, that shift in him like a storm about to break. His eyes darted, calculating exits, counting threats, but there were too many civilians, too many guns, too many eyes.

Superman wanted out. Clark Kent couldn’t leave.

Your pulse hammered in your throat. You glimpse the way one of the gunmen moved, saw the tremor in their hands. Untrained. Amatures. Even more dangerous.

“Clark,” you hissed, low. “What are we going to do? We can’t–”

He exhaled through his nose, the marble beneath his hand cracking under pressure, “I know, I know–”

The gunmen moved methodically, their voices shaking but determined as they robbed guest after guest.

You could see Clark’s jaw tightening with every second.

Lois was near the front, standing protectively in front of an elderly couple who could barely move. You wanted to tell her to stop drawing attention—wanted to reach her— but then one of the gunmen shoved the elderly woman.

“Hey!” she shouted, stepping out before more damage could be done. “Leave them alone!”

“Lois, don’t—” Clark surged forward, trying to reach for her across the room.

“I–I said everyone on the ground!”

The gunfire cracked the air.

For a second, the world blurred. You didn’t hear the screams or Jimmy’s shout. All you heard was Clark’s voice, raw and desperate.

“Lois!”

She stumbled back, shock in her eyes, hands pressed to her the side of her chest as red bloomed through her dress. The gunmen bolted. The guests scattered in every direction, their panic deafening.

Clark was at Lois’s side before anyone else could move. You followed, pulse hammering, knees hitting the marble beside them. Jimmy’s voice was somewhere behind you, trying to help keep the guests calm, to prevent a stampede.

“Lois—hey, Lois—stay with me,” Clark begged, one hand pressed to the wound, the other trembling. The blood was spreading too fast.

“Clark, baby, you need to get out of here.”

He shook his head violently, his mop of curly hair damp with sweat, “I can’t—too many eyes.”

He looked at you then, eyes frantic behind his glasses, desperation raw in his voice. “Honey, I— I need you! You have to save her— You can save her.”

You froze. “Clark—”

“You can do it. I've seen you.”

You felt your chest heave from panic.

“I’ve never healed—like this,” you stammered, voice thin.

He clutched Lois’s face like he could will her to stay awake. “Fix her!"

It wasn’t Superman’s voice. It was something raw, human, terrified. He was shaking, begging now, tears streaming down his face, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. “She’s not breathing— Lois, hey, hey—”

You tried again, breath shaking. “Clark. I'm serious. Through the chest. I’d never—this could kill me—”

“I don’t care!” he snapped, louder than you’d ever heard him. “Just fix her! Please, please, I can’t— I can’t lose her—”

The words shattered something inside you.

He didn’t even realize what he’d said, didn’t realize how it sounded. But you did.

All his love, all his desperate need—was for her. Not like before, not the lingering fondness you’d tried to ignore. This was the kind of fear that only comes from loving someone so much the world stops when they fall.

And suddenly, the painting came back to you: The Life Line. The man clinging to the woman as the storm swallowed them whole, alive and desperate along the rescue line.

“Do you think the man made it?”

“I’d like to think so.”

“And her?”

You swallowed hard, eyes burning, and nodded.

“Jimmy,” you called as you stared down at the wound, voice low but firm, “go outside. Flag down the EMS. Tell them we’ve stabilized her, but we need a stretcher and backup. Bring them here. I’ll make sure she'll be okay until then.”

Jimmy blinked, startled, then nodded, his face pale. “Got it!” He bolted toward the doors, phone already at his ear, pushing through the panicked crowd.

One less witness.

You tossed your gloves aside and nudged Clark’s bloodied palms away with trembling hands. You pressed your trembling hands over Lois’s chest and glanced at her face only once. She was impossibly quiet, her eyes losing shine and focus.

“C’mon, Lois. I got you.”

Heat flared instantly — that sickly surge of power clawing through you, dragging her pain into your body. Your chest and ribs burned, bones creaking under invisible weight. You could taste iron as every nerve ignited with agony.

The echo of the sirens sounded impossibly far away.

She gasped loudly then — a full breath flooding back into her lungs as she coughed wet and ragged — just as you swallowed your scream.

You quickly pressed your hand over your chest where the phantom gunshot started to bloom between your ribs. You were shaking and blinking owlishly, watching them.

Clark was rocking Lois in his arms, murmuring her name, trembling with relief as color began to return to her face. Her eyes darted wildly, her hands trembling as she clutched Clark’s shirt.

“Clark?” she whispered weakly. “What… what happened?”

They were whispering now. Clark soothing, brushing her hair from her face like he brushed yours, a relieved, devastating smile on his face.

You did it. You healed her.

“You did good,” you told yourself under your breath, but your voice broke.

No one was whispering your name. No one was worrying about you.

Their attention never broke. Not when you placed one palm on the marble floor to stand up and slid against the red. Not when your knees wobbled.

Clark’s eyes stayed on Lois like she was the only person left in the room.

Your palm remained pressed to your chest, but the wound kept blooming, warm and slick beneath your fingers. You stepped back once, twice—testing—waiting for someone to notice.

No one did.

The marble floor seemed to tilt under you. The echo of your heels was lost beneath the low sound of Clark’s voice as his forehead pressed to Lois's. Her trembling hand rose to hold his hand, and he let her.

The sight cut deeper than the pain underneath your hands.

You took another step back, the hem of your dress brushing against broken glass.

Still, their world stayed sealed around them— his hands on her face, his voice promising her she was safe.

You turned, slow and quiet, like an animal trying not to draw attention. Your hand caught the doorframe for balance as you slipped into the deserted hallway. Blood dotted the marble behind you like a breadcrumb trail, but nobody looked up.

Nobody called after you.

.

You didn’t remember crossing the gallery, only the cool marble under your fingers as you stumbled into a side corridor. The noise of the museum—sirens, shouting, the echo of boots—faded behind you like a radio turned down.

The single-occupancy restroom at the end of the hall was mercifully empty. You slipped inside, careful to drag your hem so it caught the worst of the blood before it hit the tile. The door swung shut behind you.

The mirror greeted you first.

A stranger stared back—eyes glassy, dark navy dress soaked, skin ash-pale beneath the harsh fluorescent light. The bullet wound you’d pulled from Lois was a ragged bloom over your ribs, seeping through your fingers. Each heartbeat pushed a warm pulse against your palm.

You pressed harder. “Stop,” you whispered—not to the blood, but to the memories.

Clark’s voice, hoarse and desperate, still rang in your head.

I don’t care! Just fix her!

I can't lose her.

Lois’s hand on his face. His forehead against hers.

The look he hadn’t given you.

Your knees gave out and you slid down the door until the tile met your back. Cold. Hard. Steady.

You worked by muscle memory—one hand bracing your ribs, the other clutching the sink as you forced your breathing to slow. The healing would come, you told yourself. It always did. Though it came slower with big wounds.

Slower still with a broken heart.

But you've never had a wound like this.

The pain was a tide. It licked up your spine, pulled at your lungs, filled your head with white noise. You bit your lip until you tasted copper to keep from crying out. You didn’t want to scare anyone. You didn’t want to draw them here.

Blood trickled between your fingers, down your arm, spattering onto the tile.

The edges of the room wavered. You could almost see the Winslow Homer painting on the bathroom wall instead of the mirror—red blanket, storm-slick rope, a woman carried by a faceless man.

You pressed your head back and laughed once, a small sound, broken in the middle.

Your hands shook. Your lips went numb. Still, you stayed quiet, curling in on yourself like a wounded animal. If you could just ride the tide long enough, your body would stitch itself back together. God, you hoped.

Then a voice cracked through the silence. “Oh my God—”

You blinked up, disoriented, as the door flew open. Jimmy filled the doorway, wild-eyed, the press badge crooked at his throat. He froze when he saw you on the floor.

His hands trembled as hand hovered over your shoulder. “I was looking for—You’re—bleeding, how?! Jesus fucking—!” He spun toward the hall, voice rising. “Clark! She’s—”

You clutched his sleeve weakly. “Don’t, please don’t,” you rasped, though your voice sounded like it came from the end of a long tunnel. “Lois needs him. I’ll be fine, just…gimme a minute.”

Jimmy’s eyes snapped back to your face, furious and panicked as he pressed trembling hands against yours. “I don’t think we have a minute! God, how are you even—” His hands hovered, not sure where to press. “Clark!”

Your head lolled to the side, “Jimmy, shhh, I’ll be—just wait,” you whispered. “Clark told me… to save her. Lois is alive. Fixed. That’s all that matters.”

Jimmy’s grip slipped on your blood. “No, no, shit,” he muttered, pressing his hand over yours again as if he could hold you together. “This isn’t fine, this isn’t—I thought you could heal—Clark! Where the hell are you?”

.

A few agonizing seconds later, you heard a familiar stride echo down the hall.

Clark’s voice then filtered through. “Sorry, Jimmy. EMS just arrived—they’re transporting Lois to Metropolis General just to be safe. I was going to meet them there. Police have the—”

He had his eyes down, meticulously rubbing a washcloth between his hands, the towel tinged pink with blood.

He stopped short.

“Jimmy, what the—”

Clark immediately dropped the towel and collapsed to his knees beside you, his hands reaching out for you.

“Hey—hey, no, no, no—” His voice broke apart. “What happened?”

Jimmy’s words tumbled out in a panic as he adjusted his hold on your ribs. “She was fine, I thought she was fine! She told me to flag EMS, said she’d take care of it, you were there, you heard her, and, and—Clark, she’s bleeding out, I think she’s—”

Clark’s eyes flicked from the wound between your ribs to your face, back again. He froze. The realization hit him like a blow. “This—this was Lois’s wound.” His breath stuttered, disbelief hardening into horror. “You—how—how long have you—”

You tried to focus on his face, but the room kept tilting, the edges of his silhouette bending in the light. “Awe, Clark…please don’t… don’t look like that,” you whispered, frowning. “You said—save her. I did.”

Clark didn’t move. His throat worked, breaking around the words, and finally all his attention was locked on you—on the realization that you had taken on a life-threatening injury to save someone else, someone he had —

The room felt impossibly small, suffocating with the weight of your shared secret, the blood, the silence between sirens and shouting. Clark’s eyes searched yours, haunted.

“I didn’t know,” he choked, shaking his head violently. “I didn’t know this is what happens when you heal people. You told me it took energy out of you. Not— not this.”

You shook your head slowly, barely conscious, vision flickering at the edges. “It… scares people,” you murmured. “Even you…”

Clark made a wounded sound, somewhere between a sob and a growl. “I'm so sorry. I forced you to— I—how could I—” He cradled your head with shaking hands. “You shouldn’t have done this. You shouldn’t have had to— I didn’t think—”

“You never do, when it’s her,” you murmured automatically as your eyelids fluttered shut, and tried to focus your energy.

Clark flinched like you’d struck him. Jimmy looked between you, helpless eyes wide with disbelief, the horror settling heavy on his shoulders.

Jimmy then stood and was halfway through the door. “She’s losing consciousness! We need EMS to take her, too!”

Clark’s jaw tightened. “They've already left, won't be fast enough to come back,” he muttered, and Jimmy looked at him sharply, pleading.

“Then fly her out!” Jimmy yelled, voice cracking on the last word. “You’re Superman, for God’s sake—get her out of here!”

The name cut through the air like a confession. You heard a siren's wail diminish with distance.

You blinked, barely conscious, watching him war with himself—the hero and the man both frozen. “Clark,” you breathed. “Go. Lois needs—”

“No,” he said instantly, voice sharp, raw. “Don’t—don't say it. I’m not—” His words collapsed under their own weight. “I’m here. I'm here.”

You wanted to tell him it was fine if he left. That you understood. That you’d live. That it would just take time. But your lips barely moved, and all that came out was a whimper.

He leaned closer, voice trembling. “You saved her. But you—” His hand cupped your face, thumb brushing your jaw. “You should’ve told me. I would’ve—I would’ve never asked. I swear I would’ve—”

You managed to shake your head, “I did tell you…you said you didn’t care,” you whispered.

Clark froze, eyes wide, pupils blown, every color draining from his face. His hands shook as they hovered over your shoulders, unsure whether to cradle you or hold you back.

His hands fumbled at your bloodied hands, trying to find some small comfort, some way to make it right, but he was paralyzed by guilt, horror, and the raw reality of your sacrifice. His chest heaved, and he muttered broken apologies over and over, unable to stop, unable to look away from what he had forced you to do.

“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”

“You… you wouldn’t have forgiven yourself if Lois… I just couldn’t let you ever feel that way. Clark, I love you so much.”

The words cost you everything, but you meant them.

You could hear Jimmy shouting for the medics from the hall.

The roar of the sea, like a siren, was in your ears, getting louder, pulling you under.

Your last thought was of the painting swaying in its frame — the man and the woman, the storm, the rope that bound them both to salvation.

You finally understood what your mother meant, long ago, when she warned you not to let anyone see how far you could fix them.

Because this was the cost.

The hero disappears.

.

[kryptidfiles]

Handle With Care (Pt 1/?)

David!Clark Kent × Metahuman Female!Reader

Tags: ANGST, GUN VIOLENCE, Superman/Clark Kent x Reader, Metahuman!Reader, Hurt/No Comfort, Established Relationship, Jimmy Knows Clark Is Superman, Lois Knows Clark Is Superman, Healing/Regeneration, Body Horror (Injury Transference) Jealousy / Love Triangle (Clark x Lois), Emotional Trauma, Protective!Clark, Jimmy is A Good Friend, Emotional Cheating Maybe

In a city of heroes, some sacrifices are invisible. You can heal anything—but at a cost no one suspects. When a gala turns deadly, you must decide how far you’ll go to save the people you love, even when it breaks your heart. Clark thought he knew you. He was wrong. You tried again, breath shaking. “Clark. I'm serious. I’ve never healed—like this,” you said, voice thin. “Through the chest. I’d never—this could kill me—” “I don’t care!” he snapped, louder than you’d ever heard him. “Just fix her! Please, please, I can’t— I can’t lose her—"

wc 5k

Wrote this all in one go, this was just one of the metahuman angst I thought about 😩 oops sorry

.

You were eight the first time you learned what pain could do when you touched it.

It was a July afternoon that smelled like hot asphalt and orange popsicles. The neighborhood kids were racing their bikes down the hill, and you remember thinking the world was endless—until your neighbor’s son Tommy hit a rock and went flying. There was a sound that didn’t belong in summer: metal twisting, a cry that tore through the cicadas. You were already running before you realized what you were doing.

He was on the ground, his knee sliced like a peach, blood pooling dark and fast, and his wrist angled in a way that made grown-ups panic. You didn’t think. You just pressed your hands on his injuries and whispered please, please, don’t cry. It’ll be okay.

It worked.

The skin knitted, the bleeding stopped, joint straightened, swelling ceased—and then your own scream broke the air. The pain slammed into you like a wave. Your vision went white. When you woke up, your knee was bandaged, your wrist was in a make-shift sling, and Tommy was fine, blinking at you like nothing had happened.

That night your mother sat on the edge of your bed, eyes red from crying.

“You can’t let people see how far you can fix them,” she whispered, voice trembling. “You’ll scare them.”

You learned to smile through the pain after that. You learned to hold steady even when it burned. You learned that people liked their miracles clean — painless, neat, without cost.

You practiced when no one was watching—small cuts on your own skin, bruises taken from stray cats and scraped knees. You learned the pattern of it: pain first, then the warmth of closing flesh and mending muscle, then exhaustion that sank into your bones. Only the deeper wounds left marks, faint silver ghosts that lingered after healing.

You were able to hone the process to just mere miraculous minutes.

Despite the short-term pain, you started dressing modestly—long sleeves, high collar, pants even in the summer—to keep others from noticing the evidence. People called you polite, shy, gentle. They didn’t see the way you clenched your jaw when you helped them up after a fall, or how you’d retreat somewhere quiet to breathe through someone else’s pain for just a few moments.

You told yourself it was a gift. You told yourself it meant something—that maybe if it hurt this much, it had to matter.

You never imagined that someday, someone would ask you to use it for the one wound that could break you completely.

.

Years later, you were a name on a registry—filed neatly under Metahuman, Type C: Healer.

Officially, you were part of LordTech’s Collaborative Medic Initiative, a glorified way of saying “human first aid kit with paperwork.” The Justice Gang had been your assigned team for an indefinite period of time. You were allowed to call Metropolis home —its skyline of steel and sunlight, its endless pulse.

You didn’t mind. There was something about this city that felt like forward motion. You had a small apartment with thin walls and a view of the train. You had a modest salary, a LordTech badge, and a second job you actually looked forward to starting: copy editor at The Daily Planet. Between the two, you figured you could build a life here—quiet, purposeful, almost normal.

Almost.

That afternoon’s mission had gone as smoothly as any “routine” alien tech containment could. The Justice Gang returned bruised and winded, except for one new piece—Superman. You hadn’t met him yet, though you’d patched up everyone else at least once. You weren’t sure what to expect.

“There’s our girl!” Rex Mason—Element Man—called as soon as you entered the hall, flopping onto a plush chaise. His arm oozed a faint shimmer of copper and mercury. “How good are you at treating Guy’s bruised pride?”

“I didn’t bruise shit,” Guy Gardner snapped, cradling his wrist, jaw tight. “Except maybe that robot.”

Kendra Saunders—Hawkgirl—let out a tired laugh as she leaned her mace against the wall. “You tried to punch a tank, dude. Look where that got you.”

The sweat sliding down Guy’s temple made him look less like a soldier and more like a stubborn kid caught in a lie. He finally turned to you. “Just fix this so I don’t get benched.”

You had grown to loathe that phrase. Fix it. As if you were an appliance, a thing that hummed and healed on command.

You knelt beside him, inspecting the swelling along his forearm. “You want me to ‘fix’ it,” you asked softly, “or actually heal it?”

He blinked. “Difference being?”

You smiled faintly. “The intentions.”

He groaned something unintelligible, but he didn’t pull away when your hands hovered over the break. The warmth flickered through you, the fracture crawling into your own bones before smoothing under your skin. By the time Guy flexed his wrist, your knuckles ached and your fingers trembled, but as your body repaired yourself you hid it well. You always did.

“Better?” you asked.

“You… actually did it,” Guy said, eyes flicking from his healed wrist to your calm face. “Didn’t even flinch. That’s badass.”

"That’s what they hired me for.”

When the others dispersed, the room quieted. You were cleaning up unused gauze when you heard a deep voice from behind you.

“You okay?”

You turned.

Superman stood there—taller than you expected, broader too. His voice was steady but softer than the headlines made it sound, carrying warmth that startled you. His cape hung behind him, a faint smudge of dirt along his jaw the only sign of a fight.

He looked at you, not with the distant awe you were used to seeing in past heroes, but something quieter. Concern, maybe. Empathy.

You hesitated, unsure how to respond. People usually asked how bad it was, or if you could fix them next. No one had ever just… asked you.

You gave him a practiced smile and your usual cover. “Most wounds just take energy out of me. Should be good in a few minutes! Which is good for me—I don’t want to show up to my first day at work tomorrow already slacking.”

It wasn’t an entire lie. Superman seemed to move past the excuse you made up for your powers.

“Work?” His brow furrowed slightly. “You mean LordTech?”

“The Daily Planet, actually. Copy editor.”

His expression softened, almost boyish. He offered a small smile that made something unfamiliar flutter behind your ribs. “Good luck tomorrow.”

.

That night, your apartment smelled like cardboard and takeout. You were halfway through unpacking a box labeled kitchen stuff, probably? when a knock came at your door.

Standing there was a tall man with curly hair, glasses slipping down his nose, and an awkward smile that made him look harmless in the most deliberate way. He held a small potted plant like a peace offering.

“Uh—hi,” you said, confused. “Neighbor?”

“Not exactly.” He shifted the plant between his hands before handing it out to you. “Thought I should introduce myself properly. I’m Clark Kent.”

You blinked as you cradled the new bloom in your arms. I have heard of that name before, reputable, honest. “Hi, Clark. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Actually, we’ve met before,” he said with a sheepish grin. “I got your address from Kendra.”

Your breath hitched. There was only one Kendra you knew, and while you pieced it together, Clark continued. “I figured I should get ahead of the surprise. I’m a reporter for the Daily Planet, too. We’ll be seeing each other a lot at and outside of work, I feel.”

He looked at you expectantly, his blue eyes piercing through you. For a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

“Well, Superman,” you managed in a soft voice, smiling despite yourself, “I’m glad to know a familiar face at work.”

He looked just as relieved. “Likewise.”

.

It didn’t take long for your orbits to start closing in.

Clark introduced you to Lois Lane and Jimmy Olsen on your first day. His tone was casual, but his smile was too wide to ignore. They were two whirlwinds of brilliance and chaos who made the newsroom feel alive.

Lois shook your hand without question and immediately made you laugh; Jimmy showed you the fastest way to break a copy machine and fix it again; Perry barked something about deadlines in the background like a father who secretly worried too much.

They welcomed you in so quickly, so freely.

Lois took you out for drinks the first week and made sure everyone at the Planet knew you were off-limits to office jerks. You liked her instantly — a force of nature that was sharp, funny, and impossible to intimidate. She teased Clark relentlessly until he blushed. It hurt a little more when you noticed how Clark looked at her when she wasn’t looking.

It wasn’t lust. It was tenderness. Familiarity. History. That quiet ache that belonged to people who’ve already said goodbye once.

Jimmy caught you staring once during a late edit and smirked. “You noticed it too, huh?”

“Noticed what?” you deflected.

“The thing,” he said, gesturing vaguely between Clark and Lois, who were bickering shoulder to shoulder over phrasing, pointing comically at Clark’s monitor. “They’ve got that… tragic exes who still text energy.”

You laughed, though it came out strangled. “They’re just good friends.”

Jimmy raised a brow, “Whatever you say.”

You tried to believe in yourself instead. You pretended that watching them didn’t sting in your chest. Even though it did.

Still, there was no denying the pull between you and him.

It wasn’t some grand, sudden thing; it crept in like sunlight through a cracked window. Late nights at the Planet editing side by side, shoulders almost touching, your laughter muffled between the hum of printers and Clark’s habit of reading every line out loud before you approved it. He’d lean over your screen, glasses slipping, voice low as if the words themselves might shatter if spoken too loud.

Lunches became coffee breaks, coffee breaks turned into dinner because neither of you wanted the conversation to end. He listened the way most people didn’t — not just waiting for his turn to speak, but really hearing you. Sometimes he’d bring you snacks from vendors you’d never tried, or a thermos of tea because he’d noticed you never finished your coffee. Small things, but they stacked up quietly into something whole.

He started showing up more often at the Hall of Justice after the Gang’s long missions. He never asked for anything except “How are you doing?” and “How’s your energy holding up?”

He always placed a warm hand on your shoulder and with a smile, “You did good.”

And you’d always say, “You too.”

It still caught you off guard, how gentle he could be even when covered in soot and sweat.

Superman was invincible — but Clark, Clark carried softness like armor.

And maybe that’s why it scared you, the way his eyes always found yours in a crowded room, how he’d grin when you rolled your eyes at Guy’s ramblings, how he’d offer his hand like he wasn’t sure you’d take it but hoped you would.

You started seeing patterns: the way his cape brushed your shoulder during field briefings, the way he’d drop his voice to say your name like a secret. Every day, the orbit tightened a little more.

You thought about sharing the true nature of your powers with him. That every healing came at a cost. The deeper the wound, the longer it took for you to crawl back to yourself. That there were limits, and you’d never dared test them, not yet.

But you didn’t.

You didn't want to scare him.

Eventually, friendship blurred into something deeper — slow, inevitable, tender.

The first time he kissed you, it wasn’t fireworks; it was relief. Like two people who’d been holding their breath too long finally remembered how to exhale.

He told you he’d never met anyone who made him feel so human. You told him you weren’t sure you remembered what “human” even meant anymore. He smiled, hugged you close to his chest, and said you could figure it out together.

You let him in.

You let yourself believe that love didn’t have to hurt to matter. That maybe you could hold something fragile without breaking it — or being the one broken by it.

.

The Metropolis Art Museum gleamed like something carved from light. The city’s elite crowded its marble atrium in black suits and glittering gowns, champagne flutes catching the reflection of chandelier stars. You had never felt so aware of your own heartbeat.

Perry White, in his rare generous mood, had managed to secure you a press badge despite your title being copy editor. “Consider it a morale booster,” he’d said, which you suspected really meant, We’re short-staffed and you clean up everyone’s typos.

Jimmy, Lois, and Clark were here officially: camera, notepad, and recorder in hand. You were just trying to look like you belonged.

Your dress was simple but elegant—dark navy, gloves up to your elbows, hair swept back. You caught Clark’s expression when you walked in, his eyes going wide for just a moment before he ducked his head with a blush and straightened his tie. It was enough to send a small, dangerous warmth through you.

Clarak leaned in, whispering as he brushed his lips to your temple, “You look beautiful, honey.”

You laughed, hooking an arm through his, and picked imaginary lint off his red tie. “You look pretty sharp yourself, handsome.”

“Well, you both are showing us up tonight!” Jimmy chimed in from your side, adjusting his camera bag.

“You’re wearing sneakers,” you laughed. He grinned back, unbothered.

It was easy with Jimmy—like a brother who saw everything but never judged. He, like Lois, knew what you were. That you could heal others. Neither asked questions they didn’t need to, which you appreciated. You weren’t sure what they thought of you and Clark, though Lois had a way of smiling that made you feel like she knew exactly how far things had gone.

And beneath all the laughter and banter, that quiet history between her and Clark hummed like a radio left on low volume.

.

Later, you found yourself shoulder to shoulder with Clark before The Life Line by Winslow Homer, tucked away in the Nineteenth Century American Art wing.

A storm-tossed sea consumed the canvas: a man clutching an unconscious woman, both suspended on a rescue line above furious waves. Her face half-shrouded by the red blanket he held around her, his own face obscured entirely by her weight and the spray of the sea.

Clark’s voice was quiet beside you. “Homer painted this after a real rescue off the Jersey coast,” he said. “He was fascinated by people at their breaking points. By… what we’re willing to risk for someone else.”

You tilted your head, gloved fingers resting at your chin as your eyes traced the ropes cutting across the frame. “It’s strange,” you murmured. “The man’s saving her life, but he’s… faceless. The hero disappears.”

Clark hummed, thoughtful. “Maybe that’s the point,” he said, the glass of his lenses catching the reflected light. “Sacrifice isn’t about being seen.”

You studied the canvas again, heart tightening. “Do you think the man made it?”

“I’d like to think so.”

You wondered what kind of person Clark was if the sea came for him. Would he reach for you, too?

“And her?” you asked softly.

He turned to look at you then—eyes catching the painting’s dim gold light. His mouth parted like he might answer, but Jimmy’s voice came echoing from down the hall, calling you both to join the others.

The moment dissolved.

.

The night bloomed with laughter and light until it didn’t.

The gunmen burst in without warning—four of them, ski masks and rifles.

“Everyone on the ground!” a deep voice barked.

They shouted for phones, wallets, and jewelry after that. Panic tore through the crowd like lightning. You dropped low, your mind snapping to triage mode as the elite of Metropolis huddled together on the floor, trembling, whispering.

Clark was tense beside you. You could feel it in the air, that shift in him like a storm about to break. His eyes darted, calculating exits, counting threats, but there were too many civilians, too many guns, too many eyes.

Superman wanted out. Clark Kent couldn’t leave.

Your pulse hammered in your throat. You glimpse the way one of the gunmen moved, saw the tremor in their hands. Untrained. Amatures. Even more dangerous.

“Clark,” you hissed, low. “What are we going to do? We can’t–”

He exhaled through his nose, the marble beneath his hand cracking under pressure, “I know, I know–”

The gunmen moved methodically, their voices shaking but determined as they robbed guest after guest.

You could see Clark’s jaw tightening with every second.

Lois was near the front, standing protectively in front of an elderly couple who could barely move. You wanted to tell her to stop drawing attention—wanted to reach her— but then one of the gunmen shoved the elderly woman.

“Hey!” she shouted, stepping out before more damage could be done. “Leave them alone!”

“Lois, don’t—” Clark surged forward, trying to reach for her across the room.

“I–I said everyone on the ground!”

The gunfire cracked the air.

For a second, the world blurred. You didn’t hear the screams or Jimmy’s shout. All you heard was Clark’s voice, raw and desperate.

“Lois!”

She stumbled back, shock in her eyes, hands pressed to her the side of her chest as red bloomed through her dress. The gunmen bolted. The guests scattered in every direction, their panic deafening.

Clark was at Lois’s side before anyone else could move. You followed, pulse hammering, knees hitting the marble beside them. Jimmy’s voice was somewhere behind you, trying to help keep the guests calm, to prevent a stampede.

“Lois—hey, Lois—stay with me,” Clark begged, one hand pressed to the wound, the other trembling. The blood was spreading too fast.

“Clark, baby, you need to get out of here.”

He shook his head violently, his mop of curly hair damp with sweat, “I can’t—too many eyes.”

He looked at you then, eyes frantic behind his glasses, desperation raw in his voice. “Honey, I— I need you! You have to save her— You can save her.”

You froze. “Clark—”

“You can do it. I've seen you.”

You felt your chest heave from panic.

“I’ve never healed—like this,” you stammered, voice thin.

He clutched Lois’s face like he could will her to stay awake. “Fix her!"

It wasn’t Superman’s voice. It was something raw, human, terrified. He was shaking, begging now, tears streaming down his face, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. “She’s not breathing— Lois, hey, hey—”

You tried again, breath shaking. “Clark. I'm serious. Through the chest. I’d never—this could kill me—”

“I don’t care!” he snapped, louder than you’d ever heard him. “Just fix her! Please, please, I can’t— I can’t lose her—”

The words shattered something inside you.

He didn’t even realize what he’d said, didn’t realize how it sounded. But you did.

All his love, all his desperate need—was for her. Not like before, not the lingering fondness you’d tried to ignore. This was the kind of fear that only comes from loving someone so much the world stops when they fall.

And suddenly, the painting came back to you: The Life Line. The man clinging to the woman as the storm swallowed them whole, alive and desperate along the rescue line.

“Do you think the man made it?”

“I’d like to think so.”

“And her?”

You swallowed hard, eyes burning, and nodded.

“Jimmy,” you called as you stared down at the wound, voice low but firm, “go outside. Flag down the EMS. Tell them we’ve stabilized her, but we need a stretcher and backup. Bring them here. I’ll make sure she'll be okay until then.”

Jimmy blinked, startled, then nodded, his face pale. “Got it!” He bolted toward the doors, phone already at his ear, pushing through the panicked crowd.

One less witness.

You tossed your gloves aside and nudged Clark’s bloodied palms away with trembling hands. You pressed your trembling hands over Lois’s chest and glanced at her face only once. She was impossibly quiet, her eyes losing shine and focus.

“C’mon, Lois. I got you.”

Heat flared instantly — that sickly surge of power clawing through you, dragging her pain into your body. Your chest and ribs burned, bones creaking under invisible weight. You could taste iron as every nerve ignited with agony.

The echo of the sirens sounded impossibly far away.

She gasped loudly then — a full breath flooding back into her lungs as she coughed wet and ragged — just as you swallowed your scream.

You quickly pressed your hand over your chest where the phantom gunshot started to bloom between your ribs. You were shaking and blinking owlishly, watching them.

Clark was rocking Lois in his arms, murmuring her name, trembling with relief as color began to return to her face. Her eyes darted wildly, her hands trembling as she clutched Clark’s shirt.

“Clark?” she whispered weakly. “What… what happened?”

They were whispering now. Clark soothing, brushing her hair from her face like he brushed yours, a relieved, devastating smile on his face.

You did it. You healed her.

“You did good,” you told yourself under your breath, but your voice broke.

No one was whispering your name. No one was worrying about you.

Their attention never broke. Not when you placed one palm on the marble floor to stand up and slid against the red. Not when your knees wobbled.

Clark’s eyes stayed on Lois like she was the only person left in the room.

Your palm remained pressed to your chest, but the wound kept blooming, warm and slick beneath your fingers. You stepped back once, twice—testing—waiting for someone to notice.

No one did.

The marble floor seemed to tilt under you. The echo of your heels was lost beneath the low sound of Clark’s voice as his forehead pressed to Lois's. Her trembling hand rose to hold his hand, and he let her.

The sight cut deeper than the pain underneath your hands.

You took another step back, the hem of your dress brushing against broken glass.

Still, their world stayed sealed around them— his hands on her face, his voice promising her she was safe.

You turned, slow and quiet, like an animal trying not to draw attention. Your hand caught the doorframe for balance as you slipped into the deserted hallway. Blood dotted the marble behind you like a breadcrumb trail, but nobody looked up.

Nobody called after you.

.

You didn’t remember crossing the gallery, only the cool marble under your fingers as you stumbled into a side corridor. The noise of the museum—sirens, shouting, the echo of boots—faded behind you like a radio turned down.

The single-occupancy restroom at the end of the hall was mercifully empty. You slipped inside, careful to drag your hem so it caught the worst of the blood before it hit the tile. The door swung shut behind you.

The mirror greeted you first.

A stranger stared back—eyes glassy, dark navy dress soaked, skin ash-pale beneath the harsh fluorescent light. The bullet wound you’d pulled from Lois was a ragged bloom over your ribs, seeping through your fingers. Each heartbeat pushed a warm pulse against your palm.

You pressed harder. “Stop,” you whispered—not to the blood, but to the memories.

Clark’s voice, hoarse and desperate, still rang in your head.

I don’t care! Just fix her!

I can't lose her.

Lois’s hand on his face. His forehead against hers.

The look he hadn’t given you.

Your knees gave out and you slid down the door until the tile met your back. Cold. Hard. Steady.

You worked by muscle memory—one hand bracing your ribs, the other clutching the sink as you forced your breathing to slow. The healing would come, you told yourself. It always did. Though it came slower with big wounds.

Slower still with a broken heart.

But you've never had a wound like this.

The pain was a tide. It licked up your spine, pulled at your lungs, filled your head with white noise. You bit your lip until you tasted copper to keep from crying out. You didn’t want to scare anyone. You didn’t want to draw them here.

Blood trickled between your fingers, down your arm, spattering onto the tile.

The edges of the room wavered. You could almost see the Winslow Homer painting on the bathroom wall instead of the mirror—red blanket, storm-slick rope, a woman carried by a faceless man.

You pressed your head back and laughed once, a small sound, broken in the middle.

Your hands shook. Your lips went numb. Still, you stayed quiet, curling in on yourself like a wounded animal. If you could just ride the tide long enough, your body would stitch itself back together. God, you hoped.

Then a voice cracked through the silence. “Oh my God—”

You blinked up, disoriented, as the door flew open. Jimmy filled the doorway, wild-eyed, the press badge crooked at his throat. He froze when he saw you on the floor.

His hands trembled as hand hovered over your shoulder. “I was looking for—You’re—bleeding, how?! Jesus fucking—!” He spun toward the hall, voice rising. “Clark! She’s—”

You clutched his sleeve weakly. “Don’t, please don’t,” you rasped, though your voice sounded like it came from the end of a long tunnel. “Lois needs him. I’ll be fine, just…gimme a minute.”

Jimmy’s eyes snapped back to your face, furious and panicked as he pressed trembling hands against yours. “I don’t think we have a minute! God, how are you even—” His hands hovered, not sure where to press. “Clark!”

Your head lolled to the side, “Jimmy, shhh, I’ll be—just wait,” you whispered. “Clark told me… to save her. Lois is alive. Fixed. That’s all that matters.”

Jimmy’s grip slipped on your blood. “No, no, shit,” he muttered, pressing his hand over yours again as if he could hold you together. “This isn’t fine, this isn’t—I thought you could heal—Clark! Where the hell are you?”

.

A few agonizing seconds later, you heard a familiar stride echo down the hall.

Clark’s voice then filtered through. “Sorry, Jimmy. EMS just arrived—they’re transporting Lois to Metropolis General just to be safe. I was going to meet them there. Police have the—”

He had his eyes down, meticulously rubbing a washcloth between his hands, the towel tinged pink with blood.

He stopped short.

“Jimmy, what the—”

Clark immediately dropped the towel and collapsed to his knees beside you, his hands reaching out for you.

“Hey—hey, no, no, no—” His voice broke apart. “What happened?”

Jimmy’s words tumbled out in a panic as he adjusted his hold on your ribs. “She was fine, I thought she was fine! She told me to flag EMS, said she’d take care of it, you were there, you heard her, and, and—Clark, she’s bleeding out, I think she’s—”

Clark’s eyes flicked from the wound between your ribs to your face, back again. He froze. The realization hit him like a blow. “This—this was Lois’s wound.” His breath stuttered, disbelief hardening into horror. “You—how—how long have you—”

You tried to focus on his face, but the room kept tilting, the edges of his silhouette bending in the light. “Awe, Clark…please don’t… don’t look like that,” you whispered, frowning. “You said—save her. I did.”

Clark didn’t move. His throat worked, breaking around the words, and finally all his attention was locked on you—on the realization that you had taken on a life-threatening injury to save someone else, someone he had —

The room felt impossibly small, suffocating with the weight of your shared secret, the blood, the silence between sirens and shouting. Clark’s eyes searched yours, haunted.

“I didn’t know,” he choked, shaking his head violently. “I didn’t know this is what happens when you heal people. You told me it took energy out of you. Not— not this.”

You shook your head slowly, barely conscious, vision flickering at the edges. “It… scares people,” you murmured. “Even you…”

Clark made a wounded sound, somewhere between a sob and a growl. “I'm so sorry. I forced you to— I—how could I—” He cradled your head with shaking hands. “You shouldn’t have done this. You shouldn’t have had to— I didn’t think—”

“You never do, when it’s her,” you murmured automatically as your eyelids fluttered shut, and tried to focus your energy.

Clark flinched like you’d struck him. Jimmy looked between you, helpless eyes wide with disbelief, the horror settling heavy on his shoulders.

Jimmy then stood and was halfway through the door. “She’s losing consciousness! We need EMS to take her, too!”

Clark’s jaw tightened. “They've already left, won't be fast enough to come back,” he muttered, and Jimmy looked at him sharply, pleading.

“Then fly her out!” Jimmy yelled, voice cracking on the last word. “You’re Superman, for God’s sake—get her out of here!”

The name cut through the air like a confession. You heard a siren's wail diminish with distance.

You blinked, barely conscious, watching him war with himself—the hero and the man both frozen. “Clark,” you breathed. “Go. Lois needs—”

“No,” he said instantly, voice sharp, raw. “Don’t—don't say it. I’m not—” His words collapsed under their own weight. “I’m here. I'm here.”

You wanted to tell him it was fine if he left. That you understood. That you’d live. That it would just take time. But your lips barely moved, and all that came out was a whimper.

He leaned closer, voice trembling. “You saved her. But you—” His hand cupped your face, thumb brushing your jaw. “You should’ve told me. I would’ve—I would’ve never asked. I swear I would’ve—”

You managed to shake your head, “I did tell you…you said you didn’t care,” you whispered.

Clark froze, eyes wide, pupils blown, every color draining from his face. His hands shook as they hovered over your shoulders, unsure whether to cradle you or hold you back.

His hands fumbled at your bloodied hands, trying to find some small comfort, some way to make it right, but he was paralyzed by guilt, horror, and the raw reality of your sacrifice. His chest heaved, and he muttered broken apologies over and over, unable to stop, unable to look away from what he had forced you to do.

“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”

“You… you wouldn’t have forgiven yourself if Lois… I just couldn’t let you ever feel that way. Clark, I love you so much.”

The words cost you everything, but you meant them.

You could hear Jimmy shouting for the medics from the hall.

The roar of the sea, like a siren, was in your ears, getting louder, pulling you under.

Your last thought was of the painting swaying in its frame — the man and the woman, the storm, the rope that bound them both to salvation.

You finally understood what your mother meant, long ago, when she warned you not to let anyone see how far you could fix them.

Because this was the cost.

The hero disappears.

.

[kryptidfiles]

Desire

DAVID!CLARK KENT x Female!Reader

Tags: 18+,MDNI, NSFW, unprotected piv, multiple orgasms, sexting, actual sex, Established Relationship, Superman Played by David Corenswet, Childhood Friends to Lovers, Fluff and Humor, Romantic Comedy

Preview: Clark muffled a strangled noise against his fist. He typed back, every keystroke practically trembling: Sweetheart, keep this up and you won’t be able to walk tomorrow. Your reply: Promise? His pulse thundered. He closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, and resigned himself to the fact that today was going to be the longest workday of his life.

AO3 LINK | A LIFE WITH YOU CHAPTER 3

Desire – Meg Myers

Age: 28 Superman Year: 2 Years Dating: 4

.

You woke to the sound of the front door clicking shut, soft enough that Clark thought he hadn’t disturbed you. He always moved like that when he left for work, careful and apologetic, hoping you’d sleep in and catch the rest you rarely got. The bed was still warm on his side, faintly smelling of his soap and aftershave, and you stretched out into the emptiness, your palm sliding over the sheets as if you could still catch him there.

You stared at the ceiling, letting the morning light filter through the half-drawn curtains. Normally, you’d be at the hospital by now, but today was your day off — which meant too much time in the apartment, too much silence, and too much room for your thoughts to drift straight back to him.

Clark. Your Clark.

He kissed you before he left, you remembered that. You hadn’t even opened your eyes, but you’d felt it — the brush of his lips to your forehead, the soft squeeze of his hand around yours, the whisper: “Love you. Be back tonight.” And then the faint rush of air as he slipped out the door, off to be both a reporter and the world’s most reliable safety net.

It wasn’t that you resented him — not Clark, never Clark — but the days blurred together when you were both pulling doubles. Your ER shifts swallowed the daylight, and Clark’s reporting was relentless even before you added Superman into the equation.

Sometimes you swore you saw him more on the breakroom TV, cape flashing across a skyline, than in your own apartment.

And that was the ache: he was right here, yours, and you still missed him.

You rolled over onto your stomach, sighing into the pillow. The apartment was quiet, too quiet for a place the two of you called home. No Clark humming in the kitchen, no newspaper crinkling under his big hands, no steady warmth of him filling the space. Just the framed snapshots on the wall — Smallville fairs, Metropolis University graduations, the mismatched mugs you’d collected, diplomas hung side by side. Every inch of the apartment bore fingerprints of your history together.

You wanted more than mementos. You wanted him.

The truth was, you’d been pent-up for days. It wasn’t just the sex — though God, you could feel the tension in your own body, that restless, hungry edge every time he brushed too close or kissed you too briefly. It was the simple intimacy of being tangled together on the couch, of his fingers idly tracing your hip when you cooked, of the low rumble of his laugh against your neck when you teased him. All of that was missing, and it left a hollow ache in your chest.

The last time you’d actually had a night together — really had each other — you’d lost track of time entirely, wrapped in each other until the early morning hours. You could still remember the way he looked at you then. It had carried you for a while. But now? You were running on fumes.

You wanted him — in the way that burned, low and hot. You wanted the way his mouth softened when he kissed you slowly, and the way his restraint snapped when you pulled at his tie and challenged him. You wanted to make him forget the world. You wanted to be greedy with him, with his strength, with his devotion, with every piece of him he tried so hard to hold back.

But Superman didn’t get days off.

You buried your face into his pillow, inhaling the lingering heat. You knew he was probably at the Planet already, hunched over his desk, tie already askew, glasses sliding down his nose as he typed too fast. He’d be smiling to himself, maybe, if Lois dropped by with coffee. He’d be pretending he wasn’t checking his phone every five minutes for a 'good morning' text back from you, even though you knew he did.

You could be good. Patient. Wait for him tonight. You could—

Or

Your eyes flicked to the nightstand where your phone lay charging.

If you couldn’t have him here, if you couldn’t crawl into his lap and feel the weight of his hands, you could at least remind him what he was missing. Stir the pot. Tug at that careful restraint of his until he snapped.

The idea made you grin into the sheets, warmth curling low in your belly.

You reached for your phone lazily, unlocking the screen to the last night's text thread with Clark — his goodnight from the Planet last night, punctuated with a little heart emoji, and your sleepy, half-coherent reply. 

The most recent text stared at you: Good morning, my love. Have a good day off. 

Sweet. Domestic. Normal.

Not for long.

You slid out of bed, padded barefoot infront of the mirror by the closet to fix your hair, and tugged one of Clark’s flannels over your shoulders, and returned to bed.

It was a scandalous parody of comfort — Clark’s shirt turned into something dangerous.

The hem barely skimmed your thighs, the fabric soft with wear. You buttoned nothing and angled the phone for a photo. The image came out soft, morning light through the curtains, your legs bare, his flannel open around you.

You typed:

Good morning, handsome. Thought you’d like to see what you left behind

You hesitated only a second before hitting send.

The thrill of it buzzed through you. You set the phone down, half-embarrassed by yourself, half already impatient for the reply.

Because you knew Clark. You knew exactly how red he’d flush, how wide his eyes would go, how he’d press his knuckles to his mouth in the middle of the bullpen trying to swallow a sound, how he’d fumble his glasses trying to hide the screen from Lois or Jimmy.

The three dots appeared almost instantly. Then vanished. Then reappeared.

You bit your lip, giddy, waiting

.

Clark Kent prided himself on composure. On being steady. On blending in. He could fly through hurricanes, stare down a collapsing building, lift a tanker truck without blinking — and nobody in the world would know how hard his heart pounded under it all.

But apparently, all it took to unravel him was you.

One photo. One photo he absolutely shouldn’t have opened at his desk, but of course he had, because he couldn’t ignore a message from you, not ever.

He slammed the phone face-down on the desk, pressing both hands over his face, trying to breathe.

“Oh my god,” he whispered. “She didn’t—”

He peeked again.

She did.

He only said good morning and to have a good day!

Now his pulse roared in his ears, his palms sweated against the keyboard, and he was thanking every higher power he knew that no one could hear the ragged sound of his breathing over the newsroom chatter.

Your photo glowed from his phone screen: you in his flannel, wide open, nothing else. The casual sprawl of your body across your shared bed, the mischievous look in your eyes — all of it was designed to destroy him.

Good gosh, he thought, swallowing hard. What are you doing to me? Why are you doing this to me?

He risked a quick glance around. Lois was buried in her notes. Perry was mid-call. Jimmy was fiddling with his camera gear. No one noticed him frozen at his desk, glasses slipping down his nose, ears flaming red.

Your text arrived a second later, cruel in its simplicity:

Thinking of you.

Clark gripped his pen so tightly it cracked. He forced his eyes back to the blank Word document on his screen, but all he could see was you, skin and flannel, sprawled just the way he liked you — waiting.

He typed back, fingers clumsy:

Sweetheart, do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?

Your reply came almost instantly.

And what am I doing to you?

He groaned under his breath, dragging a hand down his face. He wanted to bury his head in his arms. He wanted to fly home right now. He wanted—

Another message buzzed through.

If you were here… you’d already have me against the wall just how I like it. So strong.

Clark’s jaw clenched so hard his molars ached. He could see it, vivid as a memory: his one hand pinning your petite wrists, your laugh when you dared him to go harder, the sound you made when he stopped holding back—

He typed without thinking, almost desperate:

I swear to you. Tonight I’m not letting you out of my sight until I’ve made up for every day of the week.

You answered with another picture — close-up, thighs parted, the hem of his flannel barely hanging on. The caption:

What makes you think I’ll wait that long?

Clark nearly dropped his phone. He fumbled to lock the screen, shoving it into his pocket before anyone could glimpse it. His entire body was wound tight, like he’d sprinted ten miles and hadn’t stopped.

“Uh… you okay there, Big Guy?”

Clark’s head shot up with a yelp. Jimmy Olsen stood at the edge of his desk, brows raised. Beside him, Cat Grant leaned one hip on the filing cabinet, sipping her coffee with amusement.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Jimmy said. “Or, like… eaten a bad sandwich. Are you sick?”

“I—no, I’m fine,” Clark said quickly, voice higher than usual. He adjusted his glasses, tried for a smile that came out more like a grimace. “Just… warm in here, isn’t it?”

Cat’s eyes narrowed, sharp and glittering. “Warm?” she drawled. “Damn Clarkie, you’re sweating through your shirt.”

Clark glanced down. She was right. Heat pooled under his collar, slicked at his temples. He stammered something incoherent, earning a skeptical look from Cat and a shrug from Jimmy.

“Well,” Jimmy said, hoisting his camera, “don’t have a heart attack before deadline. Lois and Perry will kill you. ”

They drifted off, but not before Cat shot him one last assessing look — like she could smell blood in the water.

Clark exhaled shakily, scrubbing at his face. Keep it together, Kent. Just get through the day.

His phone buzzed again. He didn’t dare check it right away, but the anticipation gnawed at him until he finally slid it free, low under the desk.

Your message read:

Baby, imagine me waiting like this all day. Imagine how wet I’ll be by the time you walk through the door.

Clark muffled a strangled noise against his fist.

He typed back, every keystroke practically trembling:

Sweetheart, keep this up and you won’t be able to walk tomorrow.

Your reply:

Promise?

His pulse thundered. He closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, and resigned himself to the fact that today was going to be the longest workday of his life

.

Clark had never written an article faster in his life. His sentences barely held together, but Perry didn’t seem to notice — just barked at him to turn it in before the deadline and waved him off. He was gone in the next breath, tie yanked loose, jacket half off, sprinting down the steps before anyone could question the urgency on his face.

By the time he was in the air, glasses tucked safely away, the city blurred beneath him. His mind wasn’t on rescues, wasn’t on the next crisis, wasn’t on anything but the picture of you sprawled in his flannel, taunting him, waiting. His body ached for you. His whole being was tuned like a string, straining, burning, desperate to snap.

When his dress shoes hit the alley beside the apartment, it wasn’t gentle. He practically tore up the stairwell and almost ripped the door off its hinges, already tossing his messenger bag aside.

You were there, leaning against the kitchen island, the same damn flannel hanging open on your shoulders, legs bare, lips curved in a smile that was pure sin.

“Hi, baby,” you said sweetly, tilting your head. “Rough day?”

Clark didn’t answer. He slammed the door shut and was on you in three strides, mouth crashing against yours, hands cupping your face like he’d drown without you.

The kiss was filthy from the start — teeth, tongue, the kind of soundless moan that ripped straight out of him. He tasted like mint and desperation, like every promise he’d texted you all day condensed into one searing press of lips.

Your back hit the counter. Clark lifted you onto it like you weighed nothing, slotting himself between your knees, hands already roaming under the flannel. His palms were broad, hot against your skin, reverent even when his touch turned greedy.

“Do you know,” he panted against your mouth, kissing you again before you could answer, “what you did to me today, sweetheart?”

“Remind me,” you teased, tugging his shirt free from his waistband.

He groaned, kissing down your throat, sucking lightly where your pulse fluttered. “Could’ve lost my job if someone saw. Couldn't think straight when you—” He broke off with another kiss, harsher this time, dragging you forward so your chest pressed against him.

The size of him overwhelmed you — six-four, all solid muscle, towering over your five-two frame like he was built to consume you. And the way he used that size, pinning you to the island, caging you in his arms, pressing every inch of himself against you until you felt small, breakable, his — it set your whole body alight.

You hooked your legs around his hips, tugging him closer. “I like you distracted,” you murmured, brushing your lips against his. “You’re cute when you’re flustered.”

“Cute,” he growled, nipping your lower lip, “isn’t what you’re going to call me in five minutes.”

You gasped against his mouth. “God, you’re huge.”

Clark groaned, forehead dropping to your shoulder, the sound low and wrecked. “Don’t— don’t say things like that right now.”

“Why not?” you teased, nipping at his jaw. “It’s true. You’re—” you glanced down between you, flushed, laughing breathlessly, “—a lot.”

The sound spurred him on. He lifted you clean off the island, carrying you across the apartment with obscene ease.

Your back hit the wall, his mouth never leaving yours. He pinned your wrists above your head with one hand, the other gripping your thigh to hitch your leg higher around his waist. The sheer strength of him had you whimpering, and he groaned like the sound undid him.

“Baby, I missed this,” he rasped, grinding into you, the hard line of him pressing exactly where you ached. “Missed you.”

You tugged at his hair, pulling his head back enough to meet his eyes. They burned — molten, desperate, the carefully buttoned-up Clark Kent gone, leaving only the man who wanted you like oxygen.

“Missed you too,” you whispered, just before his mouth claimed yours again.

When he finally pulled back, you were both panting. He looked wrecked already, hair mussed, lips swollen, pupils blown. But he wasn’t finished — not even close.

With a growl, he carried you to the couch and dropped with you straddling his lap. His hands slid up under the flannel, thumbs grazing your ribs, your waist, every inch of bare skin he could touch.

The kiss here was slower, deeper, but no less filthy — the kind of kiss that said he wanted to savor you, devour you, make up for every second of lost time. Your hips rolled instinctively against him, repeatedly, and Clark’s head thunked back against the couch, eyes squeezing shut.

“Sweetheart,” he said, voice rough, full of disbelief and hunger.“if you keep doing that, I’m not going to last.”

“It’ll take it as a compliment,” you teased, grinding against him again. You kissed the edge of his jaw, his throat, sucked lightly where his pulse thundered. 

Clark groaned and pulled you closer, burying his face in your neck like he could merge you into his skin. 

His mouth was everywhere — your jaw, your throat, your collarbone — kissing, biting, groaning like he couldn’t get enough of you. The flannel hung wide open, slipping off your shoulders as his hands slid beneath it, palms hot against bare skin.

On his lap, you felt every hard inch of him straining through his slacks. You ground down again, shameless, and his breath punched out in a low growl.

“You’re killing me,” he rasped, pressing hips bucking up to meet you. “Do you have any idea—”

“Yes,” you cut in, kissing him hard, tugging at his tie until it slid free. “What a way to go.”

The tie fell to the floor. His shirt was next — buttons popping open under your impatient fingers, baring the solid chest you loved. Clark hissed when your hands slid over his skin, your nails dragging lightly down his pecs.

He pulled the collar of the flannel back, sliding down your arms, tossing it aside so you were bare before him. His gaze dragged down your body, reverent and starving all at once.

“My love,” he whispered, voice breaking with want. “You’re perfect.”

You cupped his face, drawing him back up for a kiss, but this one was softer, tender under the hunger. For a moment, the world slowed, the chaos outside forgotten. It was just Clark, just you, just the pulse of his heart hammering against your chest.

Then his hands slid lower, gripping your ass, hauling you tighter against him. You gasped, the sound swallowed by his mouth as his tongue tangled with yours.

You tugged at his belt, fumbling with the buckle, and Clark laughed breathlessly against your lips. “Eager?”

“Shut up,” you teased, giving it a sharp tug until it came loose.

His laugh dissolved into a groan when you slipped your hand into his waistband, fingers brushing over the hard length of him through thin cotton. His hips jerked, and you smirked, kissing him again, savoring how even Superman unraveled under your touch.

“You’re playing with fire,” he warned, his voice thick and dark.

“Good,” you whispered.

Clark’s patience snapped. In a blur, he flipped you beneath him on the couch, looming over you, his broad frame caging you in. The size difference made your breath catch — how he covered you, how easily he could hold you down.

He kissed you again, rough and claiming, his thigh pressing between your legs, the grind of his body against yours deliciously overwhelming. His hand slid down your stomach, teasing lower, until you arched into him, gasping his name.

“Clark—”

“I’ve thought about this all day,” he groaned, kissing you hard, his hand slipping beneath your waistband now, two fingers gliding in exactly where you needed him most. “Every photo, every word you sent—I nearly lost my mind.”

Your moan was shameless, your nails digging into his shoulders as his touch grew firmer, more insistent.

“Tell me what you want,” he demanded, voice low, almost ragged. “Say it.”

“I want you,” you gasped, rocking against his hand. “I want all of you—please, Clark.”

His lips curved in a smile, his eyes blazing as his fingers curled just right into you, sending an incredible sharp bolt of pleasure through you.

“You’ll have me,” he promised. “Every inch. I’ll give you everything.”

He kissed you again, deep and filthy, the heat coiling between you so sharp, so unbearable, that the world outside could have burned and you wouldn’t have cared.

And then—

The distant wail of sirens cut through the night. The sharp, shrill echo of alarms from blocks away. A crash, faint but distinct, carried on the air through the open balcony door.

Clark stilled above you, every muscle tense. His jaw clenched, eyes squeezed shut, like he could will the world to silence.

“No,” you whispered, desperate, more to yourself than him, rocking against his hand. “Not yet.”

His forehead pressed against yours, torn between two hungers. His breath shook against your lips.

“I— I don’t want to leave,” he whispered. “Not when I finally have you.”

The sirens grew louder, a chorus rising over the city like a cruel reminder. Clark’s body hovered above yours, trembling with the effort it took not to move — not to peel himself away from you. His jaw worked, his lips pressing into a thin, pained line as he breathed your name like it was the only tether he had left.

You framed his face in your hands, pulling him back down for one last kiss, pouring every ounce of heat and longing into it. The desperate clash of your mouths said everything you couldn’t put into words: wait, not yet, please

But when he pulled back, you saw it in his eyes — the decision already made.

“Sweetheart, I’m so sorry,” he whispered, voice breaking, forehead pressed to yours. “I can’t ignore it. There are people out there who—”

“I know,” you cut in softly, fingers threading through his hair, tugging lightly to keep him close. “You are just too good, Clark. This is who you are.”

His expression twisted, guilt etched across every perfect line. “I'm sorry for leaving you like this. I shouldn’t—”

“Don't be sorry. Never be sorry,” you said firmly, even as your own frustration pulsed hot and sharp beneath your skin. “I’ll still be here when you get back. Just… hurry.”

You smirked faintly, trying to lighten the weight crushing him. “Because if you don’t, I might have to take care of this myself.”

That made him groan — low, guttural, almost pained. His hips jerked against yours once more, as if memorizing the feel of you and as a warning, and his lips crashed against yours in one last, devastating kiss.

When he pulled away this time, he did it fast, like ripping off a bandage. In a blur, he dressed in the Blue Suit, and moved toward the balcony.

He glanced back once — his eyes catching yours, full of longing, apology, and promise all tangled together.

“I’ll come back to you,” he swore, his voice like steel wrapped in velvet.

And then he was gone with a sonic boom, a streak of red and blue disappearing into the night sky.

Silence fell heavy in his wake, broken only by the faint echo of distant chaos. The couch was still warm where his body had pinned yours, your skin still tingling from his touch, your pulse still racing with everything he’d left unfinished.

You groaned, dropping back against the cushions, covering your face with your hands.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered to yourself, though the corners of your mouth betrayed you, curling into a helpless smile.

Because as much as you wanted to scream, as much as you ached, you also knew — this was Clark. He’d always choose to save the world. And you’d always love him for it.

Still. That didn’t mean you couldn’t have a little revenge.

You reached for your phone on the coffee table, the wicked thought sparking before you’d even unlocked the screen. Positioning yourself just right, you tugged his discarded tie around your body, letting it dangle loose as you angled the shot. The flash of bare skin, the faint red fabric teasing curves he loved to worship — scandalous and intimate and absolutely guaranteed to wreck him wherever he was.

Your thumb hovered, then you hit send. You smirked to yourself, biting your lip, imagining his reaction mid-flight, mid-crisis, mid-heroics.

“Better hurry, Clark,” you murmured into the empty apartment, stretching languidly across the couch. “Or I’m not waiting.”

.

The sound of his landing rattled the balcony doors, a gust of wind pushing the curtains wide. Before you could rise from the couch, Clark was already inside — cape tossed aside, suit rumpled, chest heaving. His hair was mussed, eyes blazing, and the moment he saw you sprawled out waiting for him, phone still on the coffee table like a loaded gun, he growled low in his throat.

“Sweetheart—” he started, but you didn’t let him finish.

You were up in an instant, your lips crashing into his before the word had fully left his mouth. Fingers tugging at the zipper of his suit, you pushed him back against the wall, mouths colliding in filthy, hungry kisses that left no space for apologies.

“Don’t you dare say sorry,” you panted against his lips, nails scraping down the broad plane of his chest. “You saw what I sent. I'm done waiting.”

Clark’s groan vibrated through you as he yanked his suit down from his shoulders, baring the expanse of muscle you’d been daydreaming about all day. 

“You tortured me,” he rasped, kissing you again, deeper, harder, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that left your knees weak. “Sending that while I was mid-flight—do you have any idea what you do to me?”

“Show me,” you shot back, breathless. “You promised.”

That flicker of restraint he always carried snapped right then. He lifted you effortlessly, your legs locking around his waist as he carried you straight to the kitchen island.

Your ass hit the cool countertop, his massive frame caging you in. The bulge straining against the remains of his suit pressed hot between your thighs, making you gasp.

“Still think you can tease me like that and not pay for it?” he rasped, grinding against you once, hard.

“Maybe I want to pay for it,” you shot back, nails raking down his chest, leaving angry red lines he didn’t flinch from.

He stilled, eyes dark, pupils blown wide. “Careful,” he warned, voice dropping an octave.

That snapped whatever thread of restraint he’d been clinging to. His mouth followed every inch of exposed skin, worshipping and claiming at the same time and your hands worked to slip the rest of his suit off. 

By the time he was bare, he lined himself up and you were trembling with anticipation, your breath catching as you looked at him — all of him.

“Relax for me, okay?” he murmured against your throat as he swiped himself against your entrance, the blunt head making you gasp at the warmth even before he pushed in. 

“Just like that, beautiful… Gosh, you feel—” His words dissolved into a groan as he started to inch in, his thickness making you arch back, your fingers digging into his shoulders with a moan.

He paused, just for a heartbeat, his forehead pressing to yours. “Such a good girl,” he whispered, voice reverent as he pushed deeper, inch by inch. “Taking me so well…  You feel perfect.”

Your nails dug into his shoulders, your thighs shaking as you tried to adjust to his sheer size no matter how many times you've had sex. “Baby—” you gasped, the stretch almost too much, almost overwhelming — but you wanted it, needed it. “More. Please.”

He groaned, deep and guttural, and gave you what you begged for, thrusting the rest of the way in. The shock of it stole your breath, but the way he kissed you — slow, tender, even as his hips drove harder — grounded you, tethered you to him.

His size dwarfed you, six-four of farm-bred muscle and Kryptonian strength, and you reveled in it — the way he handled you like you weighed nothing, like you belonged against him, made you even more wet and he felt it too.

Eventually, the island wasn't enough. He carried you to the living room wall, pinning your wrists above your head as he pounded into you, the impact rattling not only the bookshelves and your picture frames but your bones. You cried out, and his lips found your ear. “That’s it, baby. No one else gets to hear you like this.”

“Clark—” You whimpered his name, half plea, half challenge, and when you tilted your hips to urge him faster, harder, he finally lost the last of his control. His thrusts turned raw, sporadic, each one pushing you higher against the wall until you clung to him, nails marking his skin.

The coil inside you snapped, your climax tearing through you sudden and sharp, leaving you shuddering and moaning in his arms. He held you tight, slowing just enough to feel you convulse around him, his forehead pressed to yours, groaning at the way your body gripped him.

That wouldn't be the end. 

You came undone again not long after, your body clenching around him so tight he had to bury his face in your neck just to hang on. Still, you urged him on, whispering, taunting, begging for more until he all but growled against your skin.

The couch was next — you on top, his big hands guiding your hips as he watched you ride him with an intensity that made your skin flush. 

“Yes—there— fuck,” you gasped, every nerve alight, every breath stolen by the sheer overwhelming him of it. The praise spilled from his lips between kisses and groans — my good girl, so perfect for me, taking all of me.

When you collapsed forward one more time, trembling, he rolled you beneath him again, relentless.

By the fourth time your body gave way beneath his, overstimulated, you barely registered his voice, broken and ragged near your ear.

“Sweetheart—Darlin'” His voice was ragged, almost broken, as he forced out the words. “Where—where do you— you want me?”

Your body was still trembling when his question tore through the haze, his hips grinding shallow as if waiting on permission. Your heart fluttered. No matter how many times you've done this exact same exciting song and dance, he would always ask. 

Sometimes your answered differed, but you liked it most —

“Inside,” you pressed your mouth hot next to his ear, voice frayed but certain. “I want you inside me, Clark.”

The sound he made was nothing short of feral. His grip tightened under your thighs as he slammed his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt. He shuddered, his restraint unraveling with every desperate thrust.

The sound of his breath against your ear, a prayer muffled into your skin, made your pulse race anew. You held him tighter, your hands clutching at his back, urging him on.

“Baby, please— for me. I've been waiting. I love you—” you gasped, and that was the last tether he had left.

“Love you—sweetheart—I’m —” His words fell apart as he drove harder, rougher, the wall and bookcases rattling behind you with the force of it. Your moans tangled with his groans, each movement tipping him closer until he spilled into you. His release pulsed hot and deep, and he crushed you against him, as if he could fuse you to his chest.

The two of you stayed locked there, panting, clinging. You smoothed your hands through his sweat-damp hair, whispering nonsense into his ear until his ragged breaths softened into something steadier.

Finally, he eased off you. He carried you straight into the bathroom, setting you gently on the counter as he fiddled with the shower knobs. Steam curled into the room, and soon he had you under the spray, warm water sluicing down your skin.

Clark washed you with careful hands, reverent even in exhaustion. His big palms smoothed over your shoulders, down your arms, brushing soap along your back in slow, soothing circles. He kissed your temple between motions, murmuring quiet apologies you didn’t let him finish.

“You’re ridiculous,” you teased softly, leaning against his chest. “Saving the world one minute, worshipping me the next. Do you ever stop?”

He huffed a laugh, pressing a kiss to your wet hair. “Not when it comes to you.”

You tilted up, catching his softened smile — the one that still looked like the farm boy you’d known since you were both kids running barefoot through Smallville fields. It made your chest ache in the best way.

“Remember when you used to help me with physics?” you teased, poking at his chest. “I think that’s when I first realized I was doomed. Nobody else had shoulders like that in high school.”

He laughed, the sound rich and warm, and splashed a little water at you in mock offense. “And here I thought it was my charm.”

“Please,” you snorted, grinning. “I’ve known you since we were six. What charm? I had to practically drag you to homecoming.”

“And now you’re dragging me into showers,” he teased back, his lips brushing your forehead.

You smiled, leaning into him, water cascading around both of you. “Worked out pretty well, didn’t it?”

His arms wrapped around you, holding you close as the steam wrapped you both in warmth. “Better than I ever dreamed.”

His eyes softened, the weight of everything unsaid hanging there — the boy from Smallville who’d grown into Superman, the girl who’d grown with him, the years of friendship threaded seamlessly into this love.

He pressed his lips to your forehead, whispering against your skin. “I don’t deserve you.”

“You do,” you said firmly, catching his chin so he had to look at you. “You’ve always deserved me. Always will.”

And when you curled into him in bed, his arms wrapped tight around you, the world outside could’ve ended and you wouldn’t have cared.

And for a moment — just a moment — the world outside could wait.

.

Morning sunlight spilled across the apartment, painting the walls gold. The smell of coffee drifted from the kitchen, mingling with the faint sounds of Metropolis waking outside. You shuffled toward the table, readjusting your scrubs, still bleary-eyed from too little sleep.

Clark was already there, hair damp from his shower, glasses perched on his nose, tie hanging loose around his neck. He looked up when you entered, and the smile that curved his lips was pure sunshine.

“Morning,” he said softly, setting his mug aside as if he’d been waiting just for you. He reached out, tugging you gently into his lap before you could protest. His arms wrapped around your waist, his nose brushing against your neck. “Don’t care how many deadlines Perry throws at me today. I don’t want to move from right here.”

You laughed, squirming a little as his big hands roamed lazily along your sides. “Baby, you’re going to wrinkle your shirt before you even make it out the door.”

“Worth it,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, then another to your jaw. He nuzzled in, almost boyishly clingy, and you melted despite yourself. 

“God, I love you,” you whispered into his hair. 

When you finally slid off his lap to grab your coffee, though, he noticed it—the slight hitch in your step, the wince that crossed your face as you shifted your weight. Immediately, his expression flickered from soft to worried.

“Hey,” he said gently, standing in an instant, hand warm on your back. “You okay?”

You glanced at him over your shoulder, the corner of your mouth tugging upward into a sly grin. “I’m fine. Just… someone really delivered on his promise last night.”

Clark froze, color rising high in his cheeks as the meaning hit. His jaw dropped, glasses slipping a little down his nose. “Sweetheart—”

You sipped your coffee like nothing had happened, enjoying his flustered look far too much. “Don’t look so shocked. You were the one making threats over text. I just didn’t realize you’d take them that seriously.”

He groaned, dragging a hand over his face, but the smile tugging at his lips betrayed him. In the next moment he stepped close, hands bracketing your hips as he bent to kiss you slow and sweet, lingering like he didn’t care if he was late.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he murmured against your lips.

“Like I said, what a way to go,” you teased, patting his chest before turning toward the sink.

He laughed, the sound full and warm, and as you both slipped into your morning routines — him adjusting his tie, you packing your bag for the hospital — the chaos of another day loomed. But underneath it all, you carried the memory of last night, and the promise of tonight, and the knowledge that no matter how many times the world pulled him away, he would always come back to you.

[kryptidfiles]

A Life With You

DAVID!Clark Kent/Superman × Female Reader

AO3 CHAPTER 1 (<- link)

Tags: Slice of Life, Established Relationship, Superman Played by David Corenswet, Clark Kent is a Ray of Sunshine, Married Life, Eventual Smut, Lois Lane Knows Clark Kent is Superman, Protective Clark Kent, Childhood Friends to Lovers

You remembered the night of the meteor shower anniversary—sixteen years old, the two of you lying in the cornfield, watching the clear sky.  He’d turned to you, voice unsteady, and told you he wasn’t like everyone else. You were confused until he hovered three feet in the air. He told you how his Ma and Pa found him in a pod in their field. He told you of Krypton, his birth parents, and their message spoken in a language foreign to you. He told you how hard it was being different, that it scared him. You hadn’t known what to say at first. But then you reached for his hand and told him you weren’t going anywhere. That his secret was safe. That he didn’t have to pretend or be afraid, not with you. You thought about that moment now, about the boy who whispered I don’t want to be alone in this. And now, the man who carried an entire bridge’s worth of lives in his hands.

read on AO3

Kudos, comments appreciated 💙

[tellingtell5]

Be my baby: You Can't Hurry Love (3) 《Clark Kent, superman x reader》

Clark Kent (Superman) x superhero tailor fem!reader (Edna Mode vibes but make it romantic)

Summary: Well, the best superhero tailor in the city just met one of the biggest around. How much fabric would it take to wrap him in something decent? Guess we’ll find out.

part 1., part 2

A/N: Big thanks for the support! 🫶 Comments, likes, and reblogs are always super appreciated💖

Drop your thoughts and requests! I’m watching 👀 Thanks again!

Clark was back again.

You had him standing in front of the mirror, testing the latest design. This time the fabric promised to be sturdier, at least sturdier than the last version he’d accidentally torn through. He did the same thing he always did: that tiny, almost imperceptible twitch of his mouth, followed by a quick adjustment at the collar. Every single fitting, it was the same ritual. A fleeting grimace, quickly smoothed into a polite smile, and then the tug at the sleeve as though he were distracted.

Clark thought no one noticed. He probably thought he was subtle. But you noticed everything.

He stood there, broad shoulders filling the suit as he checked his reflection, trying to pretend nothing was wrong. You bit down on your lip to stop yourself from blurting out what you were really thinking. Such a slut. The words hovered on your tongue, sharp and teasing. You could already imagine the way he’d flush at the ears, stammer something clumsy, and still smile at you like he had no idea what to do with himself. The mental image was delicious enough to make you grin.

But then, there it was again. His expression twisted for half a second, irritation breaking through before he smoothed it over. Another quick adjustment at the collar.

You narrowed your eyes.

He hadn’t said a single word of complaint. Of course he hadn’t. That wasn’t Clark. He’d never admit something bothered him if it meant criticizing you. Instead, he’d keep turning with that warm, dimpled smile—the one that made your chest tighten and your mouth water in ways you refused to admit aloud. Dimples you’d thought about biting, more than once. God help you, you were hopeless.

And every time, he said the same thing. Perfect.

It’s not perfect if something bothers you, idiot.

But you didn’t call him on it. Just like he didn’t admit it. That was the ridiculous part. You two had known each other long enough to call yourselves… friends, maybe? Acquaintances felt too cold for what this had become. And yet you didn’t know his favorite color, but you could recite from memory the whole story of how being taller than all the other kids too young had carved a permanent ache into him. My poor giant boy.

But when it came to this—the collar, the pinch, the smallest discomfort—he kept it to himself.

Clark had always been careful about the way he spoke to you. He was careful with everyone, but with you it was different, more restrained, more hesitant. When it came to your work, to the suits you made for him, he never once voiced a complaint. Even now, with the collar tugging faintly against his neck, he swallowed the discomfort. He’d rather endure it than risk the possibility of discouraging you.

You knew it. You’d seen it before, that quiet reluctance. The way he asked for things softly, like he was worried his words might bruise. As if telling you the fabric caught at the waist or pressed too tight against his ribs would make you feel small, or worse, inadequate. It twisted something sharp and tender in your chest, and for one unguarded second you were overcome by the ridiculous urge to hug him. To squeeze him so hard he’d creak. Like one of those squishy toys you kept on your desk.

You told yourself it wasn’t affection, no, it was annoyance. Pure, homicidal annoyance at how stupidly endearing he was.

“Take the suit off, big guy,” you said at last, keeping your tone brisk, professional. “I need to get your measurements on file.”

It was a small lie. You didn’t need them again; you already knew his measurements better than you knew your own phone number. But you wanted to keep the suit another day, just long enough to adjust the collar without him noticing.

Clark’s brows furrowed, suspicion flickering there in the mirror. He’d spent enough time in your workshop by now to know how you worked, and you’d never asked for something like that before. He hesitated, lips parting like he might ask why. But then, of course, he only nodded, obedient as always, his massive hands already reaching for the zipper at the back.

A few days later, you returned it.

He felt it the moment the fabric brushed his skin.

There was no itch. No irritation. His fingers went to his collar by instinct, ready to rub at the familiar spot, but the discomfort never came. His hand just hovered there, pressed against the smooth line of fabric, and his mind stalled.

You hadn’t said a word. You were across the room, bent over your work table, scissors in hand, humming to yourself while you trimmed fabric. But he could almost hear your voice in his head anyway, dry and teasing, that little bite that never failed to make his ears burn: For someone with a super-brain, you sure took your time figuring it out, farmboy.

The cape swished against his legs as he turned sharply, unable to stop himself from looking at you. You didn’t notice. Or maybe you did and pretended not to—he could never quite tell with you. Your brow was furrowed, lips pursed in concentration as you held a piece of fabric up to the light. He felt a dangerous tug low in his chest, the urge to reach out, to smooth that crease between your brows with his thumb.

“Did you… do something different with the suit?” His voice came out careful, too careful, like he was tiptoeing across ice.

You straightened from your work, shoulders rolling back. He froze. He wasn’t used to the way his body betrayed him around you, the way every muscle in his back went taut with expectation when you moved, as if waiting for a verdict that only you could deliver. He needed your eyes on him like he needed air, and when they weren’t, it was unbearable.

But you didn’t look at him. You only tilted the fabric toward the light and said, too casually, “Should I have?”

The bottom dropped out of his stomach. Cold ran down his spine. What if you hadn’t changed anything? What if he was just imagining it, desperate for signs where there were none? His mouth opened, but all that came out was a faint, helpless, “No…”

He sank into the big armchair in the corner—the one you’d gotten a few months ago, after he’d nearly snapped your old wooden chair in half with his weight. His hands gripped the armrests, fiddling with a loose thread as he sat there in silence, the suit still clinging to him, too heavy with the thought that maybe he’d misunderstood everything.

The workshop was quiet but comforting, the air always warm with fabric and faint tea. He realized, sitting there, that he loved being in this space. It wrapped around him in a way that felt almost… intentional. As though the room itself had been made to hold him. The thought startled him. He frowned, trying to remember when that chair had first appeared. It had been after he started coming here regularly. One day, he walked in and it was just there. He’d laughed, said it was dangerously comfortable, and you had snorted, rolling your eyes.

“Easy there, farmboy. Half my clients are built like you. I was sick of the complaints about the old chair creaking. Had to adapt, that’s all.”

Something in your tone had suggested otherwise, but he hadn’t pushed. He never pushed with you.

Now, sitting there with the suit hugging his shoulders just right for the first time, he wasn’t so sure. Maybe you had changed something. Maybe you’d changed a lot.

His gaze wandered over the space, taking in details he hadn’t thought much about before. The tin of tea on your shelf, tucked beside your endless rows of fabric rolls. He wasn’t a coffee drinker, never had been—too bitter, no kick for someone like him. He knew he’d told you that once, in passing, not thinking it mattered. Yet not long after, there it was: his favorite tea, waiting for him in your workshop like it had always belonged.

And the chair. And now, the collar. Little things, quiet things. Things you never admitted, and he’d been too shy—or too scared—to ask about.

His chest felt too tight as the realization crept in: maybe you noticed him the same way he noticed you.

His heart stumbled when he saw the neat row of vinyls stacked along your shelf. They were always organized to perfection, each record carefully ordered, but now he saw it—tucked between your usual favorites were a few of his. Bands you’d teased him about once, laughing at the idea of Superman listening to punk. “Doesn’t fit the brand, big blue.” You’d smirked at him like it was a joke. And yet… there they were. Waiting, familiar, his.

Something warm and liquid twisted through his chest, spreading through his whole body until he felt almost unsteady on his feet. The realization made him straighten, breath caught. You’d let pieces of him seep into this place—the most important place to you. No fanfare. No words. Just small threads of him stitched into the fabric of your world, woven seamlessly with your own.

It was you, in every corner. But now, it was also him.

Clark bit down on the noise trying to escape his chest, something embarrassingly close to a sigh of contentment. Gratitude crawled up his spine, rooted itself in his head until it made him dizzy.

He’d been lost from the first moment you smirked at him, mocking his posture while your tape measure snapped against his shoulders. From the first teasing tsk that curved your mouth into something wicked and feline. He had been helpless then, absurdly in love with his tailor, and too terrified to confess it. Too scared of breaking the strange, delicate rhythm you had built together.

But this—this was hope.

His heart fluttered wildly, so loud he was sure you’d hear it.

“Earth to big blue. You copy?”

Your voice snapped him back. He blinked, dragging himself out of the daze. You were by the cupboard where you kept mugs, a kettle in hand, eyebrows arched in expectant challenge.

“…Sorry, what?”

“I asked if you wanted tea, dummy.”

A grin tugged at his lips before he could stop it. He almost nodded, the safe answer, but something in him rebelled. No—he’d just put the pieces together, and he wanted to test them. To see if he was right.

He rose slowly from the chair, deliberately unhurried, his footsteps soft against the floor as he crossed the room. You tilted your chin up when he stopped near you, eyes flicking over his face. And when he smiled, you smiled back—reluctantly, without even meaning to.

“I’d love a cup of my tea,” he said, voice low.

Your mouth opened as if to fire off some witty retort, but your raised brows betrayed you first. It was the look of someone caught red-handed. Someone surprised. Someone exposed.

The noise he’d been holding in rumbled free this time, a satisfied hum vibrating through his chest.

And then everything sharpened. His senses locked on you, greedy. The thrum of your heart filled his ears, erratic and uneven, skipping beats. He shouldn’t have listened, but he couldn’t stop. He followed the rush of blood as it flushed into your cheeks, staining them with color.

You smelled like fabric and ink and tea, and when he leaned a little closer—just a fraction—he thought maybe he could drown in it. His head went light. His lips parted without permission, the anticipation almost painful.

You swayed closer. Just slightly, but enough. He could feel your breath against his mouth. His own lips grazed the edge of a smile, heat burning under his skin.

God, he wanted it. He wanted you.

But he also wanted to hear it. To know it. To be chosen, not just assumed.

So, at the very last second, Clark tilted just off course and brushed his lips against the corner of your mouth instead. A kiss soft as a touch, barely there, a promise that left him reeling anyway.

When he drew back, you were breathless. Lips parted, eyes heavy, a faint crease of frustration tugging at your expression. He ached to erase it. But he stayed still, clinging to restraint.

“Thank you,” he said softly, the words trembling at the edges. “For fixing the suit.”

Air seemed to vanish from the workshop. You opened your mouth, inhaled sharply, but it was like there wasn’t enough oxygen left to fill your lungs.

“…You’re welcome,” you whispered. So quiet that if he didn’t have super-hearing, he might have missed it.

Nothing had moved forward, and it was driving him out of his skin. Every day the closeness pushed him just a little further, edging him toward the brink of losing his mind completely.

The worst part? He wasn’t the one making the first move, because somewhere in that stubborn, beautiful mess of a head of his, he’d decided he wanted you to be the one. He wanted to be chosen. Which meant the two of you were locked in some ridiculous, dangerous little game now. You hadn’t said it aloud, but it was as if you were both shouting across the room: let’s see who breaks first.

And Clark? He’d started cheating. “Accidentally” tearing suits just to come by, showing up with your favorite food, even dragging poor Krypto into the shop more often than was strictly necessary. He’d seen you almost cave more than once—your lips parting like you were on the verge of saying something that would shatter the silence. Almost.

You, for your part, had brought out the heavy artillery. Touch had always been natural—it came with the job, fitting seams and smoothing fabric—but now your hands lingered. When you ran your palm down his shoulder, you didn’t pull away right away. When he stood still while you checked a seam, your fingers ghosted along the back of his neck, idly toying with the short hair at his nape as though petting some oversized, overgrown cat. And when he looked around your workshop and found little fragments of himself—like the plate of pancakes you insisted on having for dinner, because of course you did—it made his chest ache in a way that was both unbearable and irresistible.

The whole thing was absurd. You were absurd. He was absurd. The two of you together? Hopeless.

Which was why Clark decided he needed one last push. A little trick, a little nudge, something that would make you slip first. He convinced poor Mr. Douglas to let him take the strawberries a bit earlier than usual—just as he’d done with the peaches last month. He was sure this would be the moment. The act that tipped you over the edge.

Roy barely glanced up from his work when the alien bounded past, tossing a distracted greeting over his shoulder as Clark made a straight line for the workshop that had become far too much like home. His grin stretched ear to ear, nearly cocky. In one hand he carried a paper bag filled with strawberries. In his chest, his heart thumped with ridiculous, dangerous hope.

“I’ll have to make it up to Mr. Douglas somehow…” he muttered under his breath.

But his voice trailed off when the sound reached him—your laughter. A real laugh, deep and unguarded. His pulse skipped, caught between the thrill of hearing it and the sharp sting that came with the fact it wasn’t just yours. Another laugh joined in, lower, rougher, not his.

Clark’s smile faltered.

He stepped inside and froze at the sight of you. You were standing so close to another man, measuring his arm with practiced precision, and laughing—open, easy, bright. His stomach twisted in something uncomfortably close to jealousy.

Both of you looked up when he entered, though you didn’t step away. You smiled like a cat caught in a patch of sunlight, mischievous and utterly unbothered. His traitorous heart did a flip, ignoring the warning bells in his head.

“Oh, hey, big guy. You’re actually on time. That’s rare.”

“Kent.”

“Holt.”

The two men exchanged a curt nod. Michael Holt was all seriousness now, while Clark forced a polite smile even as something bitter climbed his throat. He swallowed it down the way he always did, with the kind of self-control that left a faint ache behind.

“I told Michael he could stop by now, since you usually run a little late.”

You said it casually, like it meant nothing, while your hands kept working, noting measurements in your book.

“They’ve put a team together, you know,” you added without looking up. “The name is awful, but they asked me to design their suits. Figured I’d better start now.”

“That’s… that’s great.” His voice came out too stiff, too formal, and you squinted at him briefly before turning back to your work.

“So what were you saying about my dear Mr. Douglas?”

Suddenly the bag in his hand felt impossibly heavy. Foolish. Like a child caught sneaking something he shouldn’t, Clark shifted it behind his back, muttering a quiet, embarrassed, “Nothing.”

You didn’t press. Instead, you excused yourself with a breezy little wave of your hand, slipping out of the room and tossing your parting shot over your shoulder: “Need more fabric—something that’ll make people forget that ridiculous team name.”

And just like that, you were gone.

Clark stood frozen in the middle of your workshop, a paper bag of strawberries tucked awkwardly behind his back like contraband. His pulse thrummed against his throat, loud enough he was half-convinced Michael Holt could hear it.

Get it together, Kent. She’s just getting fabric. You are Superman. You’ve faced alien invasions. You once caught an entire collapsing bridge. You do not— he glanced down at the bag, his ears warming —you do not hide behind fruit like a lovesick teenager outside a sock hop.

Still, there he was. Six-foot-four, Krypton’s last son, hiding behind a brown grocery bag like it was a riot shield.

It was ridiculous. Completely ridiculous.

You were a tailor. This was your work. Measuring arms, scolding over torn seams, brushing your hands over shoulders and waists—it was all part of the job. You laughed, you teased, you kept your clients at ease, because that was who you were. Clark knew that. Rationally, he knew that.

But the traitorous corner of his heart—the corner that had been in trouble from the first moment you’d tugged a tape measure around his chest and muttered, “Big Blue, hold still or I’ll stab you with this pin”—kept whispering that you weren’t like that with everyone. That your edges softened around him. That the way your laughter burst out when he fumbled a joke, the way your eyes lingered when you pinned a seam—those things were just for him.

And now, thanks to your casual little Terrific stunt, he was standing here wondering if maybe he’d been wrong.

“You good?”

Clark nearly dropped the strawberries. He blinked, jolting back to earth, and found Michael  watching him with the kind of expression reserved for malfunctioning robots.

“Yeah. Fine,” Clark said too quickly, his voice hitting a register usually reserved for panicked teenagers.

Michael raised a single eyebrow. A devastating eyebrow. “That’s exactly what people say right before they pass out or commit tax fraud.”

Clark tried a smile. The kind he used on reporters when they asked about zoning laws in Metropolis. Polite. Harmless. Transparent as glass. “Really. I’m—”

“You look like a man about to swallow his own tongue,” Michael cut in, folding his arms. “And considering you’re you—the guy who cracks dad jokes while asteroids are literally on fire behind him—that’s saying something.”

Clark winced. Adjusted his glasses. Shifted his weight from one massive boot to the other. Don’t say strawberries. Don’t say strawberries.

“It’s just… nothing. Really.”

Michael’s unimpressed stare said otherwise. “Uh-huh. You always get this face when you’re lying. Like a golden retriever trying to pass itself off as a wolf.”

Clark opened his mouth. Shut it. Opened it again. He had flown through hurricanes with less turbulence. Finally, with a sigh that could have powered a windmill, he slumped.

“Let’s say… hypothetically,” he started, fumbling with the word like it weighed fifty pounds, “that a friend of mine thought a girl was… different with him. That maybe she showed him something softer, something more. But then he saw her acting the same way with somebody else and thought, well, maybe he was wrong. Maybe he wasn’t special after all.”

The silence that followed was brutal. Michael studied him for a long moment, expression caught somewhere between pity and amusement. His lips twitched.

Clark braced himself.

“Tell your friend,” Michael said finally, making air quotes so exaggerated they could have qualified for their own orbit, “that I’ve known her for years. And I have never—never—seen her look at anyone the way she looks at you. Not even close.”

Clark blinked. Once. Twice. His ears turned a shade of red that could rival his cape.

“Oh, no, I wasn’t—he’s not—I mean—” Clark’s voice cracked, and he gestured wildly with his free hand, nearly smacking himself in the face with the strawberries. “That’s not—I wasn’t—”

Michael leaned back against your workbench, smirk firmly in place. “Relax, Kent. I’m a genius. I can spot obvious when it walks in wearing a cape.”

Clark made a noise. Not quite a laugh, not quite a groan—something in between that sounded like a dying tractor.

And of course, that was the exact moment you breezed back into the room. Empty-handed. A little triumphant.

“Turns out I’ll have to order the fabric,” you said lightly. “Sorry, Holt. Swing by another day.”

Clark, still pink and still clutching the strawberries like a life preserver, nearly choked on his own tongue.

Michael caught your eye as he passed you on his way out, and if Clark didn’t know better, he could’ve sworn he saw Holt give you the smallest, most infuriating little wink.

And then it was just the two of you.

Clark kept his eyes fixed on the floor, lips pressed in a thin line, unusually quiet for once. The weight of the strawberries behind his back grew unbearable.

You tilted your head, stepping closer, that sly little spark in your eyes. “All right, big guy,” you said, voice light, teasing. “Are you going to tell me what you’re hiding back there… or am I going to have to wrestle it out of you?”

Clark’s shoulders stiffened immediately. “It’s nothing,” he murmured, voice pitched a little too soft, a little too careful.

That only encouraged you. You narrowed your eyes, lips curving in mock suspicion as you stalked closer, circling him like a cat ready to pounce. “What’s in the bag, Kent?” you drawled, parodying the infamous movie line. “What’s in the bag?”

He actually laughed—nervous, awkward, trying to defuse you. “Really, it’s— it’s not important—”

You stepped into his space, toe to toe with him, tilting your chin up so you could glare straight at him. His body reacted instantly: a subtle step back, his spine pressing against the edge of your worktable as though retreat was the only option. But his retreat wasn’t fast enough to hide the warmth in his cheeks, the way his pulse jumped visibly at his throat.

“Clark,” you scolded, voice wickedly low, “are you seriously going to keep secrets from the woman who literally patches your cape back together?”

He swallowed, the sound thick. “I—I don’t think this is—”

You didn’t let him finish. With a quick dart of your hand, you snatched the bag from behind his back. He didn’t resist. He could have, easily, but instead he stood frozen, letting you win.

The teasing grin on your lips faded the instant you peeked inside. Strawberries. Perfectly ripe, still dewy.

Your chest tightened.

They were your favorite. You hadn’t meant to admit it, hadn’t meant to let the words slip past your guard. But they did—falling from your lips in a whisper so soft you barely recognized your own voice.

“They’re my favorite.”

For a heartbeat, silence hung between you. And then Clark’s reply—quiet, breaking just a little on the edges, tender in a way that made your chest ache.

“I know.”

That was it. The moment everything shifted.

The teasing, the banter, the little tug-of-war you’d been playing with him for months—it evaporated like smoke. Because the truth, unspoken but undeniable, was suddenly sitting there between you. Weighty. Luminous. Impossible to look away from.

You’d always known, at least in some half-conscious way, that you and Clark were orbiting each other. Skirting the line, testing, daring the other to push a little closer. And you had thought—foolishly—that you were in control. That you were the clever one. You’d been so sure the jokes, the scolding, the late-night fittings and the “accidental” brushes of your hand against his arm were all just part of a game you were winning.

But now… now, standing here with a paper bag of strawberries trembling in your hands, you saw it differently. All your sharp little tricks, all your playful provocations, paled against the truth of him. Because Clark wasn’t trying to outmaneuver you. He wasn’t strategizing or baiting you. He was simply doing what he always did—bringing you something kind, something thoughtful, something heartbreakingly simple.

And suddenly you felt like the fool.

You drew in a breath, steadying yourself, letting the mask fall for once. No sarcasm. No deflection. Just you. Just him.

“Why’d you bring me strawberries, Big Blue?” you asked, voice low and steady, your eyes fixed on his. Searching. Needing.

He blinked down at you, startled, his head dipping instinctively until his forehead hovered just above yours. Close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath fan across your lips. His voice came out rough, almost confused. “What?”

You tightened your grip on the bag, then set it aside with trembling fingers. Both hands lifted to his face, sliding over the line of his jaw until your palms cradled him there, holding him still. Your thumbs pressed gently into the faint stubble along his cheeks. You forced him to see you. To hear you.

“Why,” you said again, firmer this time, the words almost a demand, “did you bring me strawberries, Clark?”

For a long, breathless moment, he didn’t answer. His chest rose and fell unevenly beneath your touch. His eyes flicked down to your mouth, then back to your eyes, then down again—as if he couldn’t help himself. His next breath stuttered, and when the words finally came, they were clumsy, fumbling, but utterly sincere.

“For the same reason you couldn’t let my suit keep bothering me?."

Your lips parted, a shaky little exhale slipping free as you tilted your head just slightly. Just enough that your mouth brushed the air above his. “Not sure about that, are you, big guy?”

He gave a sound then—a helpless, broken laugh. The kind that comes from the chest, low and raw, tinged with nerves and hope all at once.

“With you,” he whispered, as if it were the truest thing he had ever said, “I’m never sure of anything.”

And then you kissed him.

Or maybe he kissed you. Maybe it didn’t matter, because the moment stretched and snapped, and suddenly his mouth was on yours—soft, desperate, tasting faintly of strawberries he hadn’t even eaten yet. His hands found your waist like they’d been waiting their whole lives to rest there, and you pressed closer, heart hammering, because finally, finally, there was no denying it.

The first brush of his lips was almost clumsy. Sweet, but unpracticed, like neither of you could quite believe you were actually doing it. His nose bumped yours, your teeth grazed awkwardly, and you both broke into startled little laughs against each other’s mouths.

It should have been ridiculous. It was ridiculous. You were still holding the stupid bag of strawberries between you, crinkling with every shift, and Clark’s hand had landed halfway on your hip, halfway on a spool of fabric, like he couldn’t decide if he was allowed to touch you at all.

But God, it was perfect.

Because when you pulled back half an inch, laughing breathlessly, his eyes were wide and bright, soft with disbelief. He looked at you like you’d just hung the moon and handed it to him. And the sight of it—this impossible man undone by you—knocked the air straight from your lungs.

And then he made a low sound in his chest—half a hum, half a sigh—as he leaned in again, unable to stop himself. The vibration rolled through you, deeper than the kiss itself. You gasped, needing air, tilting back with a laugh as you tried to catch your breath. But he followed, lips brushing yours, then the corner of your mouth, then back again, chasing you in feather–light kisses that made your lungs burn for an entirely different reason.

“Clark—” you giggled, pressing your palms to his chest, firm but not pushing him away, just enough to hold him there for a second. He was warm under your hands, solid in a way that made your heart stutter.

“Too far,” he murmured against your skin, though his mouth still hovered, still tempted.

“Not everyone’s like you,” you managed between breaths, tilting your head so he’d stop teasing your lips. “Humans actually need to breathe once in a while.”

That earned you the smallest, sheepish smile, his forehead resting against yours. “Sorry,” he murmured, almost boyish in his guilt.“You have no idea,” he whispered, voice rough with honesty, “how hard it is to stop.”

The confession hit you harder than the kisses, knocking your balance clean out from under you. And suddenly, it wasn’t just your breath he’d stolen—it was every thought you might have had of keeping this light, easy, safe.

tag list: @animegamerfox mentallyilldarling dreamlesssleepsaga