❁Poetic blog, Hey, welcome, my name is Brianna. im 20, and this is my virtual poetic diary. I implore all lovers of literature and poetry to stick around for a while and explore my page :) . I post poetry (my own and some of my favorite poets, *hint my favorite is literally quoted above lol), literature quotes of all moods( depending on my mood) , and on the occasion my paintings. I do write custom poems as well ( I'll link all info in my navigation below)I'll try and be as active as I can, and hey if you decide to stick around and like what you see, give me a follow and let's build a poetry community ♡ .
Years after U.A., you have gotten very good at leaving things behind. Bakugo Katsuki included. Then a classified mission sends the two of you to Monaco to infiltrate the Orpheus Consortium, an international quirk trafficking network hiding behind the lavish Aureate Global Investment Forum. Your cover should be simple. Wealthy investors. Four years married. One shared suite. One bed. And enough surveillance to make sure neither of you ever gets to stop pretending. The problem is that Katsuki realizes he stopped pretending long before you are willing to admit the same.
𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐒 fake marriage, undercover mission, forced proximity, only one bed, former friends, unresolved feelings, mutual pining, he falls first, she is in denial, protective katsuki
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 canon typical violence, organized crime, quirk trafficking, grief, references to death and war, past unhealthy relationships, stalking mentioned, mature themes, sexual tension, suggestive content
𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 18+ later in the series. all characters are adults.
By Saturday afternoon, you knew more about your marriage to Bakugo Katsuki than you had known about either of your actual relationships.
It was unsettling.
You knew where he had supposedly proposed. Kyoto. Late October. Private garden. No photographer. No family waiting around the corner.
According to the file, Ren Takahashi had gotten down on one knee beneath a maple tree and presented Aya with a vintage diamond ring previously belonging to his grandmother.
Tasteful. Private. Almost romantic.
Nothing about it sounded like Katsuki.
“You proposed in Kyoto.”
Katsuki did not look up from his folder. “Good for me.”
“Apparently it was very beautiful.”
“Sounds expensive.”
You looked at the photograph clipped beneath the report. Some poor intelligence employee had spent actual government time manufacturing a picture of your left hand resting over Katsuki’s, the engagement ring sparkling beneath autumn leaves.
“They gave you a whole speech.”
That got his attention. His head lifted from the opposite end of the couch. “What?”
You cleared your throat. “‘Ren reportedly told Aya that he had known for some time that there was nobody else he trusted enough to build a life with.’”
His face twisted. “I did not fuckin’ say that.”
“Fake you did.”
“Fake me sounds like a pussy.”
“Fake you sounds emotionally available.”
“Exactly.”
You smiled.
The secure apartment the Commission had assigned for cover preparation looked like nobody had ever actually lived there. Gray walls. Gray couch. Gray rug. A kitchen containing six identical white mugs and absolutely nothing useful.
You had been trapped inside it with Katsuki for nearly five hours.
The table was covered in the evidence of your fake life. Passports. Bank records. Property documents. Photographs. Receipts. Travel histories. Anniversary reservations.
There was even a veterinary bill from a dog you apparently owned for three years before it died.
You had been upset about that one.
“Why did they kill our dog?”
Katsuki stared at you. “What?”
“Kenji.”
“Who the fuck is Kenji?”
“Our dog.”
“We don’t have a dog.”
“We did.”
He slowly lowered his folder. “You getting attached to the fake dead dog?”
“He was a Shiba.”
“Of course he was.”
“He died two years ago.”
“Tragic.”
“Kidney disease.”
“Thoughts and prayers.”
You glared.
Katsuki went back to reading.
You picked up the photograph of Kenji. “He was cute.”
“He’s probably a stock photo.”
“Still cute.”
“You’re fuckin’ weird.”
There it was.
The words hit differently than they should have.
Not because they were insulting. Because they weren’t. Not from him.
He had been calling you weird since you were fifteen, usually right before listening to whatever bizarre thing you had decided he needed to know.
You put Kenji down.
“You’re the one who married me.”
“Under duress.”
“Fake you proposed voluntarily.”
“Fake me’s an idiot.”
“Fake me said yes.”
“Point proven.”
You kicked his shin.
He caught your ankle before you could pull away.
It happened so quickly neither of you seemed to process it. His hand wrapped around the narrow part of your ankle. Your sock had slipped slightly beneath your pant leg. His thumb rested against bare skin.
You looked at his hand.
Katsuki looked too.
The room went quiet.
Then he released you.
“Violent.”
“You started it.”
“How?”
“Existing obnoxiously.”
“That’s not a fuckin’ crime.”
“Debatable.”
You tucked your legs beneath yourself.
Katsuki turned another page.
Neither of you mentioned it.
That had always been one of your specialties.
Not mentioning things.
You picked up your folder again. “All right.”
He grunted.
“Test me.”
“On what?”
“Our relationship.”
Katsuki looked at you.
“Our fake relationship,” you clarified.
“Obviously.”
“Could’ve fooled me. You’re mourning our dog.”
“Kenji mattered.”
“Kenji wasn’t real.”
“Neither is our marriage and we’ve spent five hours studying it.”
He sighed and tossed his folder onto the coffee table. “Fine.”
You straightened. “Where did we meet?”
“U.A.”
“Too vague.”
“International business program attached to U.A. We met at some alumni networking event during our second year.”
“Good. First date?”
“Sushi place in Shibuya.”
“Name?”
“Tsukino.”
“Who asked who?”
“You asked me.”
“Bullshit.”
You checked the file.
Your mouth curled. “Oh.”
“What?”
“I asked you.”
Katsuki smirked. “Obviously.”
“Don’t get excited. Apparently you had been trying to get my attention for months.”
“Now that’s bullshit.”
“It says it right here.”
“Lemme see.”
You pulled the folder against your chest. “No.”
“Give it.”
“Absolutely not.”
Katsuki leaned across the couch.
You immediately moved backward. “Personal space.”
“We’re married.”
“Not until tomorrow.”
“Give me the fuckin’ file.”
“No.”
He grabbed for it.
You twisted away, laughing despite yourself. His hand caught the edge. You held tighter.
“Katsuki.”
“Quit being a brat.”
“You’re going to rip it.”
“Then let go.”
“You let go.”
“Fuck no.”
You yanked.
He pulled.
The folder slipped.
Pages scattered across the rug.
You both froze.
You looked at the mess, then at each other.
“Nice.”
“You did that.”
“You pulled it.”
“You lunged at me.”
“You were being annoying.”
“You have the emotional regulation of a toddler.”
“Says the woman starting a custody battle over a fake dog.”
You stared at him.
Then you laughed.
It slipped out before you could stop it.
Katsuki’s expression changed, just slightly.
You had noticed him doing that several times since the briefing.
Watching you when you laughed.
It made you suddenly aware of the sound.
You stopped.
His eyes stayed on you for another second before he bent down.
“Help clean this shit up.”
You slid from the couch onto the rug. “Bossy.”
“You made the mess.”
“You made the mess.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
You gathered the papers.
Your fingers brushed when you both reached for the same photograph.
You pulled your hand away first.
It was ridiculous.
You had touched Katsuki thousands of times. Training. Fights. Rescue exercises. Dragging each other out of collapsed buildings.
You had once spent almost twenty minutes sitting on his back because he refused to admit you had won a spar.
Touching him should not feel strange.
But that had been before.
Before the war. Before hospitals. Before funerals. Before the argument.
Before you had spent years carefully turning someone you once knew intimately into someone you greeted by hero name.
You picked up another sheet. “Favorite restaurant.”
Katsuki sat back against the couch. “Tsukino.”
“No. Yours.”
He frowned. “Real me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re going to ask questions that aren’t in the dossier.”
“I know.”
“So answer.”
“I don’t have one.”
“You rotate.”
His eyes sharpened.
You shrugged. “Depends what you’re craving.”
A pause.
“Yeah.”
“Favorite food.”
“Spicy curry.”
“Too easy.”
“Then ask better questions.”
You thought. “How do you take your coffee?”
“Black.”
“You don’t drink it black all the time.”
“Most of the time.”
“Unless you haven’t eaten.”
Katsuki went still.
You continued before you could think about why you knew that. “Then you put milk in it because otherwise your stomach gets weird.”
His eyebrows rose. “My stomach doesn’t get weird.”
“You complained about it constantly at school.”
“I was sixteen.”
“You still do it.”
“How the fuck would you know?”
Silence.
You looked down.
Good question.
You had seen him do it at a hero conference last year. You had not spoken to him.
You had simply noticed.
Apparently you were still noticing things you had no business noticing.
“I’ve seen you at events.”
Katsuki stared. “Right.”
You cleared your throat. “My turn.”
“Coffee.”
You blinked. “What?”
“How do you take it?”
“You know.”
“Answer.”
“Oat milk.”
“One sugar if the coffee’s shit.”
Your eyes lifted.
“None if it’s good,” he finished.
You stared at him.
He stared back.
“That’s creepy.”
“You just told me about my fuckin’ stomach.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
“Exactly.”
You looked away.
Katsuki picked up another sheet. “Favorite movie.”
You told him.
“Still?”
You frowned. “Yes.”
“Figures.”
“What does that mean?”
“You made us watch that shit six times.”
“I did not.”
“Six.”
“Three at most.”
“Six.”
“Why did you keep watching it?”
He opened his mouth.
Stopped.
You waited.
Katsuki looked down at the file. “Everyone else was.”
Something about the answer felt incomplete.
You let it go.
Again.
Always.
You moved on. “Biggest pet peeve.”
“People who chew with their mouth open.”
“That’s one of mine.”
“Yeah.”
“I meant yours.”
“People who don’t say what they mean.”
The room changed.
You felt it immediately.
Katsuki did too.
His eyes lifted.
Neither of you spoke.
You could have laughed it off. Made some comment. Asked another question.
Instead, you held his gaze.
He had always hated that about you.
Not generally.
Specifically.
With him.
You could speak your mind to professors. Heroes. Villains. Strangers. You had never been particularly afraid of confrontation.
Until something actually mattered.
Then you became impossible.
The last time he had demanded that you tell him what you were thinking, you had walked away.
He had shouted after you.
You had kept walking.
Neither of you had tried again.
You looked down. “Noted.”
Katsuki’s jaw shifted.
He could have pushed.
The old Katsuki would have.
Maybe this one had learned.
Or maybe you had simply taught him not to bother.
“Your turn,” he said.
You hated the relief that followed.
You also hated the disappointment.
You spent the next two hours learning each other again.
Not really.
That would have required questions neither of you wanted to ask.
Instead, you learned the safe things.
Favorite foods. Travel habits. Sleep schedules. Alcohol preferences. How each of you behaved when tired.
Who was more likely to forget an anniversary.
You, according to Katsuki.
Who would apologize first after an argument.
Neither of you.
Who cooked.
Him.
Who cleaned.
Both.
Who controlled the finances.
You.
“Fuck that.”
“You hate paperwork.”
“Doesn’t mean I’m giving you eight hundred million dollars.”
“It’s fake money.”
“Still.”
You learned that fake Aya stole fake Ren’s shirts.
Katsuki found that hilarious for reasons he refused to explain.
You learned you had spent your second anniversary in Florence.
He learned you supposedly hated the villa he bought outside Kyoto because there were too many windows.
“That’s actually true.”
“What?”
“I hate houses with too many windows.”
“I know.”
You stopped. “How?”
“You complained about the dorm windows.”
You stared.
He shrugged. “Your room faced the courtyard. Said everyone could see you.”
“People could.”
“You were on the fourth floor.”
“Tokoyami could fly.”
“Why the fuck would Tokoyami be looking through your window?”
“That’s not the point.”
Katsuki shook his head. “Paranoid.”
“Alive.”
“Fair.”
By the time Director Hayashi returned, the sun had disappeared.
You had not noticed.
That bothered you.
You had spent almost eight hours with Katsuki.
It had felt like two.
Hayashi handed you both your final travel documents. “Transportation arrives at six tomorrow morning.”
You groaned.
Katsuki looked perfectly unaffected.
Of course.
He probably woke up at five voluntarily like a psychopath.
“Your covers begin the moment you leave this building tonight.”
You looked up. “I thought they started when we left Japan.”
“Plans changed. Orpheus has already begun monitoring confirmed attendees.”
Katsuki’s expression hardened. “Already?”
“We detected access attempts on one of Takahashi Kuroda Capital’s European accounts this afternoon.”
“From?”
“Unknown.”
You sat straighter. “So they could already be watching us.”
“Possibly.”
Hayashi nodded toward the windows. “Your transportation tonight will take you to the residence associated with your cover identities.”
You blinked. “The apartment?”
“Yes.”
Katsuki looked almost amused. “We actually get the apartment?”
“For tonight.”
“Surveillance?” you asked.
“Our own. External only.”
“Inside?”
“Clean.”
Good.
Hayashi looked between you. “From this point onward, use cover names anywhere outside secured communication.”
You nodded. “Aya.”
Katsuki grimaced. “Ren.”
You looked at him. “Ren suits you.”
“Shut up.”
“See? Very Ren.”
“Keep talking, Aya.”
You hated how your fake name sounded in his voice.
Not because it sounded bad.
That was the problem.
Hayashi continued. “You’ll travel separately from the operational team. Your flight is private and registered to the company.”
“Anyone else onboard?” you asked.
“Two pilots. One attendant. All cleared, but behave as though they are not.”
Katsuki stood. “Anything else?”
Hayashi looked directly at him. “Yes.”
He gestured toward the space between you.
“This.”
You frowned. “What?”
“You do not look married.”
Katsuki looked at you.
You looked at Katsuki.
“Well,” you said, “we aren’t.”
“That distinction can get you killed.”
Your amusement disappeared.
Hayashi stepped closer. “You stand too far apart. You rarely touch. You look at each other before using personal information, as if checking whether you’re allowed to know it.”
You had not noticed that.
Apparently Katsuki hadn’t either.
Hayashi continued. “Married couples have physical habits. They move around each other without thinking. They invade each other’s space. They anticipate.”
“We used to,” Katsuki said.
Your eyes snapped toward him.
Hayashi looked between you. “Then remember how.”
Katsuki’s face gave nothing away.
Neither did yours.
Hayashi left.
The door clicked shut.
Silence.
You gathered your coat. “Well.”
Katsuki stood. “Well what?”
“Apparently we need to look more married.”
“No shit.”
You reached for your suitcase.
His hand closed around the handle first.
You frowned. “I can carry it.”
“I know.”
“Then give it to me.”
“No.”
“Katsuki.”
His eyes flicked toward the hallway.
You understood.
Ren.
Aya.
You exhaled. “Fine.”
He pulled the suitcase toward himself.
You grabbed your handbag. “Happy?”
“No.”
“Wonderful.”
He opened the door.
You stepped through.
Then stopped when his hand settled against the small of your back.
Every muscle in your body went rigid.
Not dramatically.
Not enough that anyone watching would notice.
Katsuki did.
Of course.
His palm was warm through your shirt. Large. Familiar in a way it had no right to be.
You turned your head.
He leaned slightly closer. “Relax.”
His voice was low.
“We’re still inside.”
“Hallway cameras.”
You looked toward the corner.
There it was.
You had walked past it earlier without caring.
Now you saw the small red light.
Watching.
You forced your shoulders down.
Katsuki’s thumb moved once against your back.
Barely anything.
Your stomach tightened anyway.
“Better,” he murmured.
You looked at him. “Don’t patronize me.”
“Wasn’t.”
His hand stayed where it was all the way to the elevator.
The doors opened.
You stepped inside.
He followed.
His hand fell away.
You immediately noticed the absence.
That irritated you.
The elevator doors closed.
You stared straight ahead.
Beside you, Katsuki glanced toward the security camera.
Then at you.
You understood before he moved.
His arm came around your waist.
This time you were ready.
Mostly.
You leaned against him.
His body was warm. Solid.
You could smell his cologne, something dark and clean beneath the faint scent of smoke that never seemed to leave him completely.
You remembered that too.
Of course you did.
“Natural enough?” you murmured.
His fingers tightened slightly at your hip. “Still look like you’re being held hostage.”
“I feel like I’m being held hostage.”
“You’re a terrible actress.”
“I’m an excellent actress.”
“Then act.”
You turned your face toward him.
His eyes were already on you.
Too close.
You had forgotten how red they actually were.
Not crimson. Not ruby.
Red.
Sharp and strange and completely Katsuki.
You smiled.
Sweetly.
His expression became suspicious. “What?”
“Nothing, darling.”
His eyes narrowed. “Don’t fuckin’ call me that.”
You smiled wider. “We’re married.”
The elevator opened.
You stepped away before he could answer.
His hand caught yours.
You looked down.
His fingers threaded through yours.
Your wedding ring glinted beside his.
You looked at him.
“Camera,” he said quietly.
Right.
Of course.
You squeezed his hand once.
Performance.
Nothing more.
The car waiting downstairs was black, polished, and expensive enough that you felt uncomfortable touching it.
The driver opened the rear door.
Katsuki let you enter first.
You slid across the leather seat.
He followed.
The partition remained down.
You immediately adjusted.
Aya.
Ren.
Husband.
Wife.
You rested your hand on his thigh.
Katsuki nearly choked.
You looked innocently toward the window.
His head turned. “What are you doing?” he muttered.
“Acting.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely.”
His hand covered yours.
For one second, you expected him to remove it.
Instead he left it there.
Warm fingers resting over your knuckles.
You looked outside.
Tokyo passed in streaks of white and red.
Neither of you spoke.
The tiger shifted somewhere inside you.
You ignored her.
The apartment was ridiculous.
That was the first thing you said when you entered.
“This is ridiculous.”
Katsuki dropped the suitcase near the entryway. “Eight hundred million.”
“Fake eight hundred million.”
“Still counts.”
Floor to ceiling windows overlooked the city.
The kitchen alone was larger than your actual apartment.
Black stone countertops.
You turned slowly toward Katsuki.
He saw it at the same time.
“No.”
You pointed. “Black countertops.”
“Don’t.”
“Our dossier says we fought about these.”
“We’re not fighting about countertops.”
“I said they looked like a mausoleum.”
“They look good.”
“They show every crumb.”
“Clean the counter.”
You stared at him.
He stared back.
Then both of you started laughing.
It was stupid.
Completely stupid.
Maybe that was why it got you.
You leaned against the kitchen island, laughing harder than the joke deserved.
Katsuki shook his head. “This is fuckin’ stupid.”
“You started it.”
“You started it in the briefing.”
“You defended black countertops.”
“Because I’m right.”
You wiped beneath one eye. “God.”
The laughter faded.
Silence returned.
But this one was different.
Softer.
Katsuki looked around the apartment. “One bedroom.”
You followed his gaze.
Of course.
“Getting us used to it.”
“Probably.”
You checked your phone. “We have to be up in seven hours.”
“You take the bed.”
You looked at him. “What?”
“I’ll take the couch.”
Something about the immediate offer caught you off guard.
“You don’t have to.”
“Didn’t say I had to.”
“The couch is tiny.”
“I’ve slept in rubble.”
“That’s not the endorsement you think it is.”
He shrugged.
You studied him.
He had already started toward the kitchen.
No performance.
No cameras.
No reason to offer except that he wanted to.
Something uncomfortable moved in your chest.
You pushed it down.
“I can take the couch.”
“No.”
“Katsuki.”
“Aya.”
You stared.
He looked smug.
“You asshole.”
“Go to bed.”
You flipped him off.
He returned the gesture without looking.
Normal.
Easy.
Dangerous.
You showered.
Changed.
Got into a bed that belonged to a woman who did not exist.
For twenty minutes, you stared at the ceiling.
You could hear Katsuki moving around the apartment.
A cabinet.
Running water.
The quiet hum of the television.
You rolled onto your side.
Closed your eyes.
Opened them.
The tiger stirred.
Don’t.
Warm amusement.
Nothing happened.
A pause.
Then:
Safe.
You frowned into the pillow.
What?
The impression came again.
Warmth.
Familiarity.
Safety.
You hated it.
Go away.
She did not.
You pulled the blanket over your head.
At some point, you slept.
When you woke, the room was still dark.
For several seconds you didn’t know why.
Then you heard it.
A muffled sound from the living room.
You sat up.
Silence.
Then another.
You slipped from bed.
No quirk.
Not yet.
You opened the bedroom door.
The television had turned itself off.
Tokyo glowed beyond the windows.
Katsuki was asleep on the couch.
Or he had been.
His body jerked suddenly.
One hand clenched.
His breathing changed.
Your stomach sank.
You knew.
You had seen it before.
U.A.
After Kamino.
After the war.
Nightmares.
You stood there.
Every instinct told you to go back to bed.
He wasn’t yours to comfort.
Not anymore.
Maybe he never had been.
Then he made another strangled sound.
Your feet moved.
“Katsuki.”
Nothing.
You crouched beside the couch. “Katsuki.”
His eyes opened.
His hand shot out.
You caught his wrist before instinct became explosion.
Red eyes stared at you without recognition.
Then focused.
His breathing was too fast.
“It’s me.”
Silence.
His hand relaxed.
You released him.
For a moment neither of you moved.
Then Katsuki sat up. “Fuck.”
You sat back on your heels. “Sorry.”
“What the hell are you apologizing for?”
“Waking you.”
He rubbed a hand over his face. “You didn’t.”
Right.
You looked away. “War?”
He went still.
You regretted asking.
Then:
“Yeah.”
Quiet.
You nodded.
No pity.
You knew better.
You started to stand.
His voice stopped you.
“You still get ‘em?”
You looked at him.
He wasn’t looking at you.
Sometimes you forgot.
He had known you too.
“Sometimes.”
“Your sister?”
The question was gentle by Katsuki standards, which meant barely audible.
Your throat tightened. “Sometimes.”
He nodded.
That was it.
No apology.
No empty sympathy.
No telling you she would be proud.
Thank God.
You stood. “Try to sleep.”
“You too.”
You took two steps.
“Hey.”
You turned.
Katsuki looked at the couch.
Then at you.
“You didn’t have to come out here.”
You shrugged. “I know.”
Something changed in his face.
You left before you could identify it.
At five thirty, your alarm went off.
Katsuki was already awake.
Of course he was.
Coffee waited on the kitchen counter.
You picked up the mug.
Paused.
Oat milk.
You took a sip.
No sugar.
The coffee was good.
You looked toward him.
He was checking something on his phone.
“You remembered.”
He didn’t look up. “Functioning brain.”
You stared at him for another second.
Then drank your coffee.
Neither of you mentioned the nightmare.
By six fifteen, Aya and Ren Takahashi were ready to leave Japan.
You wore cream trousers, a black blouse, sunglasses, and enough jewelry to suggest you had never once checked the price of groceries.
Katsuki wore black.
Naturally.
The ring on his hand caught your attention again.
You needed to stop looking at it.
“Ready?” he asked.
You picked up your bag. “As I’ll ever be.”
The flight was waiting at a private terminal.
Everything became different once you stepped out of the car.
Staff.
Pilots.
Cameras.
Unknown eyes.
Katsuki’s hand found yours.
This time you did not hesitate.
You threaded your fingers through his.
Aya.
Ren.
You could do this.
The attendant greeted you. “Mr. and Mrs. Takahashi. Welcome.”
Katsuki’s thumb brushed over your knuckles. “Thanks.”
Mrs. Takahashi.
You smiled.
The private cabin had cream leather seats, polished wood, and a bedroom at the rear that you refused to acknowledge.
You sat beside Katsuki instead of across from him.
Married people did that.
Apparently.
The plane climbed.
Tokyo disappeared beneath clouds.
You spent the first few hours reviewing Orpheus.
Then financial information.
Then guest profiles.
Eventually, exhaustion won.
Your head tipped back against the seat.
You closed your eyes.
Just for a minute.
When you woke, something was warm beneath your cheek.
You opened your eyes.
Black fabric.
You frowned.
Then realized.
Katsuki.
Your head was on his shoulder.
His arm rested along the seat behind you.
You sat up immediately. “Sorry.”
He looked away from the tablet in his hand. “For what?”
“I fell asleep.”
“Yeah. I noticed.”
“You could’ve moved.”
“Could’ve.”
You stared at him.
He went back to reading.
You looked toward the window.
Clouds stretched endlessly beneath you.
Your face felt warm.
Stupid.
The tiger purred.
Actually purred.
Your eyes narrowed.
Don’t start.
She ignored you.
Hours later, the Mediterranean appeared.
Blue first.
Then coastline.
Then Monaco.
You leaned toward the window despite yourself.
It looked unreal from above.
White buildings climbed into the hills.
The harbor glittered with yachts.
Sunlight turned the water into silver.
Katsuki leaned slightly closer to see past you.
“Jesus.”
“Pretty.”
“Expensive.”
“You have eight hundred million dollars.”
“We have eight hundred million.”
You looked at him.
He looked at you.
“Right,” you said.
“We.”
The plane landed in Nice.
A car was waiting to take you across the border.
From that point onward, security tightened.
Your driver had been arranged through Aureate.
Not yours.
Orpheus could be listening.
Katsuki knew it too.
The partition remained open.
He sat beside you.
Close.
Not touching.
You looked down at the space between your hands.
Hayashi’s words came back.
You do not look married.
You moved first.
Your hand settled over Katsuki’s.
He looked down.
Then at you.
You smiled. “A little nervous?”
His expression changed immediately.
Ren.
He turned his hand beneath yours and threaded your fingers together. “About a conference?”
“About behaving.”
His mouth curled. “Should be worried about yourself.”
You leaned into his shoulder. “You’re the one who almost yelled at the flight attendant because she called your coffee an Americano.”
“It wasn’t an Americano.”
You laughed softly.
The driver smiled in the mirror.
Good.
Katsuki’s thumb moved over the side of your hand.
Once.
Then again.
You told yourself it was for the driver.
The city changed as you approached Monaco.
Tunnels.
Cliffs.
Glimpses of impossible blue water.
Then Monte Carlo opened around you.
Luxury cars.
Designer storefronts.
Old buildings pressed against modern glass.
People dressed like money.
Your hotel rose above the harbor.
Flags lined the entrance.
Black cars waited beneath the awning.
Security stood everywhere.
Your pulse changed.
Work.
Finally.
The car slowed.
Katsuki felt it.
His grip tightened.
“You good?” he murmured.
You looked at him.
Not Ren.
Katsuki.
Just for a second.
“Yeah.”
His eyes searched yours.
Then he nodded.
The car stopped.
A man in a dark suit approached the door.
The second before it opened, Katsuki released your hand.
You almost questioned it.
Then his palm slid around your waist.
He pulled you closer.
Your body met his side.
You looked up.
His face was inches from yours.
“From here on out,” he murmured.
You swallowed. “I know.”
The door opened.
Cameras flashed beyond it.
Guests crowded the entrance.
Security watched from beneath the awning.
Someone called, “Mr. Takahashi.”
Katsuki stepped out first.
Then turned.
He offered you his hand.
For half a second, you saw him as he actually was.
The boy from U.A.
The man you had abandoned.
The person who still remembered how you took your coffee.
Then you placed your hand in his.
He helped you from the car.
His arm immediately circled your waist.
You smiled up at him.
Not Vesper.
Not you.
Aya.
His wife.
Katsuki looked down at you.
And smiled back.
It was frightening how convincing he was.
“Ready, sweetheart?”
You almost broke character on the spot.
His eyes glittered.
Asshole.
You tightened your fingers around his arm. “Of course, darling.”
His jaw twitched.
You had him.
Good.
Together, you turned toward the entrance.
Above you, gold lettering stretched across the glass.
THE AUREATE GLOBAL INVESTMENT FORUM
Somewhere inside that building was the evidence needed to destroy Orpheus.
Somewhere inside were people who would kill you if they learned who you really were.
And pressed against your side was Bakugo Katsuki, wearing a wedding ring that matched yours and smiling like he had spent the last four years waking up beside you.
His hand settled comfortably against your hip.
You told yourself the shiver that followed was nerves.
When Ryomen 𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀 found a temple girl still on her knees after he had burned it to the ground, he thought you'd be perfect to take as his.
𝓒𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 · 𝟏𝟖+ 𝒎𝒅𝒏𝒊 · ꒰ 𝒇. 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 ⋮⋮ 𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒆𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒎!𝒔𝒖𝒌𝒖𝒏𝒂 ⋮⋮ mentions of weapons (knife) ⋮⋮ reader at one point tries to take his life ⋮⋮ mention of blood ⋮⋮ 𝒗𝒊𝒓𝒈𝒊𝒏 reader ⋮⋮ p in v ⋮⋮ his two cks mentioned ⋮⋮ cervix kissing ⋮⋮ tummy bulges ⋮⋮ cum-flated ⋮⋮ c-pied ⋮⋮ 𝒐𝒓𝒂𝒍 f. rec ⋮⋮ he eats you out under a pear tree ⋮⋮ bathtub 𝒔𝒆𝒙 ⋮⋮ dp ⋮⋮ nipple play ⋮⋮ mentions of pregnancy ꒱
The Heian era stretched long and bloody under skies that never quite cleared of smoke. Villages burned not for conquest alone, but because Ryomen Sukuna found the sight of flames prettier than the thatched roofs they devoured.
He moved like calamity given legs, four arms thick with corded muscle, tattoos crawling black across scarlet skin, eyes the color of fresh-spilled blood and just as hungry. They called him the King of Curses long before any true cursed spirit bore the name; humans feared him the way prey fears the open mouth of a tiger, and with good reason.
He slaughtered priests mid-chant, crushed shrine maidens beneath his geta, left offering bowls overturned and spilling rice across blood-slicked tatami. Faith irritated him. Devotion irritated him more. It was the only thing that ever made him pause long enough to really look at someone.
You were different in the way a single unbroken flower is different in a field turned to ash.
The temple sat modest on its hill, cedar beams darkened by centuries of incense. You had spent your life inside its walls. Sweeping stone paths at dawn, replacing withered chrysanthemums, murmuring sutras until your voice felt less like your own and more like something borrowed from the kami themselves.
Your hands were calloused only from scrubbing floors and carrying water; your body soft in the way of someone who had never known violence except as stories whispered after dark. When war finally clawed its way up the mountain road, you did not run. You knelt deeper. Forehead to the cool floor, palms pressed together, lips shaping the same prayer you had spoken every morning since childhood.
Sukuna found you like that.
The sliding doors exploded inward in a spray of splinters. Smoke curled around his silhouette as he stepped inside, two of his arms crossed, the other two loose at his sides. Blood still dripped from the knuckles of his rightmost hand; somewhere behind him a monk’s severed head rolled to a stop against a lantern post. He tilted his head, regarding you. You did not lift your gaze. You did not scream. You only whispered the next line of the sutra, voice trembling but unbroken.
He laughed once the sound of it came out low and rough, amused in a way that made the air feel heavier.
“Still praying,” he said, voice like gravel dragged over silk. “Even now.”
You swallowed. Tears slipped free, hot against your cheeks, but your hands stayed joined.
He crossed the prayer hall in three strides. One massive hand closed around the back of your neck. Not cruel yet, only possessive. He lifted you as though you weighed nothing, your knees scraping the floorboards before they left them entirely. Your prayer beads clattered to the ground. You reached instinctively for them; he caught your wrist mid-motion and pinned it behind you with casual strength.
“If I’m not there,” you managed, voice cracking on every word, “who will take care of the temple?”
He went still.
For one heartbeat the only sound was the crackle of distant fires and your own uneven breathing.
Then he leaned in until his mouth brushed the shell of your ear.
“That’s what I like about you already,” he murmured. “You think the gods still need you.”
He carried you out of the ruined temple slung over one shoulder like a prize of war. You beat uselessly at his back until your strength gave out; tears soaked the fabric stretched across his shoulder blades. The last thing you saw of your home was the torii gate tilting sideways, half-consumed by flame.
His fortress crouched against jagged black cliffs, more cavern than castle—rough-hewn stone corridors lit by flickering braziers, air thick with the smell of iron and cedar smoke. Servants scattered like leaves when he entered, heads bowed so low their foreheads nearly kissed the floor. Only one did not flinch: Uraume, pale and composed, white hair falling straight as a blade. They regarded you with cool interest as Sukuna dumped you unceremoniously onto the wide, low platform that served as his sleeping mat.
You scrambled backward until your spine hit the wall, kimono tangled around your knees, chest heaving. The room was vast, shadowed, dominated by his presence even when he turned away to shrug out of bloodied outer robes. No partition. No second mat. No door that closed between you and him.
You were his now.
He did not speak the words. He did not need to.
Uraume approached without being summoned, carrying a lacquered tray. Steaming rice, grilled fish, pickled vegetables arranged with meticulous care. A clay cup of water. They knelt before you, expression unreadable.
“Eat,” they said simply. “He does not tolerate weakness in what belongs to him.”
You stared at the food, stomach twisting with nausea and hunger in equal measure. Your fingers shook when you reached for the chopsticks.
Later, after the tray had been cleared away. Uraume returned with folded yukata of soft undyed silk and a wooden tub already filled with heated water scented faintly with yuzu. They gestured toward a screened alcove at the far side of the chamber.
“Wash,” they instructed. “He will want you clean.”
You obeyed because there was nothing else to do.
The water was almost too hot; it turned your skin pink as you sank into it, knees drawn to your chest. You scrubbed mechanically, arms and shoulders, the crook of your neck, until every trace of soot and temple incense had been erased. Your hair hung heavy and dripping when you finally stepped out. Uraume waited with a dry cloth and the yukata. They did not touch you; they simply watched until you had dressed, until the sash was tied neatly at your waist.
When you emerged from behind the screen, Sukuna was already reclining on the wide mat, one elbow propped beneath him, four eyes fixed on you with lazy predatory interest. The yukata clung slightly to still-damp skin. You felt naked beneath his gaze despite the layers.
He crooked two fingers.
You hesitated.
He crooked them again, but slower this time, deliberately.
You crossed the room on unsteady legs and sank to your knees at the edge of the mat, head bowed, hands folded in your lap the way you had been taught to approach superiors. The posture felt wrong here. Too reverent. Too much like prayer.
He reached out, caught your chin between thumb and forefinger, and tilted your face up.
“You still smell like incense,” he said, almost thoughtful. “I’ll have to fix that.”
His thumb dragged once across your lower lip rough and warm, a soft press.
Then he released you.
“Sleep,” he ordered, lying back and closing two of his eyes while the other two remained trained on you. “You’ll need your strength.”
There was no spare futon. No corner to curl into. Only the space beside him on the wide mat, close enough to feel the furnace heat rolling off his body.
You lay down carefully, on your side, facing away from him, every muscle rigid. Tears slipped silently into the thin pillow beneath your cheek.
Behind you, he let out a single exhale that sounded almost like a laugh.
“Good girl,” he murmured into the dark. “Faithful things last longer when they learn their place.”
The braziers guttered low. The fortress settled into uneasy quiet.
And you, stolen from the gods, lay awake listening to the slow, steady rhythm of the monster’s breathing at your back, knowing he had only begun to claim what he wanted.
The first days blurred into a haze of stone walls and flickering firelight. You kept to the edges of the chamber like a shadow trying to disappear into itself. Every time Sukuna moved, your body tensed up, waiting for the strike that never came. Not yet. He lounged on the wide mat most hours, sometimes sleeping with all four eyes closed (a rare vulnerability you noted and immediately regretted noticing), sometimes watching you with the lazy patience of a cat that has already cornered its mouse. Uraume appeared at regular intervals with trays of food you refused to touch. Rice cooled untouched. Fish grew dull-eyed on the lacquer. Pickles wilted. You told yourself it was defiance. You told yourself starvation was preferable to accepting anything from the thing that had burned your world down.
Hunger, though, was not impressed by principle.
Your stomach clawed itself hollow. Your limbs felt heavy, your head light. You sat with your back to the wall, knees drawn up, arms wrapped tight around them as though you could hold yourself together that way. Sukuna noticed. Of course he did. He noticed everything.
On the fourth evening or perhaps the fifth; time had begun to slip like sand. He rose from the mat abruptly. Uraume had just left another untouched meal on the low table. Sukuna crossed to it in two strides, picked up the bowl of rice still faintly warm, and carried it to where you sat.
You pressed harder against the stone.
He crouched before you. He was too close, always too close. Balancing the bowl on one massive palm. The other three hands rested loose at his sides, deceptively calm.
“Eat,” he said. Not an order this time. Almost conversational.
You stared at the floor between his knees. “No.”
A beat of silence. Then a low sound escaped from him, not quite a laugh, more like air pushed through teeth.
“You think starving yourself hurts me?” He tilted his head, studying the stubborn line of your jaw. “It only makes you weaker. And I don’t keep broken things.”
“I’m not yours to keep.”
The words came out quieter than you meant, cracked from disuse and thirst. Still, they hung between you like a thrown gauntlet.
He considered them. Then, without warning, one of his lower hands lifted in a slow and deliberate motion to cup the side of your face. Not rough. Not gentle either. Just there. Warm. The calluses on his thumb rasped once against your cheekbone.
“You will eat,” he said, softer now, almost amused. “Or I will make you.”
You jerked your head away. “I said no.”
His grip tightened, just enough to still you but not enough to bruise. The other hand, the one holding the rice moved closer. He scooped a small clump with two fingers, brought it to your lips.
You clamped your mouth shut. Turned your face aside.
He waited.
The seconds stretched. Your pulse hammered in your ears. Hunger roared louder than pride.
Then slowly, so slowly you hated yourself for it. Your lips parted. Just enough.
He pushed the rice inside.
You chewed mechanically, eyes stinging, hating the way your body betrayed you by swallowing. The grains were perfectly soft, faintly sweet from whatever subtle seasoning Uraume used. You hated that too.
Sukuna watched every motion. The way your throat worked. The way a single grain clung to the corner of your mouth until his thumb brushed it away.
“Good,” he murmured.
He fed you another bite. Then another. Never rushing. Never forcing more than you could take at once. One of his free hands settled at the small of your back, not pulling you closer. Just resting there, steadying you as though you might topple sideways from the effort of hating him while your body demanded to live.
You ate half the bowl before shame choked you again. You tried to turn your head.
He didn’t let you.
The last bite he held between his fingers longer than necessary, letting you feel the heat of his skin, the faint pulse beneath it. When you finally took it, your soft lips closing around the pads of his fingers for one humiliating second and then something flickered in his eyes. Not lust, not yet. Satisfaction. The quiet pleasure of something stubborn beginning to bend.
He set the empty bowl aside. His hand lingered on your cheek a moment longer before falling away.
“You’ll eat tomorrow,” he said, rising to his full height again. “And the day after. And every day I decide you’re still useful alive.”
You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, glaring up at him through wet lashes. “I hate you.”
He gave a small and sharp smile that was entirely genuine, you feared.
“I know.”
He returned to the mat, stretched out on his side, and closed two eyes while the other two stayed fixed on you. You stayed where you were, back to the wall, knees still drawn tight, tasting rice and salt and the ghost of his fingers on your tongue.
Hunger sated. Defiance cracked, just a little.
And in the shadowed quiet of the fortress, the King of Curses watched his stolen faithful with the patience of someone who already knew how this story ended.
Days bled into one another until the rhythm of captivity began to feel less like chains and more like gravity was inescapable and constant. Wearing down edges you once thought sharp. You no longer pressed yourself to the farthest wall when he entered the chamber. You no longer flinched at every shift of his massive frame. Vigilance replaced panic; observation replaced despair.
....
You learned the fortress the way a prisoner learns the bars of a cage. The low wooden chest near the alcove held his smaller blades. A curved tanto with black-wrapped hilts, edges honed to split hairs. You watched him retrieve them once, twice, committing the latch’s soft click to memory. Uraume never lingered near it; Sukuna himself seemed to forget it existed most days, as though no one in this place would dare touch what was his.
You told yourself the knowledge was survival. You told yourself the plan forming in the quiet hours, when his breathing evened out beside you and the braziers burned low....was justice that you'd claim. The temple still haunted your dreams: splintered beams, overturned altars, the last prayer dying on your lips as he carried you away. Revenge felt righteous. Necessary.
And yet.
His body had become a fixture. Four arms that could crush stone now draped carelessly across the mat at night. One slung over your waist when he slept deepest, another curled beneath his own head, the remaining two loose at his sides. The heat of him seeped through silk and skin alike, a furnace you could no longer pretend to ignore. You hated how your muscles learned to relax against that warmth instead of locking in terror. Hated how, when he spoke in low commands, mocking observations and that your replies came edged but quieter now. Less venom. More resignation. Familiarity was its own slow poison.
He noticed.
Of course he did.
Sometimes his gaze lingered longer when you answered him. A faint curl at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile. Something pleased. Something patient.
You waited for the right night.
It came without fanfare.
The moon hung thin and pale beyond the narrow window slits. Sukuna had returned late from whatever carnage called him away, reeking faintly of smoke and copper. His outer robes discarded carelessly near the entrance. He collapsed onto the mat with a grunt, eyes sliding shut faster than usual. Exhaustion, perhaps. Or arrogance. Two eyes closed completely; the other pair fluttered half-lidded for a moment before drifting shut as well.
You lay motionless beside him until his breathing deepened slowly, even pulls that lifted the wide plane of his chest. Minutes stretched. Your heart slammed against your ribs so hard you were certain he would wake from the sound alone.
He didn’t.
You moved.
Silent as temple shadow, you slipped from beneath the thin cover. Bare feet met cold stone. You crossed to the chest on trembling legs, fingers numb as they worked the latch. The blade came free easily, it was lighter than you expected, wicked curve glinting faintly in the dying ember light. You gripped it so tightly your knuckles ached.
Adrenaline sang in your veins. Fear. Fury. Something darker.
You returned to the mat.
Sukuna laid on his back, arms splayed, tattoos stark against scarlet skin. Vulnerable in sleep the way only predators can afford to be. You swallowed once hard, then swung one leg over his waist. The yukata rode up your thighs as you settled your weight astride him, knees bracketing his hips. He was massive beneath you; your thighs strained to accommodate the breadth of him. The heat of his body immediately soaked through the thin layers separating you.
You leaned forward.
One hand braced on his chest. Feeling the steady thud of a heart too strong, too steady while the other brought the blade to his throat. The edge kissed skin just below the sharp line of his jaw. A single bead of blood welled where steel met flesh, dark and sluggish.
You pressed.
Not deep. Not yet.
Just enough to feel resistance. Enough to imagine the rest.
Your breath came in shallow pants. Tears pricked your eyes. Not from fear now, but from the sheer weight of what you were about to do. What you had to do.
He didn’t stir.
Not yet.
But beneath you, his body registered the new pressure. A subtle shift of his muscles tightening minutely under your thighs, the slow rise of his chest hitching once as though some animal instinct registered weight, warmth, threat.
His four arms remained lax.
His eyes stayed closed.
The blade trembled in your grip.
And still he slept. Deep enough that the King of Curses had not yet woken to the faithful girl straddling his waist with death at his throat.
He felt you.
Not the weight of your body first, not the press of your thighs around his hips or the tremor in your knees but the cold kiss of steel against his throat. A single drop of blood had already slid down the side of his neck, dark against scarlet skin, before instinct finally pulled him from sleep.
His eyes opened slowly.
Two at first, then the other pair followed, crimson slits widening into lazy, unhurried focus. No jolt. No surge of violence. Just that deliberate unfurling of awareness, like a beast deciding whether the thing on its back was prey or amusement.
He tilted his head just enough that the blade bit a fraction deeper, another thin line of red welling up. His gaze locked on yours.
You froze.
The hand holding the tanto stayed firm, knuckles white, but the rest of you went still as temple stone. You had never been this close. Not really. Not like this. You had seen him bare-chested after baths, yukata slipping low on his shoulders, tattoos shifting over muscle as he moved. You had felt the furnace heat of him at night when one careless arm draped across your waist. But this, straddling the King of Curses, your thighs spread wide over the hard plane of his abdomen, faces inches apart, was different. Intimate in a way that made your pulse roar in your ears. His breath ghosted warm against your lips. His eyes held yours without blinking, pupils blown wide in the low light, drinking you in.
“You’re quite brave,” he murmured, voice rough from sleep, low enough that it vibrated through your joined bodies. “Finally took your chance.”
Your mouth opened. Closed. The words came anyway, cracked and furious and trembling all at once.
“You took everything from me,” you whispered. “You’ll take from others just like you did me.”
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t deny it. One corner of his mouth curled small, almost fond.
“I will,” he said simply. No apology. No justification. Just truth laid bare between you like an offering.
Then quieter, almost gentle: “You should follow through with something if you’ve made up your mind.”
The blade trembled. Your arm ached from holding it steady. This was it. The moment you had rehearsed in the dark, the righteous stroke that would end him, end the fear, end the slow unraveling of who you used to be.
You couldn’t.
The steel stayed pressed to his throat, but your fingers wouldn’t close. Wouldn’t push. Tears burned hot at the corners of your eyes; you hated them as much as you hated him.
His lower pair of hands moved first slow, carefully. Sliding up your arms until they settled on your shoulders. The grip was firm. Not bruising. Just enough to anchor you.
He shook you once—light, almost playful.
“Do it,” he said.
You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe right.
“If I don’t kill you,” you managed at last, voice breaking, “you’ll harm more.”
Something flickered in his eyes— amusement, maybe, or recognition. Then motion.
In one fluid roll he flipped you.
The world tilted. Stone mat rushed up to meet your back. Air punched out of your lungs. He loomed above you now. He was massive and unyielding, entirely caging you beneath the breadth of his chest and the weight of four arms. One hand braced beside your head. Another pinned your waist to the mat, your trembling fingers keeping the blade trapped between your palm and his throat. The edge still kissed skin; a fresh bead of blood slid down to drip onto your collarbone, warm and slow.
He didn’t pull away.
Didn’t disarm you.
He simply looked down at you, his eyes half-lidded, mouth curved in that same unreadable almost-smile.
You stared up at him, chest heaving, the tanto still clutched in your shaking fingers, steel pressed firm to the pulse at his neck.
Neither of you moved.
The braziers crackled faintly in the silence.
Blood dripped.
And in the shadowed space between your bodies. He was close enough for you to feel every rise and fall of his breath against your skin and you both simply looked at each other, suspended on the razor’s edge of what came next.
His lower arms moved first, slowly. Wide palms broad and warm as they settled around your waist. Fingers splayed wide, thumbs brushing the dip just above your hipbones. He held you firmer then, not trapping, not bruising, just claiming the shape of you as though measuring how perfectly you fit in his grasp. The pressure was steady. Inescapable. Your yukata was already loosened from the roll, it slid higher under the coaxing slide of his hands. Silk whispered against skin until cool air kissed the bare curve of your thighs, the soft swell of your hips, the vulnerable heat between them.
You were bare underneath.
He was bare too.
The realization hit like a struck bell: the hard, thickening length of him—two cocks, heavy and hot pressed flush against the slick seam of your cunt. No fabric between you now. Just skin on skin. The blunt heads nudged against your folds with every shallow breath he took, smearing warmth, promising stretch, promising ruin. Your body clenched on nothing; a shameful pulse of wet heat answered him before your mind could catch up.
It was too much.
Too aware.
Too close.
He never looked away.
Those four crimson eyes held yours, unblinking-unhurried— watching every flicker of defeat cross your face. Your lips parted on shallow pants. Tears clung to your lashes. The tanto still trembled in your grip, edge kissing the steady throb at his throat, but the fight had bled out of your arm. You looked small beneath him. Broken open. Waiting.
He leaned forward until his mouth hovered a breath from yours.
“Stupid girl,” he murmured, voice gravel-rough and almost tender.
Then he kissed you.
Slow.
Sweetly.
His lips caught yours with a gentleness that felt obscene coming from him a soft press, slow drag. His tongue tracing the seam of your mouth until you opened for him on instinct. He sucked at your lower lip, gentle pull that drew a broken sound from your throat. One of his upper hands cradled the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, tilting you deeper into the kiss while his lower hands pushed the yukata higher still, to bare the soft plane of your stomach, the undersides of your breasts, every inch of skin he could reach.
He moaned into your mouth low and hungry, it vibrated through your chest.
The blade slipped.
Your fingers loosened. The tanto fell from your grasp, clattering sharp against the stone floor somewhere to the side. Forgotten.
Then your now empty hand rose instead, hesitant and trembling and unsure, until your fingers found the nape of his neck. Tangled in the coarse silk of his hair. Pulled.
Not away.
Closer.
You arched beneath him without meaning to, breasts brushing the hard planes of his chest, cunt sliding slick against the underside of one thick cock. The friction dragged a whimper past your lips; he swallowed it, tongue stroking deeper, tasting the salt of your tears and the faint sweetness still lingering from the rice he’d fed you nights before.
His lower hands tightened on your waist, his thumbs stroking slow circles over your hipbones. Keeping you pinned, keeping you open, keeping you his.
He broke the kiss only long enough to drag his mouth along your jaw, down the column of your throat where his lips felt your pulse flutter against it. His tongue flicked over the skin there, tasting your defiance turned to surrender.
You shuddered.
Your fingers tightened in his hair.
And beneath him, bare and trembling, you stopped pretending you wanted anything else.
His lower hands tightened on your hips, thick fingers digging into soft flesh just enough to bruise tomorrow and he rocked you forward in a slow, steady grind. Your slick cunt dragged along the thick undersides of his cocks, parting around them, coating them in the shameful evidence of your want. The friction was obscene: hot, slippery, relentless. Every slide nudged the swollen heads against your clit before gliding back, teasing without entering, promising everything and giving nothing yet.
A raw and broken moan tore from your throat in an entirely involuntary rush. You couldn’t swallow it down. Couldn’t pretend it wasn’t there.
He exhaled against your skin, a low, pleased rumble that vibrated through your ribs.
“That’s it,” he murmured, voice thick with dark satisfaction. “So wet for me, doll… so wet already.”
The words landed like a brand. You swallowed hard, throat clicking, but your arms only wound tighter around his neck, your fingers knotting in his hair, nails scraping scalp as though you needed to anchor yourself to the very thing destroying you. Your thighs trembled where they bracketed his waist; your hips jerked once on their own, chasing the pressure before shame could catch up.
He kissed down the column of your throat, slow and open-mouthed, then lower still. His mouth found the soft swell of your breasts, tongue flicking once over one peaked nipple before he closed his lips around it. Sucked. Hard. The wet pull drew a sharp gasp from you; your back arched off the mat, offering more without meaning to. He switched to the other, teeth grazing just enough to sting before soothing with slow, languid licks. Your nipples throbbed under the attention, so sensitive and aching now flushed dark from his mouth.
One of his upper hands slid down the inside of your thigh, palm rough and warm, pushing your leg wider. Then the other was spreading you open until the cool air of the chamber kissed the slick heat between your thighs. Exposed. Vulnerable. His cocks slotted perfectly now, the thick lengths gliding through your folds, the blunt heads catching on your clit with every roll of his hips. Harder. Faster. The rhythm built until wet sounds filled the quiet room: your arousal, his low groans, the slick slide of skin on skin.
A high and helpless whimper escaped your lips, lifting your hips to meet him, cunt clenching around nothing, desperate for more than friction. Tears slipped free again, sliding down your temples into your hair, but they weren’t from fear this time. Not entirely.
He lifted his head just enough to watch your face, with eyes half-lidded, mouth wet and swollen from kissing you earlier. One hand came up to thumb away a tear, almost gentle.
“Look at you,” he rasped, rocking you harder against him, letting you feel every ridged inch of him glide over your clit. “Already dripping. Already begging without saying the word.”
Your breath hitched. Your fingers dug deeper into his shoulders.
He leaned in again, his mouth brushing yours, not quite kissing, just breathing you in.
“Say it,” he murmured against your lips. “Tell me what you want, little faithful. Or I’ll keep you right here teasing your eager cunt, until you cry for it.”
Your thighs shook. Your cunt pulsed. The heat between you was unbearable now so wet, achingly unbearable.
And still he waited with slow patients, rocking you slow and filthy along the length of him. Watching every flicker of surrender cross your face.
You broke first.
The words slipped out on a trembling exhale, soft and fractured that was barely louder than a whisper. “Please…”
It wasn’t surrender spoken in anger. It was need, raw and stripped bare, voice cracking on the single syllable like glass under pressure. Your thighs shook where they cradled his hips; your fingers clenched in his hair so tight it pulled at the roots. You were shaking apart beneath him, cunt fluttering uselessly against the slow, torturous glide of his cocks along your folds, and still he waited. Watching you succumb. Drinking in the way defeat looked on your face when it finally wore your pride thin.
His mouth curved against your temple, almost gentle.
“That’s it, sweet girl,” he murmured, voice low and thick with something darker than amusement. “I’ll fill you up.”
He shifted then in a slow and purposeful motion, aligning the thicker of his two cocks with your entrance. The blunt, leaking head nudged past your folds, parting slick lips that had never known anything but empty ache. You were untouched. Virgin. He could feel it in every instinctive clench, every flutter of your inner walls trying to decide whether to push him out or pull him deeper. Your body was too eager and too overwhelmed, tight untrained muscles fluttering wildly around the intrusion before he’d even breached you properly.
He kissed you again, deeper this time. His lips pressed more firmly, tongue sliding slow and possessive against yours, swallowing the small, helpless sounds that spilled from your throat as he began to press forward.
The fat tip breached you.
Your cunt squeezed hard, reflexive and impossibly tight around the sheer size of him. A sharp, startled cry muffled against his mouth. He groaned low in his chest at the resistance, at the velvet heat clamping down like it wanted to strangle him already. Precum smeared inside you, thick and hot, easing the way just enough that he could inch forward another fraction. Your walls fluttered desperately around the fat crown trying to accommodate the sheer size of it. Failing and trying desperately again. Too much. Too full already and he’d barely started.
He held your hips steady with his lower hands, thumbs stroking soothing circles over the sensitive skin just above your mound while one upper hand cradled the back of your neck, keeping your mouth locked to his. The other braced beside your head, caging you without crushing.
“Relax,” he rasped against your lips, voice rough with restraint. “Breathe for me, doll. You’re taking it so well already.”
Another slow push.
Your back arched off the mat, a sharp gasp tearing free as another inch sank in. The stretch burned sweet, aching and so overwhelming. Your cunt spasming around him, milking the thick head like it couldn’t decide if it hated or craved the invasion. Tears slipped hot down your cheeks; he licked them away without breaking the kiss, tasting salt and surrender.
He didn’t rush.
He rocked into you with tiny, shallow thrusts working the his fat tip deeper with every careful roll of his hips, letting your body adjust inch by torturous inch. Your nails raked down his shoulders; your thighs trembled wide around him. The second cock laid against your cunt, still hard and heavy, it dragged along your clit with every motion, smearing slick, keeping the pleasure sharp and constant even as the stretch threatened to undo you.
You whimpered into his mouth a high and broken but there was neediness layered in.
He swallowed it.
Pressed deeper.
Your cunt yielded another reluctant inch for him, your walls fluttering, squeezing then fluttering again, your walls clinged to him so tightly he had to grit his teeth against the urge to slam home. Not yet. Not when you were still trembling like this, still so sweetly overwhelmed, still giving him every fractured sound and shudder.
He broke the kiss only to drag his mouth to your ear.
“Good girl,” he breathed, voice wrecked with want. “Let me in. Let me fill that tight little cunt the way it’s begging to be filled.”
Another slow, relentless push.
Your body opened a little, just barely around the thickest part of him.
And still he kept going in slow patient amd mercilessly trusts, determined to bury every inch until you were stuffed full and weeping for more.
Too big.
The thought looped through your mind like a broken sutra, too big, too big, too big as the thick head of his cock sank deeper, stretching you beyond what felt possible. Your walls fluttered wildly around him, spasming in protest and pleasure both, forced to yield inch by merciless inch. He swelled inside you, filling you up up up until every shallow breath pushed your belly taut, until you could feel the blunt pressure of him high against the deepest place inside.
Your body had no choice but to mould itself around him.
Soft inner walls reshaped themselves to the heavy ridge of his cock, clenching desperately, fluttering around him trying to push him out and pull him deeper all at once. He pushed in again slowly and relentless, and your cunt gave another reluctant inch, the stretch burning sweet and sharp until tears spilled freely down your cheeks. He was rearranging you from the inside, carving space where there had been none, claiming every fluttering inch as his.
The fat head kissed your cervix properly then, it pressed harder. You gasped, high and startled, hips jerking uselessly beneath him. He didn’t stop. Another shallow thrust and the tight ring of muscle yielded fully opening for him like it had been waiting, like your body had always known it would bend to this. He bottomed out with a low groan that vibrated through your joined bodies, cock buried to the hilt, pulsing hot against the deepest part of you.
“So tight,” he rasped against your throat, voice wrecked with restraint. “Look at you… taking it all. Opening right up for me like a good little thing.”
You whimpered softly, overwhelmed by the feeling, your nails digging crescent moons into his shoulders. Your cunt clenched hard around him, milking the thick length instinctively, every spasm dragging a rough sound from his chest. He stayed still for a long moment, letting you feel every inch, every throb, every vein. Letting your body adjust to the brutal fullness.
His second cock was still hard, still leaking as it dragged heavy along your clit with every tiny shift of his hips, smearing precum and your slick in filthy streaks. He could imagine it: both cocks splitting you open, stretching your poor cunt until it gaped around him, until you sobbed from the overstimulation alone. The thought made his hips twitch forward once sharp and involuntary, bumping your cervix again and drawing a choked cry from your lips.
But not yet.
He wasn’t going to force it. Not tonight.
He wanted to work this tight little cunt open on one first, to train it to take him properly, to crave the stretch, to weep and flutter every time he sank in deep. He rolled his hips in slow, grinding circles. Keeping himself buried to the root while the blunt head rubbed insistently against that sensitive inner spot. Your thighs shook around his waist; your breath came in ragged little pants.
He kissed you again messy, open-mouthed. Swallowing every broken sound from your quivering lips as he began to move.
Shallow thrusts at first, barely pulling out before sliding back in, letting your walls cling desperately to every retreating inch. Then deeper. Harder. Each stroke dragged along your fluttering walls, bumping your cervix, forcing it to soften further under the relentless pressure until it kissed the tip of him like a welcome.
Your body trembled beneath him, you were sweat-slick, overstimulated and utterly full. Your cunt squeezed him like a vice wet and hot around him but greedy now, coating him in slick that dripped down to soak the mat beneath you.
He groaned low into your mouth.
“That’s it,” he murmured, hips snapping onc deeper, it felt punishing, made your back arch and your toes curl. “Let it open for me, doll. Let me ruin this pretty cunt until it only knows my shape.”
Another thrust, harder still. Your cervix yielding completely now, letting him grind against the deepest place inside you.
You sobbed against his lips, the pleasure and pain blurring into something white-hot and overwhelming.
And yet still he moved slow when you needed slow, hard when your body begged for it. Working you open, reshaping you, claiming you until there was nothing left but the slick slide of him inside you and the broken, needy sounds spilling from your throat.
Fuck, it was so sloppy.
The way your cunt finally gave in and opened wide and wet and greedy around the thick length of him, cunt making obscene, slick sounds with every slow withdrawal and deeper plunge. Your walls clung desperately, fluttering and spasming, coated in a thick sheen of your own arousal that dripped down his shaft, down your thighs, soaking the mat beneath you in dark, glistening patches. No resistance left. Just raw, yielding heat that swallowed him whole every time he sank back in.
He watched it happen.
Watched the way your soft belly began to bulge properly now, unmistakably every time he bottomed out. The fat head of his cock pressed high against your cervix, then higher still, stretching your insides until the outline of him showed beneath your skin. A slow, obscene swell that rose just below your navel, then receded slightly when he pulled back, only to bloom again with the next deep thrust. He could see it. Feel it. The way your body reshaped itself around him, forced to accommodate every ridged inch until the shape of his cock was etched into your flesh.
He was mesmerised.
One of his upper hands left the mat and slid down, his palm broad and warm. His hand settled right over that curious swell. Fingers splayed wide, pressing gently at first, then firmer, feeling the hard length of himself moving beneath the soft layer of your stomach. He groaned low in his throat with rough, reverence. Hips stuttering once at the sensation.
“Look at that,” he rasped, voice thick with dark wonder. “Look how full you are, doll. Look how your little cunt bulges for me.”
You whimpered high and helpless, your head tipping back against the mat, tears slipping sideways into your hair. The pressure of his hand only made it worse, made you feel every inch more vividly, every throb, every slow grind against that deep, sensitive place inside. Your walls clenched hard around him in response; slick gushed anew, coating him, easing the next brutal slide home.
He rocked deeper but deliberately now. Watching the swell rise and fall beneath his palm like he was mapping new territory. His thumb traced the outline once slow, it felt possessive, larger fingers following the exact ridge of his cock as it pressed outward. Another groan tore from him, low and wrecked.
“Fuck,” he breathed, almost to himself. “I could watch this forever. Watch you take me… watch this pretty belly swell every time I fill you up.”
He leaned down, his mouth finding yours again, messy and hungry, kissing you through the next deep thrust that made the bulge bloom higher. His lower hands gripped your hips tighter, angling you just right so every stroke dragged along that spot that made your thighs shake and your cunt flutter wildly.
You sobbed into his mouth overwhelmed and overstuffed on his cock, ruined in the sweetest way, your nails still raking down his back as your body surrendered completely.
He didn’t speed up.
He kept it slow, torturously slow. Savoring every sloppy, wet slide, every visible proof of how thoroughly he was claiming you. Hand still pressed to your belly. Eyes fixed on the swell. Mesmerised by the sight of his own cock reshaping you from the inside out.
And still he moved against you deeper. Watching and feeling you. Owning every trembling inch of the faithful girl who had once held a blade to his throat.
Now you only held him. Deep you felt him, tummy bulging with how big he is, you felt full. Claimed and utterly his in this moment.
The wet noises filled the chamber were filthy and unmistakable. Every deep plunge of his cock dragged slick sounds from your stretched cunt: the lewd squelch of your walls clinging desperately to him, the wet slap of skin meeting skin, the obscene drip of your arousal coating his shaft and pooling beneath you. No hiding it. No pretending this wasn’t happening. Your body sang for him in every sloppy, soaked rhythm.
He fucked deeper into you now, faster. His lower hands locked around your waist like iron bands, holding you steady while he pulled you down hard onto every thick inch. The force of it jolted through you: cervix kissed roughly with each snap of his hips, the bulge in your belly rising sharp and obscene every time he bottomed out. Your thighs trembled uselessly around him; your nails raked red lines down his back. You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe right. Only felt full, stretched and utterly claimed.
His second cock, still untouched against you dragged heavy and hot along your clit with every brutal thrust. The fat, leaking tip slid over the swollen bud in perfect, relentless friction: up when he pulled back, down when he slammed home. Edging you mercilessly. Building the pressure until your whole body wound tight, thighs shaking, cunt fluttering wildly around the cock already buried to the hilt.
“Fuuuck, look at you,” he growled against your throat, voice wrecked and reverent. “Taking it so deep… dripping everywhere… gonna cum for me, aren’t you, doll?”
You couldn’t answer. Only whimpered high, broken and needy, as the dual assault pushed you higher. The thick length inside you grinding against every sensitive spot; the second cock rubbing filthy circles over your clit until sparks burst behind your eyes.
Then it hit.
Hard.
Your cunt clamped down like a vice. Cunt spasming wildly and milking him in violent waves as you came undone around the fat cock splitting you open. A sob tore from your throat; your back arched off the mat, hips jerking uncontrollably as pleasure ripped through you in white-hot pulses. Slick gushed around him hot and messily coated his shaft, dripping down to slick the second cock still teasing your oversensitive clit. Your walls fluttered and squeezed, greedy and relentless, trying to pull him deeper even as your body shook apart.
He groaned low, almost sounding pained. His hips stuttering once at the sudden, brutal grip of your orgasm. His fingers dug harder into your waist, holding you pinned as he fucked you through it: short, punishing thrusts that dragged every last tremor from your cunt, making the bulge in your belly pulse with every slam.
“That’s it,” he rasped, mouth brushing your ear, voice thick with dark satisfaction. “Cum all over my cock… make it sloppy… make it yours.”
You shuddered, the aftershocks rolling through you. Hot tears now slipping down your cheeks as your cunt kept fluttering around him, still so full, still so stretched, still weeping slick with every slow grind he gave you now.
He didn’t stop moving.
Didn’t pull out.
Just kept you impaled deep on him, steadily watching your face with half-lidded eyes as your body trembled in the aftermath, the second cock still dragging lazy, teasing strokes over your throbbing clit.
Ready.
Patient.
Waiting to see how much more his sweet, ruined faithful could take.
He fucked into your creaming cunt with purpose now, his deep, punishing strokes that slapped wet and filthy against your thighs every time he bottomed out. Your slick had turned thick and white around his shaft, frothing at the base with every brutal plunge, coating him in creamy evidence of how thoroughly your body had surrendered. The bulge in your belly pulsed visibly with each thrust, rising sharp when he buried himself to the hilt, receding only to bloom again as he dragged back and slammed forward. Your walls fluttered helplessly around him, milking greedily, still spasming from the orgasm that had ripped through you moments before.
He groaned low, his voice was wrecked and ragged, his hips now snapping harder with speed. Chasing the tight, wet heat that gripped him like it never wanted to let go.
“Fuuuck look at this messy little pussy,” he rasped, one hand still pressed to the swell of your stomach, feeling himself move beneath your skin. “Creaming all over my cock… taking it so deep… gonna fill you up, doll. Gonna stuff this cunt so full you’ll feel me for days.”
Your head thrashed against the mat, fat tears streaming down, your mouth opened on broken moans you couldn’t swallow down. Your nails dug into his shoulders; your thighs trembled wide and useless around his waist. Every thrust knocked the air from your lungs, bumped your cervix, ground the fat head against that spot inside until stars burst behind your eyes again.
He was close.
You could feel it, the way his cocks throbbed heavier inside and against you, the way his rhythm stuttered, the low growl building in his chest. His lower hands clamped down on your hips, bruising and possessive. Sukuna yanked you down hard onto every upward snap as he fucked his way toward release.
Then it hit him.
A rough, guttural sound tore from his throat. Half growl, half moan as he slammed in one final time, burying himself to the root. His cock pulsed violently inside you, swelling thicker still, and then he came..hot and it felt endless inside of you.
Rope after thick rope flooded your fluttering pussy, his hot cum spurting deep against your cervix, filling you so fast, so much, that your walls couldn’t contain it all. Your cunt clenched reflexively around the invasion, milking him greedily, but there was too much. It leaked out around his shaft in creamy white streaks, dripping down to soak the mat, yet still he kept pumping his cum deeper. His hips grinding in slow, deep circles now, forcing every last drop higher inside you.
Your belly swelled visibly, bloating with the sheer volume of his release. The bulge that had once only shown his cock now rounded softer, fuller, stretching your skin taut as cum packed your womb and pussy full. You whimpered overstimulated, overwhelmed. Feeling the obscene pressure build inside, the heavy slosh of it every time he shifted even slightly.
He stayed buried deep, his cock still twitching, still leaking the last weak spurts inside you, while one hand slid up to cup the new, soft swell of your lower belly. Fingers splayed wide, pressing gently, feeling the warmth and fullness he’d forced into you.
“Fuck,” he breathed, voice low and reverent, eyes fixed on the way your cunt bulged around him, lips stretched tight, creamy cum seeping out in slow, thick rivulets. “Look at you… stuffed so full… bloating with my cum like a perfect little vessel.”
You shuddered beneath him, body trembling, your cunt still fluttering weakly around the thick length keeping you plugged with his cum. Tears slipped hot down your cheeks; your breath came in shallow, hiccuping pants.
He leaned down, mouth brushing your ear, voice dark and satisfied.
“You’re mine now,” he murmured, hips giving one last lazy roll that made more cum leak out around him. “Every inch… every drop… every swell. All mine.”
And still he didn’t pull out.
Just stayed seated deep letting you feel the heavy, warm weight of him inside, the obscene bloat of your belly, the slow drip of his seed claiming you from the inside out while the braziers flickered low and the fortress held its breath around the ruined faithful girl who had finally, completely, fallen.
The chamber settled into a heavy, humid quiet.
Only the low crackle of dying braziers and the uneven rhythm of your shared breathing remained. Your body felt foreign. Softened, swollen, reshaped from the inside out. His cock still rested deep inside you, softening slowly but not withdrawing, keeping every thick drop of his release plugged tight where it belonged. The obscene bloat in your lower belly had settled into a warm, heavy fullness that shifted with every shallow inhale. When you moved even slightly, you could feel the slow, lazy slosh of cum deep within you. It was thick, warm and still too much to be contained.
A faint trickle escaped anyway, creamy white slipping from where your stretched lips clung to the base of his shaft, sliding down the cleft of your ass to pool beneath you on the already ruined mat. The scent of it filled the air: musky, salty, unmistakably him. Mixed with the sharp tang of your own release. It clung to your thighs, your skin, your hair. There was no escaping it.
You lay limp beneath him, your limbs heavy and trembling faintly in aftershocks. Your cunt throbbed around the softening length still buried inside, fluttering weakly every few heartbeats like it couldn’t decide whether to mourn the stretch or beg for more. Tears had dried on your cheeks, leaving salty tracks; your lips felt swollen from his kisses, bruised and tingling.
He hadn’t moved much.
One lower hand stayed splayed over the soft swell of your abdomen, his palm warm. One thick thumb tracing idle, slow circles over the place where his cum had bloated you full. The other lower hand rested at the small of your back, holding you arched just enough to keep him seated deep. His upper arms braced on either side of your head, caging without crushing, while his face hovered close, his breath warm against your temple.
He watched you.
Not with hunger now. Not with that predatory gleam. Something quieter. Almost contemplative.
His thumb pressed once, gently against the rounded curve of your belly. You whimpered at the pressure; more cum leaked out in a slow, warm trickle. He exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh.
“Still leaking,” he murmured, voice low and rough from exertion. “Even plugged like this… your greedy little cunt can’t hold it all.”
You swallowed. Throat raw. No words came.
He shifted up slow, pulling back just enough that the fat head dragged along your oversensitive walls. You gasped sharp, startled as another thick gush of cum followed the motion, spilling free in a messy rush. Your thighs trembled; your hips jerked involuntarily.
He stilled again. Didn’t pull out completely.
Just watched the way your body reacted, how your cunt clenched around nothing now that he’d eased back an inch, how more of his seed dripped out in slow, obscene rivulets.
One hand slid up and cupped your cheek. Thumb brushing away the last damp track of tears.
“You took it well,” he said. Simple. Almost soft. “Took every drop. Look at you… all swollen and full. Marked inside and out.”
Your breath hitched.
He leaned down and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth. Not demanding. Not claiming. Just there.
Then he finally began to ease out.
Inch by torturous inch.
Your walls fluttered desperately around the retreating length clinging and fluttering, trying to keep him inside even now. When the head finally slipped free with a wet pop, a fresh flood followed thick and hot, pouring from your gaping cunt in a slow, creamy cascade. It soaked your thighs, the mat, everything beneath you. Your belly deflated slightly as the pressure eased, but the fullness lingered: a deep, aching warmth that pulsed with every heartbeat.
You whimpered again, the sound even more small and broken, legs falling open wider on instinct as your body tried to adjust to the sudden emptiness.
He stayed above you, watching silently.
One hand dipped between your thighs, then two thick fingers sliding easily through the mess, gathering the slick mix of cum and your release before pushing back inside. Slow. Deep. Plugging you again with just his fingers while the rest continued to leak around them.
“Shh,” he murmured when you shuddered. “Keep it in. Let it settle.”
His fingers curled once to press against that spot inside that made your hips twitch again, then they stilled.
He withdrew them slowly. Brought them to his mouth. Licked them clean with deliberate swipes of his tongue, his eyes never leaving yours.
Then he gathered you.
Four arms moved at once, lifting you effortlessly, cradling you against his chest as though you weighed nothing. Your head lolled against his shoulder; your legs draped limp over one arm. Cum still dripped from between your thighs, warm trails sliding down his skin now too.
He carried you to the alcove where the wooden tub still waited, water long cooled but clean. Uraume had prepared it earlier, before everything unraveled.
He lowered you into it carefully.
The water stung at first, cool against fever-hot skin, then it soothed. He knelt at the edge, one hand supporting your neck so your head rested against the rim, the other dipping beneath the surface to cup water and rinse the mess from your thighs, your folds, your belly.
Gentle.
Methodical.
He washed you like something precious. Something his.
When the water turned cloudy with the evidence of what he’d done, he lifted you out again and wrapped you in a thick, dry cloth, carried you back to the mat (a fresh one already laid out; Uraume was nothing if not efficient).
He laid you down. Pulled the thin cover over your trembling body.
Then he stretched out beside you. Close always close, with one arm draped over your waist, palm settling once more over the soft, lingering swell of your lower belly.
“Sleep,” he said against your hair. Voice low. Quiet. “You’ll need it.”
Your eyes fluttered shut, exhaustion crashing over you like a wave.
The last thing you felt was the steady rise and fall of his chest at your back, the warmth of his hand cradling the place he had filled, claimed, ruined, and somehow kept.
The flood had passed.
But the aftermath lingered, with you. You'd never been this close to being worshiped, oh how the roles were reversed and he would always keep you tethering between God and him.
Waking up felt entirely new after being so thoroughly claimed.
Your body no longer belonged only to you. Every slow breath reminded you of the night before in vivid, aching detail. Between your thighs your pussy throbbed with a deep, sweet pain that radiated outward from the very center of your cunt all the way into your womb.
The soft folds were swollen and tender, still slick with the remnants of everything he had pumped into you. Your inner walls felt stretched and sensitive, fluttering around nothing yet remembering exactly how it had felt to be split open and filled beyond capacity.
Your stomach carried a lingering heaviness, a warm fullness that made your lower belly feel softly rounded and claimed, as if his cum still sat heavy inside you even after the slow leak that had happened during the night.
You awoke first.
The chamber was dim, lit only by the faint glow of embers that had burned low through the hours. Cool morning air drifted in through the narrow slits high in the stone walls. Ryomen Sukuna lay asleep beside you, his massive frame taking up most of the wide mat.
One of his lower arms was still draped heavily across your waist, palm resting possessively over the gentle swell of your abdomen where he had pressed so many times the night before. His breathing was deep and even, chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm that you could feel against your back. Two of his eyes were closed in true sleep while the other pair remained half lidded in that strange way of his, as though even unconscious he refused to be entirely vulnerable.
You could not sleep any longer.
The intensity of every sensation kept your mind spinning. You wanted to push him off, to scramble away from the heat of his body and the weight of his claim, to reclaim some small piece of the girl who had once knelt quietly in a temple.
Your hands twitched with the urge. Yet when you shifted slightly, the solid warmth of him pressed closer instead of repelling you. His arm felt strangely comforting in the quiet dawn, heavy and steady like an anchor keeping you from drifting into panic. The scent of him clung to your skin, musk and smoke and something darker that made your pulse flutter even as shame burned in your cheeks.
Instead of shoving his hand away you reached down slowly and wrapped your fingers around his much larger one. You lifted it carefully and pressed his palm flat against your chest, right over the frantic racing of your heart. The contact was warm, rough, grounding.
Your heart hammered harder beneath his touch, wild and unsteady, begging for something you could not name. You wanted it to stop, wanted the frantic beat to quiet so you could think clearly again, so you could remember how to hate him properly.
He stirred.
Not fully awake yet, but aware enough. His fingers flexed once against your skin, then pressed harder, spreading wide so the heel of his palm rested firmly over your racing heart while his fingertips brushed the upper swell of your breast. The increased pressure stole your breath. A soft gasp slipped from your lips as the weight of his hand grounded the frantic flutter inside your chest.
He opened his eyes the rest of the way, crimson gaze settling on your face in the dim light. His voice came low and rough with sleep, rumbling through the quiet space between you.
“Does that feel better?”
You could only nod, small and shaky, unable to form words. Fresh tears slipped free from the corners of your eyes, sliding silently down your temples and into your hair. They were not from pain or fear this time, but from the overwhelming tangle of sensations and emotions you could no longer separate. The sweet ache between your thighs, the heavy fullness low in your belly, the comforting press of his hand over your heart, the way his body still curved protectively around yours even in half sleep. Everything felt too much and somehow not enough all at once.
He didn't pull away.
Instead he kept his palm exactly where you had placed it, pressing with steady, reassuring strength while his thumb brushed once, almost tenderly, along the curve of your collarbone. His other arms remained relaxed around you, one still cradling your waist, the rest loose but close.
You lay there in the quiet morning light, heart still racing beneath his touch, tears slipping free, pussy throbbing with the intimate memory of how deeply he had claimed you, stomach full and warm with the evidence of his release. And for the first time since he had carried you from the burning temple you did not try to run from the monster who held you.
You simply held his hand tighter to your chest and let the tears fall.
As the tears continued to fall your breathing slowly evened out once more. Exhaustion pulled you under again, your body surrendering to sleep despite the lingering ache and the storm of feelings swirling inside your chest. Your lashes fluttered once then stilled, cheeks still damp, lips slightly parted on a soft exhale.
The morning light filtering through the narrow slits in the stone walls painted gentle shadows across your face, highlighting the faint redness around your eyes and the way your brows had relaxed in unconscious rest.
Sukuna remained awake, propped on one elbow, four eyes fixed on you with an unusual stillness. He never wondered how he made anyone feel. Pain was something he understood perfectly well, something he could cause with casual ease and never lose sleep over. He had spilled rivers of blood without a second thought, had watched villages burn and priests scream and never once asked himself if his victims hated him in their final moments. Their pain simply existed because he decided it should.
Yet now he found himself watching the slow rise and fall of your chest and wondering.
Were you in pain because of him?
Not the sweet ache between your thighs or the heavy fullness still settled low in your belly, those he expected and even took quiet pride in. But something deeper. Did you hate him now, truly hate him, after he had taken you so completely? After he had spread you open beneath the monster who had ripped you from everything you once held sacred? After he had flooded your untouched cunt until your stomach swelled with his cum and your voice broke on moans you could not hold back?
His fingers moved without conscious thought, the rough pad of one thumb tracing the glistening path of a tear that had slipped down your temple. The skin there was soft, still warm from sleep and emotion. You looked tired in a way that went beyond the night’s exertions. A little more delicate, perhaps, the faithful servant girl who had once knelt in prayer now lying claimed and tear-streaked in the bed of the King of Curses.
And yet.
He remembered how you had pulled him closer.
When the blade had clattered to the floor your hand had risen not to push him away but to tangle in his hair and tug him down into the kiss. You had arched beneath him, thighs spreading wider, cunt clenching greedily around the thick cock that split you open. Even at the height of your surrender you had chosen to draw him in rather than shove him out.
That had to mean something.
If you had truly wanted him gone you would have pushed when the knife dropped. You would have fought when he rolled you beneath him. Instead you had whimpered into his mouth, nails raking down his back, hips lifting to meet every deep thrust until you came hard around him and then again when he flooded you full.
His thumb brushed another tear away, slower this time, almost careful.
He studied the relaxed lines of your face, the way your lashes cast faint shadows on your cheeks, the subtle parting of your lips. The hand you had pressed to your own chest still rested beneath his palm, your heartbeat steadier now in sleep but still quick enough that he could feel it. He did not move his hand. The weight seemed to comfort you even unconscious, and for reasons he did not bother examining he found he liked keeping it there.
Sukuna shifted slightly closer, careful not to wake you, letting the heat of his body wrap around yours once more. One of his lower arms remained draped across your waist, palm resting lightly over the soft swell of your belly where his claim still lingered warm and heavy inside you.
He watched you sleep for a long time, tracing idle patterns along your tear-damp cheek with the gentlest touch he had ever allowed himself. The questions lingered in the back of his mind, unfamiliar and strangely persistent.
Pain?
Hate?
Or something else entirely that had made a temple girl pull a monster closer instead of driving him away?
For the first time in his long, bloody existence Ryomen Sukuna did not have an immediate answer.
And so he simply lay there, holding you, watching the slow rhythm of your breathing, wondering quietly what it meant that you had chosen to keep his hand against your racing heart instead of pushing it away.
Daylight brought no mercy.
When you woke the second time the chamber was brighter, pale morning light spilling through the high slits and painting long stripes across the stone floor. Your body ached in ways you had never imagined possible. Every small movement sent fresh waves of soreness through your core. Sitting up hurt. The simple act of shifting your weight made the tender muscles between your thighs protest sharply, a deep, dull throb that radiated outward from your swollen pussy all the way into your womb. Your lower belly still carried that heavy, warm fullness, a constant reminder of how thoroughly he had flooded you. Even the soft silk of the yukata brushing against your skin felt too much against the sensitive folds that had been stretched and used so relentlessly the night before.
You moved slowly, carefully, wincing as you rose from the mat. Standing hurt. Walking hurt. The ache pulsed with every step, a sweet, shameful reminder that your body had been claimed and reshaped by the King of Curses. Shame burned hot in your cheeks. You felt weak for the way your cunt still fluttered faintly at the memory, for the way a fresh trickle of his dried cum clung to your inner thighs when you moved. You told yourself it was only pain. Only the aftermath of violence. Yet your mind kept drifting back to the heat of his hands, the low rumble of his voice, the way he had held you afterward.
Sukuna did not crowd you.
He sat across the chamber on the wide ledge by the window, one knee drawn up, four arms resting loosely. He watched you but did not rise. Did not approach. Did not speak. There was deliberate space between you now, an invisible line he refused to cross. He wanted you to come to him if you needed anything. He wanted you to choose, even in this small thing. After taking everything else he could at least grant you the right to decide when you sought his presence. He would not rob you of that last fragile scrap of agency.
You felt the absence of him immediately.
At first you told yourself it was relief. You busied your hands folding the thin cover on the mat, smoothing wrinkles that did not exist, avoiding his gaze. But the longer the silence stretched the more your body betrayed you. A quiet longing bloomed beneath the shame and the pain. You missed the solid heat of his frame behind you. Missed the weight of his arm across your waist. Missed the strange comfort of his palm pressed over your racing heart. The realization made fresh shame flood your chest. How could you want the monster who had burned your temple and stolen you away? How could you crave the very hands that had spread you open and filled you until you bulged with his release?
You felt too weak for wanting him.
When it came time to dress you turned your back to him completely. Your fingers trembled as you slipped out of the night yukata and into a fresh one, trying to hide the marks he had left on your skin, the faint bruises on your hips where his fingers had gripped, the soft swell of your belly that had not yet returned to its usual flatness. You kept your shoulders hunched, arms crossed over your chest, shrinking into yourself as though you could disappear from his sight if you made yourself small enough.
He saw every motion.
He saw the way you hid yourself from his gaze, the deliberate angle of your body, the nervous hunch of your shoulders. Something tight and unpleasant twisted in his chest at the sight. He did not like it. Not one bit. The faithful girl who had once met his eyes with trembling defiance now curled away from him like a wounded animal. But he made no comment. He did not rise. He did not reach for you. He simply watched in silence, jaw tight, four eyes narrowed with an emotion he refused to name.
The distance stretched between you, heavy and unspoken.
You finished tying the sash with shaking hands and stood there, back still turned, heart hammering against your ribs. Pain pulsed between your thighs with every heartbeat. Shame burned in your veins. And beneath it all, quiet and insistent, the growing need to cross the chamber and seek the very monster who had caused it all.
Sukuna waited.
Patient.
Silent.
Wondering how long it would take before the girl who had pulled him closer in the dark would choose to come to him again in the daylight.
The days that followed carried the same heavy ache between your thighs, a constant, throbbing reminder that refused to fade.
When you bathed alone in the wooden tub, the warm water only made everything more obvious. Your pussy had become a terrible, swollen mess. The outer lips were puffy and sensitive, the inner folds still slick with an unusual, persistent wetness that had nothing to do with the bath. Your fingers slipped between your thighs almost without permission, parting the tender flesh to inspect the damage. Heat bloomed instantly at the lightest touch. Thick, creamy remnants of his cum still clung inside you, mixing with your own fresh slick until everything felt glossy and overheated. Every gentle press made your cunt flutter and leak a little more, the slickness coating your fingertips in a shameful sheen.
You hated how aware your body had become.
Your eyes kept drifting to him whenever he was near. You told yourself you were only looking, only noticing. But the stares lingered. Over the sharp lines of his face, the powerful set of his four arms, the broad expanse of his tattooed chest, the hard ridges of his abdomen. Then lower. Always lower. The heavy, intimidating weight between his thighs that you now knew so intimately. Your imagination supplied every detail without mercy: the thick veins, the way both cocks had throbbed against you, the brutal stretch, the endless flood that had left you bloated and dripping.
Your cunt clenched hard at the memory, another rush of slick slipping free to trail down your inner thigh. Shame burned so fiercely you had to turn away and press your forehead to the cool stone wall until the feeling passed. Your body knew exactly what it wanted now. Your pussy knew what it craved. The knowledge made you feel impossibly dirty, impossibly weak. You pushed the thoughts aside with gritted teeth and forced yourself to finish bathing.
Eventually the longing for the outside world grew stronger than the shame.
One quiet afternoon you finally gathered the courage to approach him. He was lounging on the wide ledge again, watching the horizon through the window slit. You kept your gaze lowered, voice small and hesitant.
“May I… go outside? Just for a little while. I miss the feel of grass beneath my feet. Sunlight on my skin. Fresh air.”
He studied you for a long moment, crimson eyes unreadable. Then he gave a single nod.
“I will take you.”
He did not make you walk far. He carried you most of the way, one set of arms cradling you against his chest while the others remained free. The journey ended at a secluded lakeside not far from the fortress cliffs. Tall reeds swayed gently at the water’s edge. Smooth rocks lined the shore, warmed by the sun. The air smelled of pine and clear water. Sunlight glittered across the lake’s surface like scattered jewels.
You had not asked for the lake specifically, but Sukuna had chosen it anyway, thinking the open view and soft grass might please you. He set you down on a broad, flat rock near the water and stepped back, giving you space once more.
At first it was perfect.
You closed your eyes, tilted your face toward the sun, and let the warmth sink into your skin. Bare feet pressed into cool grass. Fresh air filled your lungs. For a few blissful moments the constant ache between your thighs faded into the background.
Then you sat.
The moment your weight settled on the rock the soreness flared again. Your swollen pussy lips spread slightly against the smooth stone through the thin layers of your yukata. The unusual slickness that had been building all morning could no longer be contained. A warm trickle escaped, then another. You felt the wet heat seep out of you in slow, shameful pulses. Your cunt clenched uselessly around nothing, leaking more with every flutter. Within moments a small, glistening puddle had formed beneath you on the dark rock, catching the sunlight in a blatant, shiny evidence of your body’s betrayal.
You froze.
Heat flooded your face. You pressed your thighs together tightly, but the damage was already done. The puddle shimmered between your legs, unmistakable.
Sukuna noticed immediately.
He had been standing a few paces away, arms crossed, scanning the treeline out of habit. His gaze dropped to the rock beneath you. Four eyes narrowed, then darkened with recognition. The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile but something far more dangerous. He took one slow step closer, then another, until he loomed over you.
His voice came low, rough, and far too knowing.
“Look at that.”
He crouched, bringing himself eye level with the evidence. One large hand reached out, fingers hovering just above the glistening puddle without touching it.
“Still leaking for me, even out here in the sunlight. Your greedy little cunt doesn’t care where we are, does it?”
You couldn’t speak. Could only sit there burning with shame, the warm slick still slowly dripping from your swollen folds onto the rock while he watched every shameful drop with open, hungry fascination.
The lake sparkled innocently behind you.
The sun continued to shine.
But the ache between your thighs had just become impossible to ignore.
You stuttered the moment his words landed, voice cracking like thin ice.
“It is not… I did not mean…”
The denial died on your tongue. Heat crawled up your neck until your entire face burned. You swallowed once, twice, then forced the truth out in a trembling whisper.
“I have been… wetter there. Since that night. It will not stop.”
Sukuna’s smile widened, slow and wicked, four eyes gleaming with dark delight. He stayed crouched in front of you, one hand still hovering near the glistening puddle on the rock.
“Yes,” he drawled, voice low and teasing. “Why did you not tell me about that specifically earlier? I could have helped.”
You stared at him as though he had begun speaking in some ancient, forgotten tongue. Your mind refused to process the casual way he offered to fix the mess he had made between your thighs. The sheer audacity of it stole every thought from your head.
Tell him.
Tell the King of Curses that your pussy was a leaking, swollen, dripping mess because of him.
The words would not come. Humiliation crashed over you so violently that you twisted away, turning your back to him completely. Your shoulders hunched, arms wrapping tight around your middle as if you could hide the evidence of your body’s betrayal. Fresh tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. Your face felt scalding hot.
Behind you, Sukuna let out a soft, amused huff.
A big hand settled on your shoulder, warm and surprisingly gentle. The weight steadied you even as your heart hammered wildly. His fingers brushed upward, threading carefully through your hair, stroking slow and soothing from crown to nape.
“You have nothing to be ashamed of,” he murmured, voice quieter now, almost tender. “Do not cry.”
You were mortified anyway. Tears slipped free despite his words, sliding down your flushed cheeks. Your swollen cunt continued to leak in slow, warm pulses, the slickness soaking through the thin fabric of your yukata and making the rock beneath you even wetter. Every tiny shift reminded you of the mess, of how your body refused to forget the way he had stretched and filled you.
Sukuna’s hand slid from your hair to cup your jaw, turning your face back toward him with careful insistence. His thumb brushed a tear away.
“Come on,” he said, the words rough but coaxing. “I can make it all better.”
He glanced around once, scanning the quiet lakeside until his gaze settled on a nice, soft patch of grass beneath a large pear tree. The branches hung heavy with white blossoms and early green fruit, casting dappled shade over the thick carpet of clover and soft earth. Sunlight filtered through the leaves in gentle golden patches. It looked peaceful. Private.
Without waiting for permission he scooped you up, four arms cradling you against his chest as though you weighed nothing. You gasped at the sudden movement, the ache between your thighs flaring sharply, another rush of slick escaping to smear warm and wet against his skin.
“Sukuna, what are you doing?” Your voice came out high and shaky. “Put me down!”
You had no idea what crazy idea had taken root in his head. Your heart hammered wildly as he carried you the short distance toward the pear tree. One of his upper hands came up to cup the back of your head, thumb stroking slow and soothing along your scalp.
“Do not make a fuss,” he said, low and calm, the words rumbling through his chest into yours.
Then you saw the tree.
He carried you beneath its wide, blossoming branches and lowered you carefully onto the soft grass. The ground was cool and yielding beneath your back, blades tickling your bare calves where the yukata had ridden up. Sukuna settled himself on the grass beside you, massive frame casting you in cool shadow. His big fingers brushed along your thigh, gentle but possessive, tracing the sensitive skin just below the hem of your robe.
You squirmed under his gaze, heat flooding every inch of you. He looked at you for a long moment, eyes dark and intent.
“You do trust me, right?”
The question caught you off guard. You nodded shyly, barely able to meet his eyes. The heat was unbearable now. Being held so close in his arms had stirred something deep and needy inside you. Whatever he was about to offer, your body already wanted it.
Sukuna knelt between your parted knees, his massive frame blocking out the sky. One of his lower hands rested on your thigh, thumb stroking slow, lazy circles over the tender flesh. His eyes never left your face.
“Lie back,” he told you, voice dropping into that low, commanding timbre that made your stomach flutter and your cunt clench. “Let me see how much of a leaking mess this pretty cunt has become for me.”
Your breath caught hard in your throat. Shame and desperate want twisted together so tightly you could barely breathe. But the gentle pressure of his hand, the patient way he waited, and the memory of how good his touch had felt even through the pain chipped away at your resistance until nothing remained.
Slowly, trembling all over, you leaned back onto the soft grass beneath the pear tree. Your cheeks still burned crimson. Tears still clung to your lashes.
Sukuna’s smile returned, darker this time, full of wicked promise.
“Good girl,” he murmured. “Now open your legs for me. Let me take care of what belongs to me.”
You obeyed.
Your thighs parted wider on the grass, yukata pooling around your hips. The moment the cool air touched your exposed pussy a fresh gush of slick slipped free. Your cunt was soaked, puffy and glistening, inner lips swollen and shiny with the constant leak that had tormented you for days. Creamy strands of his earlier release mixed with your own arousal, making everything look obscenely wet and needy.
Sukuna’s eyes darkened further at the sight. He leaned in slowly, lowering his head between your spread thighs. His breath ghosted hot over your dripping folds.
“So needy,” he growled softly. “This cunt is dripping and aching so much. All this slick just for me.”
He spread you open with two thick fingers, parting your swollen lips so he could see every glistening inch. Then he gave you the first slow, broad lick from the bottom of your slit all the way up to your clit.
The moan that tore from your throat was loud and broken. His tongue was hot and rough, dragging through your creamy mess with deliberate hunger. He licked again, slower, savoring the taste of you mixed with the remnants of his own cum. A low, appreciative groan vibrated against your pussy.
“Relax,” he murmured against your folds, the word warm and wet. “All this mess… you should have told me sooner.”
He licked deeper, tongue pushing inside your fluttering entrance to scoop out more of the creamy slick. Your hips jerked involuntarily. Another moan spilled from you, high and helpless.
“How could you keep this from me?” he continued, voice rough with something close to anger, though his tongue never stopped its slow, thorough exploration. “I would have licked this pretty cunt the moment I knew it was leaking for me. Would have buried my face between your thighs and cleaned every drop until you stopped aching.”
He sucked gently on your swollen clit, then licked back down to push his tongue inside you again, fucking you with slow, wet strokes. Your hands flew to his hair, fingers tangling tight as pleasure crashed through the soreness. Your cunt fluttered and leaked even more onto his tongue, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet shade of the pear tree.
Sukuna growled against your pussy, clearly enjoying the taste, the mess, the way you trembled and moaned beneath his mouth.
“Never hide this from me again,” he ordered between long, hungry licks. “This cunt is mine. If it aches, if it leaks, if it needs to be eaten until you cry… you tell me.”
He sealed his mouth over you once more, sucking and licking with renewed intensity, determined to devour every drop of the slick, creamy mess he had created.
And beneath the pear tree, in the warm daylight, Sukuna feasted on your dripping cunt like a starving man who had finally been given exactly what he craved.
He was greedy for it.
Ryomen Sukuna lapped at your cunt with shameless hunger, broad tongue dragging slow and heavy through your soaked folds again and again. He could still taste himself from that night, the thick, musky flavor of his cum mixed with the sweet, slippery heat of your arousal. The combination made him groan low against your pussy, the sound vibrating straight through your swollen clit and deep into your core.
His large tongue tunneled inside you without mercy, thick and hot, working your tight walls open with every wet push. Your cunt fluttered desperately around the intrusion, trying to clench and pull him deeper at the same time. One of your hands flew to his hair, fingers clutching tight in the coarse strands as you unconsciously fed his tongue even deeper into your leaking heat.
Deeper.
Deeper.
His saliva mixed with your slick and the remnants of his earlier release, turning everything into a messy, creamy glide. He fucked his tongue into you in slow, deliberate strokes, curling the tip to press against that sensitive spot inside that made your thighs shake violently. Then he pulled back only to seal his lips around your fat, aching clit. He sucked hard, tongue flicking rapidly over the swollen bud while two of his fingers spread your pussy lips wider, exposing every dripping inch to the warm daylight filtering through the leaves.
The pleasure was overwhelming.
Patches of golden light sparked across your skin as the breeze moved the branches above, warm little spots dancing over your bare thighs and heaving chest. The grass beneath your back was soft and cool, blades tickling your spine every time your body arched. In the distance the lake lapped gently against the shore, a soft, rhythmic hush that blended with the wet, obscene sounds of his mouth devouring your cunt.
It all felt too surreal.
Too good.
You moaned loudly, the sound breaking into a whimper as he sucked your clit harder, tongue still thrusting deep inside you. Your hips rolled up against his face without shame now, chasing the relentless pleasure. Slick poured from you in fresh waves, coating his chin, his lips, dripping down to soak the grass beneath your ass. Every greedy lap of his tongue pushed more of his saliva into your fluttering hole, mixing everything into a warm, slippery mess that made your cunt feel even more open, even more sensitive.
Sukuna growled against your folds, the vibration sending sparks shooting up your spine.
“Look at you,” he rasped between long, filthy licks, voice thick with lust. “Soaking my tongue like a good girl. This cunt was made to be eaten. Made to leak for me.”
He spread you even wider with his fingers, thumbs pressing firmly on either side of your clit while his tongue drove back inside, fucking you deeper, harder, faster. Your hand tightened in his hair, nails scraping his scalp as your back bowed off the grass. The ache that had tormented you for days melted into liquid heat under his mouth. Every suck, every thrust of his tongue, every wet slurp dragged you closer to the edge.
The pear blossoms continued to drift down around you like soft white snow.
Golden sunlight danced across your trembling body.
The lake whispered in the background.
Sukuna was still buried face-first between your spread thighs, your cunt pulsed and leaked and fluttered around his greedy tongue while pleasure built higher and higher, threatening to drown you completely in the most surreal, overwhelming bliss you had ever known.
He was getting hard from your scent alone.
The sweet, musky smell of your dripping cunt filled his lungs with every greedy inhale, thick and heady, making both of his cocks twitch and swell heavy between his thighs. They hung thick and full, the fat heads already glistening with beads of precum that dripped slowly onto the soft grass beneath him. The more he tasted you, the harder they throbbed, veins standing out sharply along the thick shafts, the second cock brushing against the first with every slight shift of his hips. Yet Sukuna refused to touch himself. Not yet.
He wanted you to cum on his tongue first.
His large tongue kept tunneling deep inside your fluttering cunt, fucking in and out with wet, obscene strokes while his lips sealed tight around your swollen clit. He sucked harder, tongue curling and pressing against that sensitive spot inside you until your thighs trembled violently around his head. Your hand clutched desperately at his hair, fingers twisting tight as you fed him deeper, hips rolling up to meet every thrust of his mouth.
“Fuck… that’s it,” he growled against your soaked folds, voice muffled and rough. “Let me taste how much this greedy little cunt needs me.”
He spread you wider with two thick fingers, thumbs holding your puffy lips open so he could bury his face even deeper. His tongue plunged in again, long and hot, licking up every creamy drop of slick and leftover cum. He drank you down like he was starving, saliva mixing with your mess until everything was sloppy and shining. Then he pulled back just enough to suck your fat, aching clit into his mouth again, tongue flicking rapidly over the swollen bud while two fingers replaced his tongue inside you, curling hard against that spot that made stars burst behind your eyes.
Your moans grew louder, broken and desperate, echoing softly under the pear tree. The golden patches of sunlight danced across your arched body, highlighting the way your breasts heaved with every panting breath, the way your stomach tensed and quivered. The grass felt cool and soft against your back, blades sticking to your damp skin as you writhed beneath his relentless mouth.
Sukuna’s cocks leaked harder, thick strings of precum stretching from the tips to the ground, but he ignored them completely. His focus remained entirely on you, on the way your cunt clenched and fluttered around his fingers, on the sweet, slick taste flooding his tongue.
He sucked your clit harder, tongue lashing fast and firm, fingers thrusting deep and steady.
“Come on, doll,” he rasped against your pussy, voice dark and commanding. “Cum for me. Cum on my tongue like a good girl. Let me feel this pretty cunt squeeze and flood my mouth.”
Your whole body tightened, thighs clamping around his head, back bowing sharply off the grass. The pressure built unbearably fast, the wet sounds of his mouth and fingers filling the quiet air beneath the tree. The lake whispered in the distance, blossoms continued to drift down like gentle snow, but all you could feel was the hot, greedy pull of his lips and tongue dragging you right to the edge.
Sukuna groaned deeply, the vibration shooting straight through your clit as he sucked harder, fingers curling relentlessly inside you.
He was not going to stop until you came undone on his tongue.
He kept licking you with long, greedy strokes of his tongue, lapping deep into your fluttering cunt while one thick finger circled your swollen clit in slow, firm spirals. The dual sensation was relentless. His hot, wet tongue fucked into you in steady thrusts, curling and dragging along your inner walls, while that single finger pressed and rubbed your clit with perfect, merciless pressure.
Your legs shook violently.
Sukuna noticed. With a low growl he shoved your thighs wider apart, spreading you obscenely open on the soft grass. Two of his hands gripped the backs of your knees, pinning them down and outward so nothing could stop the building storm inside you. The position left your dripping pussy completely exposed to his hungry mouth and the warm daylight filtering through the leaves.
It built fast. Too fast.
A strange, overwhelming pressure coiled low in your belly, heavy and urgent, completely different from the orgasms he had already forced from you. Your cunt clenched hard around his thrusting tongue, walls fluttering wildly as slick poured out in thick, continuous streams. Your hips tried to twist away, but his grip held you firmly in place.
“No… Sukuna…” you gasped, voice high and broken. “It feels weird… feels like you’ll make a mess…”
He did not stop.
If anything, your desperate little plea only made him hungrier. He shoved his tongue deeper, fucking it into you harder, faster, while his finger rubbed tight, relentless circles over your clit. His saliva mixed with your slick, making everything wetter, sloppier, louder. The obscene squelching sounds of his mouth devouring your cunt filled the quiet shade beneath the pear tree.
“It is going to feel good,” he growled against your folds, the words vibrating straight through your oversensitive clit. “Let it happen. Do not fight it.”
You whimpered, head thrashing side to side on the grass. The pressure kept building, sharp and terrifying and impossibly intense. Your stomach tightened, thighs trembling uncontrollably in his iron grip. Every lick, every circle of his finger pushed you closer to something you had never felt before. Your pussy felt too full, too hot, too ready to burst.
“I… I’m gonna…” Your voice cracked into a sob. “It feels like I’m going to make a mess… Sukuna, please…”
He sucked hard on your clit, tongue still thrusting deep inside you, finger rubbing faster. His crimson eyes flicked up to watch your face, dark with lust and wicked satisfaction.
“Then make a mess for me, doll,” he rasped, voice rough and commanding. “Squirt all over my tongue. Flood my mouth like the needy little thing you are. I want every drop.”
The words pushed you over the edge.
The intense pressure suddenly snapped. Your entire body seized, back arching sharply off the grass as a broken, keening cry tore from your throat. Your cunt spasmed violently around his tongue, walls clamping down hard before releasing in powerful, rhythmic pulses. A hot, clear gush of fluid burst from you, squirting hard against his tongue and chin, soaking his face and dripping down onto the grass beneath you.
You kept squirting, wave after wave, unable to stop as he continued licking and sucking through it all, greedily drinking down every drop while his finger never stopped circling your throbbing clit. The orgasm crashed through you harder than anything you had ever felt, leaving you shaking and sobbing, pussy gushing messily all over his mouth and the soft ground.
Sukuna groaned deeply, the sound vibrating through your oversensitive folds as he lapped up every bit of your release, refusing to pull away even as you trembled and whimpered beneath him.
Now you were ready.
Your body had gone completely limp on the soft grass, every muscle loose and trembling in the aftermath of that shattering release. Sukuna could feel how thoroughly he had wrung you out. Your cunt still fluttered weakly, puffy and glistening, but the desperate, aching need had finally eased into a deep, hazy satisfaction. He pressed one last slow, reverent kiss to your swollen pussy, lips brushing tenderly over the oversensitive folds. His tongue gave a few final, gentle laps, licking up the last of your slick with lazy indulgence, savoring every creamy drop. His chin was shiny and wet, glistening with your release and his own saliva.
He eased your trembling legs down carefully, letting them rest on the cool grass instead of holding them pinned wide. Then he shifted, stretching his massive frame out beside you on the soft ground. One of his lower arms slid beneath your shoulders, pulling you close until your face tucked into the warm curve of his neck. His skin smelled of smoke and salt and something darker, masculine, grounding. The other three arms settled around you, one hand gently threading through your hair, stroking slow, soothing pets from crown to nape. His fingers were careful, almost tender, as they combed through the strands damp with sweat and grass.
You felt weightless.
The warm sunlight filtered through the pear leaves above, painting shifting golden patterns across your skin. The faint sound of the lake lapping at the shore blended with the soft rustle of blossoms drifting down. Your body melted against his, boneless and heavy with exhaustion and pleasure. You could feel how hard he still was. Both thick cocks pressed hot and heavy against your thigh, leaking steadily, the blunt heads smearing warm precum across your skin with every subtle shift. Yet he made no move to take you. He simply held you close, petting your hair in slow, rhythmic strokes while his chest rose and fell steadily beneath your cheek.
You closed your eyes.
The world narrowed to the warmth of his body, the gentle drag of his fingers through your hair, the heavy, comforting weight of his arms wrapped around you. For the first time since he had stolen you from the temple, the ache between your thighs felt soothed rather than tormenting. Shame still lingered somewhere distant, but it could not reach you here, not while he held you like this.
Sukuna’s voice rumbled low against your ear, rough but quiet, laced with quiet satisfaction.
“See?” he murmured, lips brushing the top of your head. “Didn’t I help?”
You did not answer with words. You simply pressed your face deeper into the crook of his neck, breathing in his scent, letting the steady beat of his heart lull you further into the soft, floating haze. His hand continued its slow, comforting strokes through your hair. His cocks remained hard and leaking against your thigh, patient for now.
Beneath the pear tree, in the warm daylight and drifting blossoms, Sukuna held his stolen faithful close, content to let you rest against him while the evidence of your messy release dried on his chin and the grass beneath you both.
You fell asleep on the way back, cradled securely in his arms.
The walk from the lakeside to the fortress was not long, but the warm afternoon sun, the soft sway of his steps, and the deep exhaustion that had settled into your bones after everything beneath the pear tree pulled you under almost immediately. Your cheek rested against the broad plane of his chest, one hand loosely curled into the fabric of his robe. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat and the faint heat rolling off his skin lulled you deeper into sleep, safe and heavy in his hold.
Sukuna carried you without effort, two arms supporting your body while the other two remained free. In one of those free hands he held a small cluster of ripe pears he had plucked from the tree before leaving. Their smooth, golden-green skins caught the light as he walked, stems still bearing a few delicate white blossoms. He did not eat them. He simply carried them, turning one slowly between his fingers every so often, as though the simple act of holding something soft and sweet pleased him.
The fortress loomed ahead, stone walls dark against the bright sky. Servants scattered at the sight of their lord returning with the sleeping girl tucked against his chest, but no one dared speak. Uraume stood waiting at the entrance, pale eyes flicking once over your relaxed form and the pears before offering a small, knowing bow and stepping aside without a word.
Sukuna moved through the familiar corridors in silence, careful not to jostle you. When he reached the chamber he lowered you gently onto the wide mat, arranging your limbs with surprising care so you lay on your side, facing inward. The yukata had slipped slightly during the journey, baring one shoulder and the soft curve of your breast, but he did not adjust it. Instead he set the cluster of pears on the low table beside the mat, their faint sweet scent already beginning to fill the room.
He stretched out beside you, close enough that the heat of his body wrapped around yours once more. One arm draped possessively over your waist, palm settling lightly over the lingering softness of your lower belly. The other three hands found their places, one beneath his own head, the others resting near enough to touch if he wished.
You remained asleep, breathing slow and even, lashes dark against your cheeks, lips slightly parted. The faint marks of grass and blossoms still clung to your hair. A small smear of dried slick still glistened on the inside of one thigh, a quiet reminder of how thoroughly he had taken care of you by the lake.
Sukuna watched you for a long time in the quiet of the chamber.
He did not wake you.
He simply lay there, the stolen pears resting nearby, their sweetness mixing with the heavier scent of sex and skin that still clung to both of you. One of his fingers idly traced the curve of your shoulder while his mind turned over the strange, unfamiliar feeling of carrying something fragile and warm back to his den instead of leaving it broken behind him.
Outside the narrow windows the daylight slowly began to soften into evening.
Inside, the King of Curses kept his faithful close, pears and all, letting you sleep undisturbed in the circle of his arms.
You woke up dazed, the world soft and hazy around the edges.
For a long moment you could not remember the walk back. The lake, the pear tree, the overwhelming rush of pleasure beneath its branches, all of it felt like a fever dream that had slipped between your fingers. Your body was still coming down from the high, heavy and languid, every limb weighted with sweet exhaustion. A faint fever lingered beneath your skin, a warm flush that made your cheeks glow and your breathing slow and shallow. Between your thighs your pussy still throbbed gently, swollen and tender, the constant low ache now mixed with a deep, satisfied warmth that refused to fade.
The chamber was quiet, lit by the golden haze of late afternoon light slipping through the narrow windows. The faint sweet scent of ripe pear filled the air.
Sukuna was already awake, propped on one elbow beside you. In two of his hands he held the cluster of pears he had carried back. With the third he used the small, curved tanto to slice one open with precise, unhurried movements. The same blade you had once pressed trembling to his throat now moved steadily through the soft fruit, juice glistening along the edge as he cut neat, crescent-shaped slices.
He noticed the moment your eyes opened.
Without a word he brought a fresh slice to your lips, holding it between two thick fingers. The sweet, juicy flesh brushed against your lower lip, cool and sticky.
You stared at the knife for a heartbeat, then at the slice, then up at his face. A slow roll of your eyes was the only protest you could manage in your dazed state. Still, your mouth opened obediently. You took the piece of pear from his fingers, lips closing around the pads of his fingertips for a brief, intimate second as you accepted the offering. The fruit was perfectly ripe, bursting with cool sweetness that soothed your dry throat and made your fever-flushed cheeks feel a little less warm.
Sukuna watched you chew with dark, half-lidded eyes, the corner of his mouth curving in quiet satisfaction. He cut another slice, juice dripping slowly down the blade, and brought it to your mouth again. This time you did not roll your eyes. You simply parted your lips and let him feed you, the sticky sweetness coating your tongue while his fingers lingered a moment longer than necessary.
He fed you piece after piece in silence, the ironies of the moment hanging thick between you. The same knife that had once promised death now delivered something gentle and sweet. The monster who had stolen you from your temple now sat patiently slicing fruit and pressing each slice to your lips with careful fingers. Your body still hummed with the memory of his tongue between your thighs, yet here you were, drowsy and fever-warm, accepting every offering like it was the most natural thing in the world.
When the pear was nearly gone he set the core aside and wiped his fingers on the edge of the cloth nearby. One large hand returned to your hair, stroking slowly through the strands while another rested possessively over the soft swell of your lower belly.
“Better?” he asked, voice low and rough, but quieter than usual.
You swallowed the last sweet bite, the fever making your thoughts slow and heavy. Instead of answering with words you simply turned your face into his palm, pressing a small, tired kiss to the center of it.
Sukuna’s eyes darkened further at the gesture. He did not speak again. He only continued to pet your hair in slow, steady strokes, letting you drift in the warm, hazy space between sleep and waking while the faint scent of pear and the lingering taste of sweetness stayed on your tongue.
The blade lay forgotten on the low table beside the empty core, its edge still faintly sticky with juice.
And in the quiet chamber, he kept feeding his stolen girl small, sweet pieces of fruit, watching every flutter of your lashes with something dangerously close to tenderness.
Later that evening the air in the fortress had grown cooler, the faint scent of cedar smoke drifting through the corridors as braziers were lit for the night.
Sukuna had risen from the mat without a word, shedding his outer robes as he moved toward the private bathing chamber attached to the main room. You watched him from beneath half-closed lashes, still drowsy and warm from the pear and the long rest. Then you noticed.
His two thick cocks were fully hard, heavy and flushed dark, the fat heads glistening with steady beads of precum that dripped in slow, shiny trails down the veined lengths. They bobbed slightly with each step he took, leaking openly, untouched since the lake. He had given you everything beneath the pear tree and taken nothing for himself.
Something hot and liquid stirred low in your belly.
You crept after him on silent feet, heart hammering, the fever still lingering in your cheeks. The ache between your thighs had returned, softer now but insistent, your pussy growing slick and warm again at the mere sight of him. When he stepped into the bathing chamber you followed, hovering just outside the doorway, hidden in shadow.
He stood beside the large wooden tub already filled with steaming water. One of his lower hands reached down, wrapping loosely around both cocks at the base. He gave a slow, firm stroke from root to tip, smearing the leaking precum over the heads with his thumb. A low groan rumbled in his chest as he palmed himself, thick fingers barely able to circle both shafts together. The motion was lazy, almost absent, like he was simply easing an ache rather than truly seeking release.
Your breath caught.
He looked beautiful like this, massive frame backlit by the flickering lanterns, tattoos stark against scarlet skin, four arms moving with powerful grace. And those two leaking cocks… heavy, dripping, untouched because he had spent the entire afternoon taking care of you instead.
Your pussy clenched hard, fresh slick coating your folds and beginning to trickle down your inner thigh. Shame and desire twisted together until you could no longer stay still.
You slipped out of your yukata without a sound, letting the silk pool at your feet until you stood completely naked. Cool air kissed your fever-warm skin, making your nipples tighten and your swollen cunt throb. Heart racing, you stepped forward and pushed the sliding door wider, the soft wooden sound announcing your presence.
Sukuna turned his head slowly.
Four crimson eyes locked onto you immediately, taking in every inch of your bare body, the way your thighs pressed together, the faint sheen of wetness already visible on your skin. His hand stilled on his cocks, still gripping both thick lengths, the heads flushed and glistening.
For a long moment neither of you spoke.
Then his voice came low and rough, laced with dark hunger and something almost surprised.
“Look at you,” he murmured, gaze dragging slowly down to the slick glistening between your legs. “Coming to me naked and wet again. Did watching me stroke myself make that greedy little pussy leak for me?”
You stood there in the doorway, completely exposed, chest rising and falling quickly, the ache between your thighs growing unbearable. Your eyes kept flicking down to where his hand still held those two heavy, leaking cocks, precum still dripping steadily from the tips.
Sukuna’s lips curved into a slow, predatory smile. He gave himself one more lazy stroke, eyes never leaving yours.
“Well?” he asked, voice dropping even lower. “Are you just going to stand there… or are you going to come here and help me with this?”
Steam rose from the bath behind him.
Lantern light flickered across his skin...
You stepped inside.
Shy, but eager.
Your bare feet padded across the warm stone floor until you stood right in front of him. Sukuna’s four arms opened for you without hesitation, the gesture surprisingly gentle. He reached down, large hands sliding beneath your thighs, and lifted you effortlessly into the air. The moment your body left the ground you felt weightless again, cradled against his broad chest as he stepped into the large wooden tub with you.
The water was warm, almost hot, fragrant with yuzu and something faintly herbal that Uraume must have added. Steam curled up around you both as he lowered himself slowly, settling against the back of the tub and pulling you with him. He pressed you flush to his front first, your soft breasts squishing against the hard planes of his chest, your legs automatically parting to straddle his hips. The heat of the bath seeped into your skin, soothing the lingering ache between your thighs even as fresh slick continued to gather.
He leaned in and kissed your cheek, slow and surprisingly sweet, lips lingering against the flushed skin. The contrast between that tenderness and the heavy, leaking cocks trapped between your bodies made your head spin.
You settled fully against him, thighs spread wide over his lap. The sight of the large, grinning mouth on his stomach made your breath hitch. The moment your belly pressed against it, the thick pink tongue flicked out, dragging a wet, playful stripe across your soft skin. It curled lazily, tasting the faint sheen of sweat and the sweetness still clinging to you from the pear. One of Sukuna’s big hands settled on your lower back, holding you close while his thumb stroked slow circles over your spine.
He teased you then, voice low and rough against your ear.
“Your eager little pussy is still greedy for more, hm?”
You looked up at him with wide, glassy eyes, heat flooding your face. You could not hold his gaze. Your eyes dropped instead, lashes fluttering as you watched your own finger trace the seam of the stomach mouth. The moment your fingertip brushed the soft lips, the large tongue flicked out again, wrapping playfully around your finger and sucking gently before letting go with a wet pop.
You swallowed hard, voice barely above a whisper.
“I… I shouldn’t have all the pleasure.”
The guilt was quiet but real. He had taken nothing for himself earlier, only given and given until you shattered on his tongue. The thought made your chest tight.
Sukuna stilled for a moment, studying your downcast face. Then understanding softened the edge of his smirk.
“Guess we really should stop keeping secrets from each other then,” he murmured.
He tilted your chin up with one gentle finger, forcing your eyes to meet his again. Before you could look away he leaned in and kissed you, slow and deep and thorough. His tongue slid against yours, tasting of pear and your own slick, claiming your mouth with the same lazy hunger he had shown between your thighs.
You melted into the kiss, arms winding around his neck as you settled fully against him. His two thick cocks pressed hot and slick between your bodies, trapped against your soft belly and the dripping seam of your cunt. They throbbed heavily with every beat of his heart, leaking steadily, the precum mixing with the bathwater and your own fresh arousal until everything felt slippery and warm.
His stomach mouth continued to lick lazily at your skin, tongue dragging slow stripes across your abdomen while his hand on your back kept you pressed close. The other three arms held you securely, one cradling the back of your head, another resting possessively on your hip, the last stroking gently along your thigh.
He broke the kiss just enough to speak against your lips, voice dark and rough with want.
“No more secrets tonight, little one. Tell me what you want… and I will give it to you.”
The steam rose thick around you both.
The fragrant water lapped gently at your joined bodies.
And in the warm bath, straddling him, his leaking cocks pressed slick against your greedy pussy, you felt the last fragile wall between you begin to crumble.
“Please…”
The word slipped from your lips, soft and trembling against his own. “Need you.”
Sukuna’s mouth curved into a slow, wicked smile against yours. He did not answer with words at first. Instead one of his lower hands slid down between your bodies, gripping the thicker of his two leaking cocks at the base. He dragged the fat, precum-slick head slowly through your folds, teasing the blunt tip up and down your dripping slit. The heat of him was searing, the sheer size of just one cock already making your pussy flutter in anticipation and nerves.
Your slick coated him instantly, mixing with the steady leak of his precum until the glide became obscenely wet. Every slow pass nudged against your swollen clit, then dipped lower to kiss your entrance, spreading your puffy lips around the wide head before pulling back again. The teasing made your thighs tremble on either side of his hips.
He kissed you once more, slow and deep, then pulled back just enough to speak against your mouth, voice low and rough with hunger.
“Let’s just start with one tonight then,” he murmured. “Let’s see how good you’ll stretch for me.”
He lined the thick head up with your entrance and began to push.
The stretch was immediate and overwhelming. Even after everything he had done to you earlier, your cunt still had to open wide around the fat crown. A broken whimper escaped you as the head popped inside, your walls fluttering desperately around the intrusion. He was so thick, so hot, the veins along his shaft dragging against your sensitive inner walls as he slowly fed you the first few inches.
Sukuna groaned low in his chest, the sound vibrating through both of you.
“Fuck… still so tight,” he rasped, one hand gripping your hip to hold you steady while the other kept guiding his cock deeper. “Look at this greedy little pussy swallowing me up. Taking it so well already.”
He rocked his hips in shallow thrusts, working himself in inch by inch, letting your body adjust to the brutal girth. Your slick and his precum made the slide easier, but the stretch still burned sweetly, forcing your cunt to mould around every thick ridge. When he was halfway buried he paused, letting you feel the heavy throb of him inside you, the way your belly already began to bulge faintly from just one cock.
His stomach mouth licked a slow, wet stripe across your abdomen, tongue flicking playfully over the small swell as if tasting the place he was claiming from within.
You clung to his shoulders, nails digging into scarlet skin, forehead pressed to his as you panted against his lips. The water lapped gently around your joined bodies, steam curling thick in the air.
Sukuna’s eyes stayed locked on your face, watching every flutter of your lashes, every little gasp.
“That’s it,” he whispered, voice dark and coaxing. “Take all of me tonight. Let me feel how deep this pretty cunt can take one cock before I decide whether you’re ready for both.”
He rolled his hips again, sinking another thick inch inside you, stretching you open with slow, deliberate patience while the bathwater rippled around you both.
And in the fragrant steam, you gave yourself to him once more, soft pleas and broken moans spilling from your lips as the King of Curses began to fill you all over again.
You felt him immediately.
The thick head pushed past your entrance and the stretch bloomed all over again, sharp and sweet and overwhelming. Your cunt had to open wide once more, soft walls yielding around the heavy girth as he sank deeper. Every slow inch forced your body to remember him, to take his exact shape again until the blunt head kissed high inside you and the thick veins dragged along every sensitive spot. Your belly swelled faintly beneath the water, the faint outline of his cock visible just under your skin.
Sukuna let out a low, satisfied groan, eyes half-lidded as he watched your face.
“Looks like your cunt didn’t forget me after all,” he murmured, voice rough and pleased. “Still so tight… still sucking me in like it missed being full.”
Your hands pressed flat against his broad chest, fingers splaying over the dark tattoos as you tried to steady yourself. The water lapped gently around your hips with every tiny movement. He kept one large hand on your lower back, holding you close, while the other guided your hips down to meet his slow upward thrusts.
He fucked up into you with unhurried strokes, deep and deliberate, letting you feel every thick inch slide out until only the fat head remained inside, then pressing back in until he bottomed out again. Each thrust made your breasts bounce softly against his chest and sent ripples across the fragrant bathwater.
You were trembling.
The stretch felt so good it bordered on too much, but your body craved more. The empty ache where his second cock should be became impossible to ignore. Your pussy clenched hard around the one already buried inside you, leaking fresh slick around his shaft as the need built higher.
“Please…” you whispered, voice small and breathless against his neck. “The second one… I want both…”
Sukuna stilled for a moment, buried to the hilt. Then a dark, amused chuckle rumbled through his chest.
“Fuck… you’re eager,” he said, the words warm against your ear. One of his hands slid up to cup the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair. “Already begging for both after I’ve barely given you one. Greedy little thing.”
He rocked up into you again, slower this time, grinding the thick head against that deep spot inside while the second heavy cock rested hot and leaking against your lower belly, trapped between your bodies.
“You sure?” he asked, voice dropping even lower, teasing but edged with hunger. “You want me to stretch this pretty cunt even wider tonight? Fill you so full you can barely breathe?”
You nodded frantically, cheeks burning, eyes glassy with need. Your hips rolled down to meet his next thrust, taking him deeper as you whimpered.
“Yes… please… both…”
Sukuna’s smile turned sharp and satisfied. He tightened his grip on your hips with two hands while the other two cradled your face and back, holding you steady as he began to shift beneath you.
“Alright then,” he growled softly, pressing a slow kiss to your swollen lips. “Since you’re asking so nicely… let’s see how well this tight little pussy takes both my cocks tonight.”
He kept the first one buried deep inside you, holding still for a moment while the fat, leaking head of the second cock nudged insistently against your already stretched entrance, sliding through the mess of your slick and his precum.
The water steamed around you both.
Your hands clutched tighter at his chest.
He worked the second cock in slowly.
The thick, leaking head pressed firmly against your already stretched entrance, nudging beside the first one that was buried deep inside you. The stretch was immediate and brutal. Your cunt had to open wider than it ever had, soft walls straining around two heavy girths at once. You clenched up instinctively, a sharp gasp tearing from your throat as the second cock forced its way in inch by slow, relentless inch.
“Oh fuck—”
The curse slipped out before you could stop it, raw and broken. The temple girl who once spent her days murmuring sutras had never spoken such a word in her life. Sukuna’s eyes flashed with dark delight at the sound.
“Oh?” he teased, voice low and rough even as he fought to keep his composure. “The temple girl’s first swear. Committing so many sins tonight, aren’t you?”
Your cunt was impossibly tight around both cocks, fluttering and squeezing in panicked little pulses that made sweat bead along his temples. He could feel every ripple, every desperate clench as your body struggled to accept him. It hurt for you too. The burn was fierce, stretching you to your limit, tears already gathering at the corners of your eyes and spilling down your flushed cheeks.
Sukuna kept one big hand stroking slowly up and down your back, never stopping the gentle, soothing motion. His palm was warm and steady against your spine, thumb tracing comforting circles while he held perfectly still inside you, giving your body time to adjust.
“No, pretty girl,” he murmured, voice gentler now, lips brushing your temple. “Relax for me. Breathe.”
You whimpered, forehead pressed to his shoulder, nails digging into his chest. The stretch felt like too much and not enough all at once. Both cocks throbbed heavily inside your overstuffed cunt, leaking steadily, the dual pressure making your belly bulge noticeably even through the bathwater.
“You said you wanted both,” he reminded you softly, pressing a slow kiss to your wet cheek. “Don’t fight me, sweetheart. Let me in. Let this greedy little cunt take everything I give it.”
His hand kept stroking your back in that same soothing rhythm, slow and patient, while the other three arms held you close, one cradling the back of your head, another gripping your hip to keep you steady. He rocked up into you with the tiniest movements, just enough to ease the second cock deeper, letting your walls flutter and slowly loosen around the impossible fullness.
Tears kept slipping down your face, but the pain was already beginning to melt into something hotter, something deeper. Your cunt clenched again, this time less in resistance and more in desperate need.
Sukuna groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours.
“That’s it,” he whispered against your ear, still stroking your back with steady reassurance. “Good girl. Just relax and let me fill you completely. You’re doing so well for me.”
Both thick cocks pulsed inside your stretched, dripping cunt as he waited for you to open up fully, the warm bathwater rippling gently around your joined bodies while he coaxed you through the overwhelming stretch with patience and dark, hungry praise.
Your cunt kept stretching.
It hurt, it burned, it felt impossible, but it took him.
More and more. Inch by thick, veined inch, both of his heavy cocks sank deeper into your fluttering heat until the stretch became something else entirely. Something overwhelming and perfect. Your walls yielded slowly, clenching and fluttering around the brutal double invasion, molding themselves around his shape like they had been waiting for this exact moment.
The way your tummy bulged was obscene.
You could feel it, see it, the soft skin of your lower belly rounding outward, the clear outline of both cocks pressing up from inside you. Every shallow breath made the swell shift and move. Deeper and deeper he pushed, until the fat heads nudged against your cervix and then beyond, forcing the tight ring to open for him, letting him claim space no one had ever touched.
Your eyes slid shut, lashes wet with fresh tears. A broken little sound escaped your trembling lips.
Sukuna cupped your face in two large hands, thumbs brushing away the tears as they fell. He pressed his forehead to yours, breath mingling with yours in the steamy air.
“Look at you,” he whispered, voice rough and awed. “Taking both my cocks so deep. Your pretty cunt is opening so well for me.”
He kissed your tears one by one, slow and tender, lips brushing over your closed eyelids, the corners of your eyes, the salty trails on your cheeks. When he finally reached your mouth he kissed you deeply, swallowing the soft whimper that left you as your cunt gave one last fluttering pulse and took the rest of him.
He was fully seated.
Both thick cocks buried to the hilt inside your overstuffed pussy, stretching you wider than you had ever been, your belly swollen and round with the proof of it. Your walls clenched helplessly around him, rippling and squeezing in waves, trying to adjust to the impossible fullness.
Sukuna held perfectly still, forehead still pressed to yours, hands cradling your face like something precious.
“There you go,” he murmured against your lips, voice low and soothing. “That’s my good girl. You did it. You took all of me.”
Your lips trembled. Another tear slipped free and he caught it with his thumb, then leaned in to kiss it away again.
The bathwater lapped gently around your joined bodies. Steam curled thick and fragrant between you. Your hands stayed pressed to his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart beneath your palms.
He stayed buried deep, letting you feel every throb, every pulse of both cocks stretching you open, while he continued to kiss your face softly, patiently, giving your ruined little cunt time to settle around the overwhelming fullness he had given you.
“You feel that?” he whispered, one hand sliding down to rest over the swollen curve of your belly. “That’s me. All the way inside you. No more secrets. No more holding back.”
Your cunt fluttered hard around him at his words, another rush of slick leaking out around the tight seal of your stretched lips.
Sukuna smiled against your mouth, dark and satisfied.
“Good girl,” he breathed. “Now breathe for me… and let me feel how well this greedy cunt is going to take everything I give it tonight.”
Your cunt was sucking and pulling at both of his cocks with every tiny movement.
The slightest shift of his hips made your walls flutter and clench desperately around the thick double intrusion, greedy and overwhelmed all at once. Any little motion sent sparks of too-much pleasure shooting through you. The stretch was constant, burning and perfect, your swollen folds stretched shiny and tight around the bases of both cocks. Your belly bulged obscenely, the rounded swell rising and falling with every shallow breath you took.
Sukuna watched your face with dark, hooded eyes, one hand still cradling your cheek while the other rested possessively over the swollen curve of your stomach.
“You’ve already done the impossible,” he murmured, voice low and rough with restraint. “Taking both my cocks all the way inside this tight little cunt. Such a good girl.”
He could feel every ripple, every helpless suck of your walls trying to milk him. But he insisted on doing the work now.
“You’ve done enough,” he told you softly. “Just let me take care of you.”
When he asked if you wanted him to move, you could only nod, lips trembling, eyes glassy with overwhelming sensation.
That was all the permission he needed.
Sukuna lifted you sweetly with two strong arms beneath your thighs, raising you just enough that several thick inches of both cocks slid out of your dripping heat. The drag was slow and devastating, your cunt clinging wetly to every veined inch as he withdrew. Then he rocked you back down, sinking both cocks deep again in one smooth, controlled motion.
A broken moan tore from your throat.
He set a slow, steady rhythm, lifting and lowering you on his lap with careful strength. Each time he pulled you up, your cunt fluttered and sucked around him, trying to keep him inside. Each time he rocked you back down, both cocks plunged deep, bumping your cervix and pressing against that spot that made your toes curl in the warm water.
The bath rippled around you with every gentle rock, fragrant steam curling thicker in the air. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, nails digging into scarlet skin as he fucked you on his cocks with slow, deliberate strokes.
“That’s it,” he praised quietly, forehead still pressed to yours. “Just let me move you. Feel how deep you’re taking me, sweetheart. Feel how full you are.”
Your belly bulged visibly with every downward rock, the obscene swell pressing against his stomach mouth. The large pink tongue flicked out lazily, licking across the rounded curve as if tasting how thoroughly he had stuffed you.
You whimpered helplessly, eyes fluttering, tears still clinging to your lashes. Every rock sent waves of overwhelming pleasure crashing through you. Your cunt kept sucking and pulling at both thick cocks, greedy despite how impossibly full you already were.
Sukuna kept rocking you sweetly on his lap, never rushing, letting you feel every inch, every throb, every slow slide as he filled you completely again and again.
His voice stayed low and soothing against your ear between soft kisses to your temple.
“Good girl… such a good girl for me. Just keep taking it. Let me rock this pretty, stretched cunt on both until you can’t think of anything else.”
The water lapped gently around your joined bodies.
Your swollen belly rose and fell with every controlled thrust.
And in the warm, steamy bath, you were held close and rocked slowly on both of his thick cocks, letting your greedy, ruined little pussy suck and flutter around him while he took perfect care of you.
Huge.
That was all you could think as Sukuna rocked you on both of his thick lengths.
Your pussy stretched impossibly wide around the twin girths, soft walls squishing and clinging, milking him in messy, greedy pulses with every slow lift and drop. Wet, filthy sounds filled the steamy bath each time he moved you, slick and precum mixing together until everything between your bodies was slippery and obscene.
He pressed one large hand firmly against the swollen bulge under your tummy, feeling the way both cocks moved inside you, the heavy ridge of them shifting beneath your skin with every rock. The pressure made you whimper, made your cunt flutter harder around him, sucking desperately at the thick lengths as if trying to pull him even deeper.
One of his lower hands settled on your waist, holding you steady while he began to fuck up into you with more purpose. The thrusts stayed controlled but deeper now, lifting his hips to meet every downward rock, driving both cocks into your overstuffed cunt with wet, heavy strokes. Your belly bulged more noticeably with each upward thrust, the rounded swell pressing against his palm.
His other lower hand slipped lower, palming the soft curve of your ass, fingers digging into the flesh to spread you open even wider. He used the grip to help guide you, lifting and lowering you onto his cocks while he fucked up harder, the head of both lengths kissing your cervix with every deep plunge.
You were a trembling, moaning mess in his lap, forehead pressed to his, lips parted on broken little sounds. Your pussy kept milking him greedily, fluttering and clenching, leaking fresh slick around the tight seal of your stretched folds. The water sloshed gently around you both with every thrust, fragrant steam curling thick in the air.
Sukuna groaned low in his chest, the sound vibrating through you as he pressed harder against the bulge in your belly.
“Feel that?” he rasped against your mouth, voice dark and rough. “Feel how deep both are? Your greedy little cunt is sucking me in so messily… taking me so deep like it never wants to let go.”
His hand on your ass squeezed tighter, spreading you wider as he fucked up into you with slow, powerful strokes. The other hand stayed pressed to your swollen tummy, feeling every movement of his cocks inside you while he rocked you on his lap.
You could only moan helplessly, eyes glassy, body trembling as he took you apart so sweetly and thoroughly in the warm bath. Your pussy continued to milk him in wet, greedy pulses, stretched and full and completely his.
Sukuna kissed your trembling lips, then your tear-damp cheek, never stopping the slow, deep rhythm of his hips.
“That’s my good girl,” he murmured, palming your ass and pressing against your bulging belly at the same time. “Keep me in just like that. Let me feel how much this pretty cunt loves being stuffed full.”
Every slow rock of his hips made both thick cocks rub deep inside your pussy, dragging heavily along your fluttering walls in a constant, filthy grind. Your swollen clit caught and rubbed against the dark, coarse hair of his happy trail with every downward motion, sending sharp sparks of pleasure shooting through you. The friction was relentless, perfect, turning every thrust into something overwhelming.
You were creaming on his cocks.
Thick, white rings of your arousal coated both shafts, frothing messily at the stretched entrance of your cunt with every deep plunge. The wet, squelching sounds grew louder, echoing softly off the stone walls of the bathing chamber as your pussy milked him greedily, sucking and fluttering around the double intrusion.
Sukuna groaned low, one hand still pressed firmly to the bulging swell of your tummy while the other palmed your ass, spreading you wider so he could fuck up into you just a little harder. His thumb found your clit, rubbing slow, firm circles over the swollen bud while he kept rocking you on his cocks.
“That’s it,” he murmured against your ear, voice dark and coaxing. “Make a mess all over both my cocks like a good girl. Let me feel how much you want it, how much you pretty pussy will take.”
The added pressure on your clit was too much. Pleasure coiled tight and hot in your belly, sharper and sweeter than before. Your thighs trembled violently around his hips, your cunt clenching hard around both cocks as the orgasm crashed through you.
You moaned, high and broken, body seizing in his lap as sweet, pulsing waves rolled through you. Your pussy gushed around him, fresh slick mixing with the creamy mess already coating his shafts. Sukuna kept rubbing your clit through it all, drawing the orgasm out until your vision blurred and your moans turned into soft, helpless whimpers.
When the peak finally began to ebb you collapsed forward into his chest, face buried in the crook of his neck, trembling and panting against his skin. Your arms wound weakly around his shoulders, body limp and spent in his hold.
Sukuna did not stop moving.
He kept fucking you deeper now, hips snapping up with more force, driving both cocks into your creaming, fluttering cunt with steady, powerful thrusts. The water sloshed harder around you, splashing against the sides of the tub as he used the grip on your ass and waist to pull you down onto him again and again.
His breathing grew rougher, chest rising and falling heavily beneath your cheek. You could feel his cocks swelling even thicker inside you, throbbing with his building release.
He pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss to your temple, voice wrecked and low.
“Fuck that's it! He said sharply.“Good girl… such a good girl for me… let me give you every drop, let me fill your cunt full.”
His thrusts grew deeper, harder, chasing his own pleasure while he held your limp, trembling body close, fucking up into your messy, overstuffed cunt with raw, building need. Your pussy continued to milk him greedily, squirting and fluttering around him as he drove closer and closer to the edge, determined to flood you full once more.
His cocks throbbed with heavy, insistent pressure deep in his abdomen.
The stomach mouth on his torso had its jaw locked tight, lips pressed into a thin line as if even that part of him was fighting to hold back. Both thick lengths swelled impossibly larger inside your already overstuffed cunt, stretching you even wider, the veins pulsing strongly against your fluttering walls. The first cock twitched hard, swelling thicker at the base, the fat head pressing flush against your cervix.
Sukuna’s breath hitched, a low growl rumbling through his chest as he fucked up into you with deeper, more urgent strokes. His hands gripped your ass tighter, spreading you open while he drove both cocks as far as they could go.
Then the first one came.
Hard.
Thick ropes of hot cum erupted straight into your womb, flooding you in heavy, pulsing spurts. The force of it made your belly swell even more, the rounded bulge growing visibly as he pumped you full. Your cunt clenched violently around him, milking every drop while creamy white seed leaked out around the tight seal of your stretched lips, mixing with your own slick in the bathwater.
Before the first cock even finished pulsing, the second one followed.
It swelled even thicker, stretching you to the absolute limit as it began to cum deep inside you. Another powerful flood joined the first, hot and endless, filling your womb until you felt impossibly bloated, stuffed beyond reason. Both cocks throbbed in tandem now, pumping load after thick load into your greedy, creaming cunt while your walls fluttered and sucked desperately around them.
You moaned weakly against his neck, body trembling, tears slipping down your cheeks again from the sheer intensity of being filled so completely. Your belly rounded out heavily between your bodies, the soft skin taut from the sheer volume of cum he was forcing into you.
Sukuna held you close, one hand still pressed firmly over the swollen curve of your tummy, feeling every powerful spurt as it filled you. His forehead rested against yours, breath ragged, voice rough and wrecked with pleasure.
“Take it all,” he growled softly, still rocking you slowly on his cocks even as he came. “Every drop. Let me fill this pretty cunt until you’re dripping with me for days.”
His stomach mouth finally relaxed, the large tongue slipping out to lick lazily across your bulging belly, tasting the evidence of how thoroughly he had claimed you from the inside.
You stayed collapsed against his chest, limp and shaking, your pussy still milking both throbbing cocks as they continued to empty into you, flooding your womb with thick, hot cum while the warm bathwater rippled around your joined bodies.
Sukuna kissed your temple, then your tear-streaked cheek, murmuring low praises against your skin as he kept you impaled deep on both of his cocks, letting the last heavy spurts pulse into your overstuffed, creaming cunt.
You had never felt so full.
So claimed.
So completely his.
Twin loads poured into you, thick and heavy, flooding your womb in endless, pulsing waves.
Sukuna kept fucking them deeper, hips rolling up in slow, deliberate thrusts even as he came, pushing every thick spurt further inside you. The obscene wet sounds of his cocks churning through the mess echoed in the steamy bath, cum and slick mixing together until your overstuffed cunt could barely contain it all. Creamy white seed leaked out around the tight stretch of both shafts, floating in cloudy ribbons through the water, but he refused to let any of it escape without effort. He rocked you down harder, grinding both cocks as deep as they would go, forcing the heavy loads back into your womb with every thrust.
He was sure it would take.
So much cum. More than your body had any right to hold. Your belly was already swollen and round, taut beneath his palm, and still he kept pumping more into you. He imagined it so clearly, his eyes sliding shut as pleasure and something darker, more possessive rolled through him. In weeks or months to come you would still be swollen, but not just with his cum. He pictured you utterly round and heavy with his babies, belly stretched tight, breasts full, cunt still greedy and leaking for him even while carrying his heirs.
A low, guttural groan left his throat.
His hand pressed firmer against the swollen curve of your stomach, fingers splaying wide as if he could will it to happen by touch alone. He pushed gently, feeling the way your belly gave under the pressure, feeling the obscene slosh of cum inside you as he fucked it even deeper.
“Take it,” he rasped against your ear, voice thick and wrecked. “All of it. Let it settle deep. Let it take root.”
Your cunt fluttered weakly around both cocks, still milking him through the last heavy spurts. You whimpered softly into his neck, body limp and trembling, completely overwhelmed by the sheer volume he had pumped into you. Your belly felt impossibly full, heavy and warm, the skin stretched tight over the twin loads he refused to let leak out.
Sukuna kept his hand there, palm pressed possessively over the swell, thumb stroking slow circles as if soothing the place he had just flooded. His other arms held you close, one cradling the back of your head, another wrapped around your waist, keeping you impaled deep on both cocks while the last thick pulses emptied into your womb.
He stayed buried inside you long after the last spurt, breathing hard against your hair, eyes still closed as the fantasy lingered behind his lids. You, swollen and glowing, carrying his children. The thought made his cocks twitch again inside you, another small leak of cum escaping despite how tightly he filled you.
He kissed your temple, then your cheek, voice low and dark with satisfaction.
“You’re going to look so beautiful like this… all round and full with what I put in you.”
The bathwater had gone cloudy around you both, thick with the evidence of his release. Your belly rose and fell heavily with every shallow breath, swollen and claimed, while Sukuna held you close, hand never leaving the soft, rounded swell he had created, already imagining how much more he would fill you in the nights to come.
After you took both his cocks, he held you like something breakable.
The water had gone thick and cloudy with his cum, the fragrant scent of yuzu now drowned beneath the heavy musk of sex. Sukuna felt a flicker of something close to guilt when he looked at the mess he had made of you, but it was quickly swallowed by the deeper satisfaction of seeing you so thoroughly claimed. Still, he needed to clean you. He could not leave you like this, leaking and trembling and swollen.
When he finally began to slip free, both cocks sliding out of your ruined cunt with a wet, obscene sound, you cried.
A soft, broken sob left your lips the moment the thick heads popped free. Immediately a flood of creamy white poured from your stretched hole, thick ropes of his cum gushing out in heavy pulses, sliding down your thighs and swirling into the already filthy water. Your poor pussy gaped for a moment, puffy and red, unable to close after taking both of his cocks so deep. More cum kept leaking, slow and endless, as if your body refused to let go of what he had given it.
You did not let him go.
The moment he tried to shift you, your arms locked tight around his neck, legs wrapping around his torso with surprising strength. You clung to him like a vine, face buried in the crook of his neck, eyes squeezed shut. Tired as you were, every ounce of remaining energy seemed to have gathered in your limbs. You would not release him, not even for a second.
Sukuna exhaled softly, one large hand cradling the back of your head while the other supported your ass, holding you securely against his chest even as cum continued to drip from your cunt onto his skin.
“It’s okay, pretty girl,” he cooed, voice low and soothing against your ear. “I’m right here. I’ve got you.”
He shifted carefully in the cloudy water, you still attached to him like a second skin, legs locked tight around his waist, arms wound around his neck. With one free hand he grabbed a clean cloth from the side of the tub. With another he reached over and unplugged the drain, letting the filthy, cum-laden water begin to swirl away. Fresh warm water poured in from the spout, clear and steaming, slowly refilling the tub around your joined bodies.
He held you the entire time, rocking you gently, pressing soft kisses to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. Every time a fresh sob slipped from you, every time more cum leaked out of your swollen pussy and trickled down his abdomen, he murmured quiet reassurances.
“Shh… I know, sweetheart. I know it feels like too much. But I’m not going anywhere. Just let me clean you up.”
He dipped the cloth into the fresh water and began to wipe you gently, starting with your thighs, then carefully between your legs. The warm cloth soothed the tender, puffy folds, but every pass still made you whimper and cling tighter. More thick white continued to spill from your cunt no matter how carefully he cleaned, as if your body was determined to keep every drop he had pumped into you.
Sukuna did not mind.
He simply held you closer, kissing your closed eyelids, stroking your back with slow, steady hands while the clean water rose around you both. Your legs stayed locked around his torso, arms tight around his neck, face hidden against his skin as you trembled and leaked and refused to let go.
“It’s okay,” he whispered again, pressing another kiss to your hair. “I’m right here, pretty girl. I’ve got you. Let it all out. I’ll take care of everything.”
The bath slowly filled with fresh, steaming water.
Your cunt continued to leak his cum in slow, creamy pulses.
And Sukuna held you through it all, cooing soft praises and gentle reassurances while you clung to him with every bit of strength left in your tired body, safe and claimed in the arms of the monster who had ruined you so sweetly.
When he had you mostly cleaned, Sukuna gathered you up once more.
You were still latched onto him, arms locked tight around his neck, legs wrapped firmly around his torso as though letting go might make the world disappear. Even in your exhaustion your body refused to release its hold. He did not mind. He simply rose from the tub with you attached, water streaming off both of you in rivulets, and stepped out onto the cool stone floor.
One of his large hands petted your hair in slow, soothing strokes, fingers combing through the damp strands while he murmured quiet words against your temple.
“I’ve got you. Just keep holding on, pretty girl.”
He reached for a thick, soft towel and dried you as best he could while you remained clung to his chest. He wiped your back, your shoulders, the curve of your ass, moving carefully around the places where your bodies pressed together. The towel came away damp with bathwater and the last traces of his cum that still leaked slowly from your swollen cunt. Every gentle pass made you whimper softly, but you only tightened your grip, face buried deeper into the crook of his neck.
Sukuna carried you like that all the way back to the main chamber, your legs locked around his waist, your arms wound tight around his neck. He moved slowly, deliberately, one hand supporting your weight beneath your ass while the other continued to pet your hair in steady, comforting rhythms.
When he reached the wide mat he lowered himself down carefully, keeping you cradled against his chest the entire time. Only then did he try to coax you into drinking.
He reached for the clay cup of water Uraume had left on the low table, bringing it to your lips with gentle insistence.
“Come on, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice low and patient. “Just a little. You need it.”
You turned your face away at first, eyes still closed, too tired and overwhelmed to do anything but cling. Sukuna did not push. He simply waited, stroking your back, pressing soft kisses to your hair until you finally parted your lips. He tilted the cup slowly, letting you take small, careful sips. Cool water slid down your throat, soothing the dryness left from all your moaning and crying. You drank in tiny mouthfuls, swallowing obediently each time he encouraged you with quiet praise.
“Good girl… that’s it. Just a little more.”
When you had taken enough he set the cup aside and wrapped both arms around you again, holding you close against his warm body. Your legs stayed wrapped around his torso, your arms locked around his neck, your face tucked safely into the curve of his shoulder. Fresh tears slipped from your closed eyes, but they were softer now, exhaustion winning over everything else.
Sukuna continued to pet your hair, slow and steady, his other hands resting possessively along your back and the curve of your ass. He could still feel the occasional warm trickle of his cum leaking from your cunt onto his skin, but he made no move to clean it further. He simply held you, letting you cling as tightly as you needed.
“Sleep now,” he whispered against your hair, pressing one last gentle kiss to the top of your head. “I’m right here. I’m not letting go.”
You stayed latched onto him, trembling faintly, body heavy with fatigue and the deep, lingering fullness he had left inside you. The chamber was quiet except for the soft sound of your breathing and the steady rhythm of his hand stroking through your hair.
And Sukuna held you through it all, content to let his stolen faithful remain wrapped around him like you never wanted to be anywhere else.
He eventually pulled your tired arms away from his neck.
It took gentle coaxing, his fingers carefully unwinding your grip until your limbs fell limp and heavy against his chest. Even in sleep your body protested the loss of contact, a small, unconscious whimper slipping past your lips. Sukuna gathered you closer, all four arms cradling you against him like something infinitely precious. One pair supported your back and thighs, another rested along your sides, keeping you secure in the wide span of his hold. His massive frame curled protectively around your much smaller one on the wide mat.
He looked at you.
Really looked.
This small woman who had taken all of him so eagerly, who had cried and begged and still opened wider when he asked. He had put you through so much. From the burning temple to the blade at his throat, from the first brutal claiming to the bath where he had stretched you beyond reason and flooded you until your belly swelled. The memory of your tears, your broken moans, your desperate clinging lingered in his chest like an unfamiliar weight.
Guilt, quiet and unfamiliar, settled deep inside him.
One large hand came up to cup your face, thumb brushing slowly across your cheek. Your lashes were still damp, lips slightly parted in exhausted sleep. So delicate. So human. And yet you had taken the King of Curses into your body twice tonight and held him there like you never wanted him to leave.
His gaze drifted lower.
His hand slid down to rest over the soft, swollen curve of your tummy. The skin was warm and taut beneath his palm, still rounded from the sheer volume of cum he had pumped into you. He caressed it gently, fingers tracing slow circles over the place where his seed now rested deep inside your womb. The thought of it taking root sent a strange ripple through him.
He had never cared for heirs.
Rulers did not need bloodlines. Conquest was eternal. Legacy was written in blood and fear, not in small hands and soft cries. It was such a human thing.
But then he remembered the lake earlier that day.
You beneath the pear tree, sunlight dancing across your skin, blossoms drifting down while you came apart so sweetly on his tongue. The image shifted in his mind, unbidden, and suddenly he saw you again, months from now, belly round and heavy with his child, glowing, soft, still looking at him with those wide, trusting eyes.
It was not such a bad sight.
In fact, it felt… right.
The realization clicked into place with surprising clarity.
He would only want that with you.
Not with any trembling village girl or fearful shrine maiden he could have taken on a whim. Only with the faithful one he had stolen, the one who had once held a knife to his throat and then pulled him closer instead. The one whose body had learned to crave him, whose heart still raced beneath his palm even in sleep.
Sharing a life with you suddenly seemed possible.
Not just possession. Not just claiming. Something quieter. Something that looked like mornings with pears and evenings in the bath and nights where you clung to him even after he had ruined you.
Sukuna’s hand stayed cupped over your swollen belly, thumb stroking slow, almost reverent circles. His other arms tightened around you, pulling you closer until your cheek rested against his chest and your legs draped over his hip.
He pressed a single, lingering kiss to the top of your head.
“Sleep, little one,” he whispered into your hair, voice barely audible. “I will take care of you now. Whatever comes… I will take care of you.”
The guilt still lingered, but it was softened by something warmer, something dangerously close to tenderness. He kept his hand on your belly, feeling the faint flutter of your breathing, imagining the day it might flutter with something more.
For the first time in his long, bloody existence, Ryomen Sukuna allowed himself to picture a future that was not only conquest and fear, but one that included you, soft and full and his in every possible way.
He closed his eyes, still cradling you close, and let the quiet thought settle deep inside him.
You.
His.
Perhaps even carrying his child.
The King of Curses held his stolen faithful through the night, one hand never leaving the gentle swell of your belly, already wondering how soon he could make that vision real.
You laid on your back in the cool hush of his chamber, the thick bedding Sukuna had carefully arranged around you cradling your body like a nest. The night air was still, carrying only the faint crackle of a low brazier and the soft rhythm of your breathing. From across the room Sukuna stood watching for a long moment, four crimson eyes fixed on the peaceful sight of you.
Your eyes were closed in deep sleep, lashes resting against your cheeks, lips slightly parted. The thick layers of bedding he had swaddled you in kept you warm, but every time you shifted even the smallest amount the weight of your growing swell became more and more apparent. The soft curve of your belly rose gently beneath the covers, rounder now, heavier, undeniably full with the life he had planted inside you. The sight held him transfixed, something ancient and possessive stirring low in his chest as he stared at the proof of what you had taken from him and made your own.
You were pregnant.
The knowledge still felt new, strange, and yet utterly right.
The moment you began to shift again, a small furrow appeared between your brows. Your hands moved restlessly beneath the bedding, fingers clutching at the empty space beside you, searching, reaching for the solid warmth that was no longer there. A quiet, distressed sound slipped from your throat, barely more than a breath.
Sukuna was already moving.
He crossed the chamber in three silent strides, sliding onto the wide mat beside you before your hands could grasp at nothing again. His large palms found yours immediately, fingers threading through your smaller ones, pulling your hands against his chest. He drew you close with all four arms, carefully turning you onto your side so your swollen belly rested safely against the hard planes of his body. One arm slipped beneath your head as a pillow, another curled around your back, the third settled protectively over the curve of your tummy, and the last stroked slow, soothing lines along your spine.
The moment he had you tucked against him your breathing settled. The tension melted from your shoulders, your face relaxing once more into peaceful sleep. You nuzzled closer, cheek pressing to his collarbone, one leg instinctively draping over his hip as if even unconscious you needed to be as close as possible. A soft, contented sigh left your lips.
You had found utter comfort in Sukuna now, even more so since the pregnancy had begun to show. The fear that once lived in your eyes had long since softened into something warmer, something that sought him out in sleep and in waking. He had become your safety, your anchor, the only place where the weight of your changing body felt bearable.
Sukuna kept his hand splayed wide over the swell of your belly, feeling the faint, steady pressure beneath his palm. He could sense the life growing there, the subtle movements that had only just started to become noticeable. His thumb traced slow circles over the taut skin, reverent and quiet.
He had never imagined he would want this.
Yet here you were, swollen with his child, clinging to him even in dreams, trusting him completely with the fragile new life you carried. The guilt he had once felt had faded into something deeper, something that made him hold you a little tighter every night.
He pressed a slow kiss to the top of your head, lips lingering in your hair as he whispered against the strands, voice barely audible in the quiet chamber.
“I’m here, little one. I’ve got you both.”
Your fingers tightened faintly around his in sleep, as if answering him. Your breathing stayed even and deep, your body heavy and warm against his, the swell of your belly pressed safely between you.
Sukuna closed his eyes, but he did not sleep.
He simply held you, one hand never leaving the gentle curve where his child grew, listening to the soft sounds of your breathing and feeling the quiet wonder of how completely you had changed everything.
The King of Curses laid awake in the cool darkness, cradling his pregnant faithful close, already certain that he would burn the world again if it meant keeping this peace intact.
In the quiet dark of the chamber, with you safely tucked against his chest and the soft swell of your belly pressed between your bodies, Sukuna let his mind drift back.
He remembered the first time you had started craving fruit.
It began with pears, ironically enough. You would wake in the middle of the night and ask for them in that small, shy voice, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. He had laughed low and fetched them himself, slicing the sweet golden flesh with the same blade that had once rested against his throat. You ate them with such quiet greed, juice running down your chin, eyes fluttering in simple pleasure. He had thought nothing of it then, only that his stolen girl had developed a taste for something soft and sweet.
Then the sickness came.
Mornings where you would suddenly turn pale and rush to the basin, retching until there was nothing left. He had frowned and blamed the pears at first, muttering that perhaps they had been too ripe, too cold, too much. He brought you warmer broth instead, held your hair back, and told you to stop eating so many. You had only shaken your head weakly and asked for another pear once the nausea passed.
Then your body began to change.
Your breasts grew heavier, more sensitive. Your hips softened. And your belly… your belly started to round in the gentlest way. At first he told himself it was only the constant fullness he kept pumping into you every night, the thick loads he refused to let you waste. But the rounding stayed even on the rare days he did not fill you.
The truth finally struck him one evening after you had bathed.
You were still wet and naked, skin glistening, towel having slipped from your fingers to pool on the floor. You bent to retrieve it, back arching, the curve of your spine leading down to the plush swell of your ass. Sukuna had been behind you in an instant, drawn by the sight like a moth to flame.
He stepped close, chest brushing your back, and slid one large hand around to cup the front of your tummy. The moment his palm settled over the gentle curve, something clicked into place. The weight felt different. Warmer. Alive.
His voice had come out low, almost hesitant, each word measured and slow as if he were testing the shape of something dangerous and beautiful.
“…It is not the pears,” he had murmured against the damp skin of your shoulder, fingers spreading wider over your belly. “I think… something else has taken root here.”
He paused, letting the silence stretch, letting you feel the weight of his hand and the weight of his meaning.
“Life,” he said at last, voice dropping even lower, almost reverent, “is growing inside you.”
Your breath had stilled completely.
Your smaller hands flew to cover his where it rested on your tummy. You exhaled shakily, the sound trembling in the quiet room.
“Pregnant…” The word left your lips in a stunned whisper. Then again, softer, disbelieving, “I’m pregnant.”
It sounded surreal even to your own ears.
Sukuna had pulled you back against his chest immediately, both arms wrapping around you from behind, holding you tighter than he ever had. No discussions had come before this moment. You had both known the possibility was there, after all the countless nights he had come deep inside you again and again, flooding your womb until it overflowed. Yet hearing it spoken aloud made the truth settle heavy and wonderful between you.
You looked down at your own tummy, watching the way his large hand cradled the gentle swell, and a soft, overwhelmed laugh bubbled up through your tears.
Sukuna’s chin rested on top of your head. His voice rumbled through you, low and teasing, but warm.
“What was that just now?” He gave the slightest roll of his hips, pressing the heavy line of his cocks against the curve of your ass. “Having lewd thoughts about how I filled you so well that it took?”
Your face burned, but you could not deny the fresh slick that had gathered between your thighs at his words. You nodded shyly, biting your lip, still staring down at the place where his hand protected the new life growing inside you.
He chuckled softly, pressing a slow kiss to the side of your neck.
“Good,” he murmured, hand gently rubbing circles over your belly. “Because I plan to keep you this full for a very long time.”
Back in the present, lying together in the cool chamber, Sukuna’s hand remained exactly where it had been that day, splayed protectively over the now much rounder swell of your pregnant belly. He felt the faint, fluttering movements beneath his palm and smiled into your hair.
The pears had only been the beginning.
Now you carried his child, and every night he held you just like this, quietly marveling at how completely one stolen faithful girl had rewritten his world.
☆ Series Summary: Your roommate borrowed money from the wrong man and left you to pay the price. Levi Ackerman knows how to collect what he’s owed, but he doesn’t expect himself to protect the very person he meant to break.
☆ Chapter Summary: You’re trying to build a life outside Levi’s home, but every closed door makes the walls around you feel smaller. When hope falls apart, comfort comes from the last person you should want it from.
☆ Pairing: Levi Ackerman x Female Reader
☆ Genre/Tags: Modern AU, Crime AU, Loan Shark Levi Ackerman, Smut, Angst
☆ Content Warnings: Captor/captive relationship, power imbalance, stockholm syndrome elements, lima syndrome elements, morally grey Levi Ackerman, TW job hunting (lol), explicit sexual content, mildly dubious consent, possessive Levi, fingering, praise kink, unprotected PIV, hickeys/marking, creampie
☆ Word Count: 9.6k
☆ AO3 Link
☆ a/n: surprise! releasing this early because I felt like it lol. please try not to ask when the next chapter is coming out, I haven't even started the next chapter. thank you to my beta reader @slaytherinthoughts!
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[ Art by leviluminary on Pinterest ]
You think you’re starting to go insane.
Every job listing is another promise you’re beginning to distrust. Administrative assistant, receptionist, customer service representative, cashier, part-time bookkeeper, weekend front desk support. Must be self motivated, must be reliable, must have three years of experience for minimum wage, must be comfortable in a fast-paced environment which just means we will overwork you.
You sit at Levi’s kitchen table for hours, elbows planted on the wood he’s already wiped down twice now. Your resume is open in one tab, your email in another, and seven job sites spread in your top bar. You feel either almost qualified for some, and for others, it feels like you’re insulting the entire job market by applying to them. But you keep going.
You send one application, then another, then another after that. It has to count for something, right? Because sitting here all day with your spine stiff and your hands shaking has to mean something, because if nothing else, you’re proving that you’re not just taking up space in Levi’s home, eating his food, sleeping under his roof, and taking advantage of his protection. You’re trying. You really are.
Levi doesn’t hover over you, but he passes through the kitchen often enough that you start to notice a pattern. He comes in for a drink he doesn’t drink. He checks the lock on the front door even though you watched him check it twenty minutes earlier. He opens the fridge, stares into it, closes it again, then looks at the back of your head. You ignore him mostly.
Around noon, your stomach starts to growl, but you don’t bother getting up. You have four listings open that look possible if you squint, one rejection email sitting unopened because you already know what it says, and a sick little hope that the next application will be the one that changes everything. Food just feels like a distraction.
A plate lands beside your laptop. You look down at it. Salad. Actual salad, not just a handful of leaves thrown into a bowl, but greens, sliced vegetables, grilled chicken, and some kind of dressing on the side. You look up. Levi is already turning away, one hand tucked into his pocket.
“I’m not hungry,” you say, looking back down at your laptop.
“Didn’t ask.”
“I’m working.”
“You’ve been glaring at your laptop for hours now.”
You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Levi glances at the laptop just long enough to see the rejected application notification sitting in the middle of your screen. His eyes narrow, but you catch it, because you’ve grown so used to the tiny movements of his face. You half expect him to say something, but he doesn’t.
He leaves, and a few minutes later, he comes back with a cup of tea and sets it down by the salad. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t tell you it’ll all be okay or to stop sulking, because he knows neither of those will do anything to ease your worries. He just gives you a little pocket of warmth and walks away.
You stare at the steam rising from the cup. You try to fight the urge, you really do, but between your stomach growling and the strange comfort you always feel when you’re around him, you eat the salad, drink the tea, and keep applying.
.
The next week and a half is a series of repeated humiliation.
You learn too many company names. You edit your resume until it no longer sounds like you but as if artificial intelligence wrote it. You write cover letters full of cheerful lies about passion and growth and exciting opportunities, and every time you type I would be grateful for the chance, you die a little bit more inside.
Levi notices more than he lets on. He notices when you stop tapping your foot and start picking at the skin around your nails instead. He notices when your eyes go glassy after another automated rejection. He notices when you reread the same listing three times before clicking away with a sigh. He never asks if you’re okay, which would be useless because you would just lie, but he starts leaving tea beside you more often, starts making food without asking whether you want any, and starts lingering in the kitchen under pathetic excuses that frankly feel like an insult to your intelligence.
It shouldn’t matter. He’s only doing it because keeping you alive and functioning is in his best interest. At least, that’s what you tell yourself. And you have a very bad habit of lying to yourself.
Then, on a Thursday afternoon, you refresh your email and see it. You stare at the first message for so long that the words don’t make sense. Then you open it, and then you read it again. Then, you click back to the inbox and realize there’s another one beneath it.
Two interview requests. Two.
You sit there for a moment, frozen, your heart pounding in your chest hard enough to make your ears ring. Hope rises so quickly it almost drowns you. Levi suddenly appears, summoned by the hitch in your breath.
“What?” he asks.
You look up at him, gripping the edges of the laptop tight. “I got interviews.”
He looks toward the screen, then back at you. “How many?”
“Two.”
“When?”
“Tuesday. One at ten, one at one-thirty.” You swallow as the excitement wobbles under reality. “But they’re on different sides of town.”
“I’ll drive you.” He says it immediately, like the decision was made long before you were even part of the conversation.
The hope in you dies just slightly. Of course he’ll drive you, because even with interviews and resumes, you’re still not allowed to walk out the front door by yourself. You’re still a woman living under the protection and control of a man who locks you inside while calling it safety. You’re still breathing borrowed air.
“You don’t have to act like my parole officer,” you say.
“You’re not going alone,” he says.
“I know the way by bus.”
“Good for you.”
“Levi.”
“You are not going alone,” he repeats firmly this time.
You look back at your laptop because looking at his face feels like too much right now. These interviews were supposed to feel like freedom. “Fine,” you say quietly. You think for a moment he’s going to explain himself or try to soften the blow, but he doesn’t.
“Eat something,” he says.
He walks away. Your eyes don’t leave him until he’s out of sight.
.
Two days later, Levi drives you to the first interview in a black car that smells like his cologne. One hand is loose on the wheel while the other rests on the gear shift.
You had changed outfits twice, checked your bag five times, and reread your printed resume to look for any typos. You bounce your knee against the passenger-side door, your fingers playing with the strap of your bag.
“I’m going to mess it up,” you say, looking through the window.
“You won’t,” Levi says.
“You don’t know that.”
“You’ve been practicing answers in the shower for two days.”
Heat rushes to your face. “You heard that?”
“The walls aren’t made of concrete.”
“You could’ve said something.”
“It was cute,” he says under his breath.
You turn to glare at him, and he keeps his eyes on the road, mouth flat, though you see a suspicious twitch at the corner.
Your anxiety surges again when the car turns onto a busier street. You see the city spread out around you: pedestrians under awnings, storefronts with neon signs, a woman balancing coffee, two shopping bags, and an umbrella, traffic lights blinking red through rain-blurred air. The outside world looks almost painfully ordinary.
You’re out. You’re actually moving through the city. You’re seeing something other than Levi’s apartment, his kitchen, his couch, his bathroom.
But the relief is swallowed by bitterness quickly, because even though you can see the sidewalks, you can’t step onto them unless he lets you. You can watch people come and go with bags on their shoulders and phones in their hands without needing permission, while you’re still buckled into Levi’s passenger seat, being taken from one point to another.
“I’m scared,” you admit. “What if they can tell? What if they know I’m desperate? What if I say something stupid, or—or they ask about my previous job, or I sound like I have no idea what I’m doing? Oh my god—I feel so useless right now.”
Levi glances at you. “You’re not stupid. You’re not useless. You’re just panicking, so get it together and stop crying.”
You turn slowly toward him, pouting slightly. “I’m not crying.”
“You’re about to.”
“I am not!”
“Then why are you doing that thing with your face?”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you look like someone just slapped you and you’re trying to kiss ass about it.”
You stare at him, offended, embarrassed, and unfortunately somewhat calmer than you were thirty seconds ago. “That is the worst pep talk I’ve ever heard.”
“It worked.”
“It did not.”
“You stopped spiraling.”
“I stopped because I was too busy being insulted.”
“Same result though, huh?”
You, unfortunately, laugh. Levi’s eyes flick briefly toward you again before returning to the road. Eventually, he pulls up outside the first building and puts the car in park. You stare at the entrance, your stomach dropping.
“Hey,” Levi says. You look at him. “Breathe. Walk in like you own the place.”
“And if I feel like I don’t?”
“Lie.”
For some reason, that helps more than any encouragement could have, so you breathe and you get out. Levi waits in the car. You’re about to walk away when he suddenly rolls down the window. He calls your name. You stop and turn around, then lean down, locking your eyes with his.
“Don’t pass out in there,” he says.
You huff out a laugh. “No guarantee.”
The first interview isn’t perfect, but it’s not a disaster either. Your voice shakes once, maybe twice, but you recover. You answer the questions, you smile at the right times, you remember to ask about the role, the team, and the schedule. When you step back outside thirty minutes later, Levi is waiting for you.
The second interview goes better. By the time you return to the car after one-thirty, your back hurts from keeping a straight posture for too long, your mouth is dry from talking too much, and the exhaustion has finally settled into your bones. Levi notices before you say a word.
“Well?” he asks as you slide into the passenger seat.
You buckle yourself in, then look down at your hands. “I think they went well.”
“Both?”
“Yeah.” You hesitate, then continue. “I mean, in my opinion. I didn’t completely embarrass myself.”
“Atta girl.”
You don't know how to properly respond to that without embarrassing yourself, so you settle for a dry, “Maybe they’ll hire me out of pity.”
The car goes quiet. Levi reaches over before you can look away from him, his thumb brushing along your cheek with a touch so brief your whole body freezes around it.
“Stop talking down on yourself,” he says. Your breath catches. His thumb leaves your skin, but the warmth of it lingers. You want to crack a joke to ease the tension between you, but nothing comes, so you just look out the window.
“Okay,” you say, and it comes out softer than you mean it to.
Levi drives. A little while later, he turns into a small parking lot instead of taking the road back to the house. You look around in confusion until you recognize the shop. Your favorite drink place. The one you had mentioned once, a few days ago, offhandedly, in the middle of complaining how nothing in his house had enough sugar.
“You remembered?” you ask.
“No,” he says, unbuckling his seat belt.
“Levi.”
“I have a functioning memory. It means nothing more.”
You follow him inside, still wearing your interview clothes. You watch him order your drink without asking. He must have remembered when you told him which drink you always ordered. When he hands it to you, the condensation cold against your fingers, your throat tightens.
“You survived two interviews. You deserve it,” he says.
It’s just a stupid drink. Sugar and ice in a plastic cup with a straw punched through the lid. It isn’t the freedom you’ve been craving. It isn’t a promise that your life will be worth living again. But it's a celebration because Levi treats it like one, even though you think he would rather chew glass than call it that.
And that scares you, because he’s starting to sound like he cares. Or maybe, he’s cared for longer than you wanted to notice.
You sit in the passenger seat afterward with the drink held tight in your hand. The city passes by you outside the window. You try to come up with a hundred different reasons why you should hate him. He’s dangerous. He’s controlling. He’s the reason you only have freedom in the form of a car ride. He’s the man who says you’re not going outside alone and expects you to just sit and take it like a good girl.
But he’s also the man who’s given you a roof, food, protection, transportation, tea when you’re stressed, salad when you refuse to eat, and now this stupid, sweet drink.
You take a sip and hate him for remembering. You take another and hate yourself more for smiling.
.
That night, you cook dinner. The kitchen is warmed by the steam curling from the pot on the stove. Your knife slices through the vegetables on the cutting board. You let yourself imagine it while the pot hisses and the smell of garlic rises around you: a job. A real one. Maybe not a perfect one, maybe not something you would’ve chosen before this, but a job that pays actual money. Money means options. Money means you can move on. It means you’ll be able to give something to Levi that isn’t an apology or an excuse.
You’ll pay him back. You’ll get out of here. You’ll be able to go outside alone and stop needing him.
Levi sits at the table while you cook, his chair angled so that he can watch both you and the front door, because even now, he’s on edge. He doesn’t offer to help, which you’re grateful for, because you want to do this yourself. You want to feed him tonight. You want one small piece of evidence that you can contribute something other than problems.
But you realize quickly that nothing about him should matter this much.
When you set the plate in front of him, Levi looks down at it, then up at you, and for one unbearable second, you feel self-conscious under his gaze. He picks up his fork, takes one bite, chews, swallows, then says, “Good.”
Just like before. Simple and blunt. Too small to be called praise. You cross your arms and lean against the counter. “You know, one of these days, you should try being grateful without sounding like you’re being tortured.”
“I said it was good.”
“Real convincing.”
“If I hated it, you’d know.”
“You’re a poet.”
“I’m eating it, aren’t I?”
You roll your eyes, but a smile threatens your mouth. You turn away before he can see it. You busy yourself with your own plate, trying not to focus on how normal this feels: the table, the food, Levi eating what you made.
Across the table, Levi watches you. His gaze shifts down when you finally sit, when you pick at your food before eating it, when your shoulders finally ease after the first few bites. She’s smiling, he thinks, and then shoos away the thought before it can mean anything. It doesn’t mean anything. It can’t.
You getting a job would be better for both of you. A step toward whatever comes next when this arrangement ends and he no longer has you under his care. But the thought of you raises more emotion in him than he’d like—emotions that he would rather die than say aloud.
Dinner passes with small conversation, mostly about the interviews because you can’t stop circling back to them. Levi listens more than he speaks. He makes one or two comments, dry enough to make you scoff. Afterward, he clears his own plate, but you take it from him at the sink before he can wash it.
“I’ll do the dishes too,” you say.
“You cooked. That means I do them.”
“Not tonight.”
He looks like he wants to argue, then decides, for once in his life, to not push. “Don’t break anything. My dishes are expensive.”
“Your faith in me is inspiring.”
The water runs lukewarm over your hands. You listen to the clinking of the dishes, the rustle of Levi moving somewhere behind you. You wash slowly, mostly because you don’t want the evening to end. Once the dishes are done, the hope will have nowhere to go. Once the kitchen is clean, you’ll have to return to the couch and the knowledge that this isn’t your home, no matter how many meals you cook inside it.
You’re rinsing the last plate when Levi comes up behind you. You feel him before he touches you. Your body recognizes the proximity of his. Then his hands settle on your hips. Your breath catches, and the plate nearly slips from your soapy fingers.
“Levi,” you whisper.
He leans in, his chest brushing your back, and presses his mouth to the side of your neck. The kiss is slow, almost restrained, his lips warm against your pulse point which jumps beneath his mouth. A shiver travels down your spine, and his fingers tighten slightly at your hips.
For a shameful second, you want to lean back. You want to feel him. You want your mind to go blank. Then the thought hits you so hard your stomach turns. You’re still dependent on him. You have nowhere else to go. The food you cooked, the interviews he drove you to, the drink he bought you, the roof over your head, the safety, the care he’s been showing you—all of it gathers at once in your gut.
Maybe this is what you owe. Maybe this is how you repay him.
Levi presses closer, his hips fitting against your ass, and whatever held you in place finally snaps. You turn around, wet hands shoving against his chest.
“No,” you say.
Levi stops. His hands leave you like the contact burns him. He steps back once, then again, putting enough distance between your body and his. You stand there, breathing too fast, fingers dripping water onto the floor. You brace for anger or something horrible to leave his mouth, something to make you feel stupid for thinking you could refuse him.
But Levi says nothing. He only looks at you for one long second, something unreadable moving behind his eyes, and then his gaze drops to the floor. He backs away fully.
“I’ll be in my room,” he says, leaving you standing in the kitchen with the sink still running and your heart pounding.
You turn the water off with shaking hands. For several minutes, you just stand there, gripping the edge of the counter. You stare down at the unfinished dishes, at the water draining in the sink. Shame crawls over you even though you know, somewhere underneath the panic, that you did nothing wrong.
You said no. He stopped. That should be the end of it. But it isn’t.
Night comes, and you lay on the couch beneath your blanket, curled onto your side with your back to the room, staring at nothing while the city keeps moving outside. You try to sleep, but every time your eyes close, you’re back at the sink with his mouth against your neck and his hands on your hips, back inside that terrible second when you wanted him and feared what wanting him meant.
Your body remembers the warmth. Your mind remembers the debt.
You feel ashamed for pushing him away, then ashamed for feeling ashamed. Then angry that you miss the contact you rejected. How dare your body ache for something that you fear? How dare loneliness turn you into someone who wants comfort from the man who hurt you?
You roll onto your back and press the heels of your hands over your eyes. You did nothing wrong, so why do you feel like you did? You lie there until the house goes near silent. Levi’s bedroom door remains closed. He’s given you so much space it feels like near abandonment. You told him no. He listened. Now you’re lying here hurt because he’s respecting it.
There’s something wrong with you.
You feel a wave of loneliness move through you. You want another body nearby. You want warmth. You want to close your eyes and feel safe with someone else. You want to sleep without listening for footsteps, without wondering what tomorrow will take from you.
You sit up before you can talk yourself out of it. The blanket slips from your shoulders. You simply sit there in the dark, staring toward the hallway that leads to Levi’s room. Then you stand. Each step feels louder than it is. The floor is cold beneath your bare feet. Maybe you’ll just go to the bathroom. Maybe you’ll get a glass of water. You tell yourself so many lies so weak that they fall apart before you finish thinking them.
You stop outside Levi’s bedroom door. The house is dark around you. There’s no light spilling through the bottom of his door. He might be asleep. He might be awake. Knowing Levi, he might be laying perfectly still on the other side with his eyes open, staring at the ceiling.
Your hand rises. All you have to do is knock.
You could ask. Just ask. You could say you can’t sleep. You could say you don’t want to be alone. You could tell him it’s not about earlier, even if that would be a lie and you both would know it. You could ask for comfort without offering your body as payment. You could see what he does with that kind of trust.
Your knuckles hover inches from the wood. Then you realize, with a rush of fear, that Levi already has too much power over you. He decides when you leave. He decides how far. He decides what danger is worth risking and what isn’t. He knows what you eat, when you sleep, how you take your tea, what drinks you like, how your voice changes when you’re trying not to cry. He already sees too much.
If he knows you want comfort from him, what is left? If he knows you’re lonely enough to come to his door after pushing him away, how much smaller will you become?
Your hand slowly curls into a fist. You let yourself imagine knocking anyway. Let yourself imagine the door opening, his tired eyes narrowing as he takes you in, his voice low and rough with exhaustion as he asks what the hell you’re doing standing there. Let yourself imagine stepping inside.
Then you lower your hand.
You turn away before you can change your mind and walk back to the couch with your arms wrapped tightly around yourself. It feels like the most sensible thing you’ve done all night.
You lie down beneath the blanket again. And down the hall, behind the door you chose not to knock on, Levi lies awake longer than he should, staring at the dark, listening to nothing, telling himself that giving you space is the right thing to do.
It is. He knows it is.
So he stays where he is.
.
A few days pass, and hope becomes a nervous habit. You check your email too often. People do that kind of thing—it’s normal, you know this. The waiting makes everyone a little jumpy. But then an hour becomes thirty minutes, then fifteen, and every time the silence stretches too long in the house, your mind searches desperately for something to cling onto.
You check it from the kitchen table with your tea going cold beside your hand. You check it from the couch with the television playing some random daytime show. You check it standing in the hallway, halfway between rooms. And nothing.
Then you get newsletters. Spam. A coupon from a store you haven’t been to in three years. One automated response from a place you applied to two weeks ago. No interview follow-up, and no offer.
Levi is gone for most of those days, swallowed up by whatever version of work he disappears into when he leaves the house. He doesn’t tell you where he goes, and you’ve learned not to ask. One day he comes home late smelling faintly of smoke and something metallic you don’t think about identifying. One day he comes home with a bruise across his knuckles and acts like you’re committing a crime against him for noticing.
But, he’s mostly gone, so you’re left alone with your own thoughts, and your thoughts are vicious little things that eat away slowly at your mind.
The house feels larger without him, and somehow less breathable. It becomes hollow. You try to apply to more jobs one morning, but every listing looks impossible. Every paragraph of requirements makes you feel like no one will want you. Not like this. Not desperate. Not half-owned by circumstances you can’t explain.
You’re being dramatic. You know this. You check your email again.
On the fourth morning, both rejections come in less than an hour apart.
The first one arrives at 9:17 a.m. You see the subject line before you open it, and part of you knows before your finger even touches the trackpad. Your heartbeat slows instead of quickening, sinking as you click, as the message opens.
Thank you for your interest. We appreciate the time you took to meet with us. We have decided to move forward with another candidate.
It stings. Like a slap you were bracing for and still somehow felt across your entire face. You sit there at the kitchen table, staring at the screen, trying to stop yourself from spiraling by telling yourself it’s just one job, one place, one decision, and the other interview went better anyway. The other one had to go better. You remember the hiring manager smiling. You remember answering clearly. You remember leaving the building with your shoulders lighter, letting yourself think, just for a few minutes, maybe.
You close the first email. You don’t cry. You’re proud of that for exactly forty-three minutes.
Then the second rejection arrives, and it crushes you.
Your hope breaks without dramatics. You simply feel empty, like everything inside you has been scooped clean out. You read the email once, then again, then a third time, because your mind refuses to believe that two doors can close so quietly after you spent days trying to force them open.
You don’t move for a long time. The laptop sits open in front of you. The kitchen clock ticks. You close the laptop, then you leave it there. You don’t job hunt for the rest of the day. You don’t make yourself tea. You don’t clean the counters, even though there’s a ring of water near the sink that would normally irritate you enough to wipe it away. You don’t fold the blanket on the couch. You don’t change out of the pajamas you slept in. You don’t cook, because the thought of food makes your throat close.
You lie on the couch instead. The television plays for hours. A woman laughs brightly on a game show. Commercials play, promising a better mattress, clearer skin, and a medication whose side effects sound like a disease in itself. Someone in a cooking segment explains the importance of fresh herbs. The world just keeps moving. You stare through all of it.
You can’t leave. You can’t pay Levi back. You can’t get hired. You can’t even turn two decent interviews into one mediocre offer. You’re stuck in Levi’s home, stuck under Levi’s protection, stuck waiting for permission to step outside, stuck eating food you didn’t buy and sleeping under a roof you didn’t earn, and the worst part is that you're not even afraid of him anymore.
You’re realizing now that the cage is softer than you thought, that the lock on the door has kept other monsters out, that the man holding the key remembers your favorite drink and notices when you skip lunch. You despise him for that. You despise yourself more.
By the time the front door opens that night, the sky beyond the windows has gone dark. The living room is lit only by the flicker of the television. You hear Levi’s keys first, then the click of the lock, then his footsteps stopping just inside the apartment.
He notices immediately. The television is on, but you’re not watching it. You’re lying on the couch in the same pajamas he saw you in that morning, your hair a mess against the cushion, your body curled up defensively. The kitchen is empty. No dinner. No dishes in the sink. No smell of garlic or tea or anything that proves you existed inside this house today.
Levi stands there for a moment, the door closing behind him slowly. “What happened?” he asks.
You don’t look at him. “Nothing.”
A pause. You can feel him staring. “You’ve been lying there all day?”
“No.” That’s a lie, and a bad one. You don’t even have the energy to make it convincing.
Levi’s mouth flattens. He sets his keys on the small table by the door, removes his coat, and drapes it over the back of a chair. You wait for him to push, for the interrogation, the command, the force he’ll use to cut the truth out of you whether you want to offer it or not.
But he just says, “Fine. Don’t tell me.”
You wish you didn’t feel abandoned by his words.
He walks into the kitchen. You stare at the television, your vision blurring. You half-listen to the sound of him moving through the kitchen, opening the fridge, setting a pan on the stove. You don’t know what he’s making because you don’t bother to turn around, but the house eventually fills with the scent of something savory.
Levi doesn’t ask if you want any. He already knows you’d say no, so he sets a plate on the coffee table in front of you. You look at it, then him. He’s changed nothing about his expression, but his eyes move over your face too carefully, taking inventory of the damage you’re hiding.
“Eat,” he says.
You push yourself upright and pick up the fork. You take a bite. It tastes good. You take another, then you stop. Levi sits in the chair across from you, his own plate balanced on his knees. He barely touches it though—he’s too busy watching you.
“Eat more,” he says after a while.
“I’m not hungry,” you say.
“That’s bullshit.”
You stare down at the plate. “I’m not hungry.”
Inside his head, Levi’s first instinct is to demand an answer. It’s ugly: press until something gives, use violence if he has to, pull the truth out by your hair. It would be easy. You’re tired and breaking. One hard question and you might just crack open right here on the couch.
But he doesn’t do it. He thinks about your hands shoving against his chest in the kitchen days ago. The way your voice shook when you said no. The way you looked at him like you expected him to become every bad thing you feared. He sets his fork down.
“Fine,” he says again. You wish he would stop saying that as if he’s leaving a door unlocked, waiting for you to walk through it.
The rest of your dinner goes cold. Night comes slowly, then all at once. Levi goes to his room after cleaning up what little you ate. You remain on the couch, the television turned off now. The house is dark except for the strips of moonlight coming in through the windows. You lie on your side with the blanket pulled to your shoulder, staring at the back of the couch. The silence is overwhelming, and then, finally, there’s nothing left to distract you from yourself.
What if this is it? Another week. Another failed application. Another month of him driving you places because it’s not safe. Another meal you cook because you need to feel useful. Another night listening to him move behind a closed door while you lie on his couch. What if you never get out of here? What if he never lets you? What if he does let you, eventually, and you have nowhere to go?
You think of the people he protects you from, whoever they are. You think of the violence that sits dormant in his body. You think of his hands and mouth on you. You think of how quickly he stopped when you said no both times. You think of how badly you wished, hours later, that he had opened his door and given you somewhere to put your loneliness.
You’re afraid he’ll hurt you. You’re afraid he’ll keep you. You’re afraid he’ll get tired of keeping you. That’s what scares you the most, because what are you if you can’t pay him back? What are you if you can’t get hired, can’t leave, can’t offer anything useful except dinner and the occasional warmth of your body when you’re too lonely to be proud? What happens when Levi realizes you’re not worth the trouble or the danger?
You don’t like that you want to be useful to him. You don’t like that disappointing him hurts—more than it should. You don’t like that part of you isn’t crying because you failed, but because failure means you’re still here with nothing to give him.
The first sob slips out before you can swallow it. You slap a hand over your mouth, but it’s too late. Another follows, harder, your body shaking beneath the blanket. You try to keep quiet, because you can’t bear to ask him for anything else. Not comfort. Not mercy. But the harder you try to stop, the worse it becomes, grief clawing up your throat in humiliating sounds you can’t control.
You don’t hear Levi’s door open at first. Or maybe you do, and the sound simply doesn’t reach you because you’re too busy drowning.
He stands in the hallway for a second, barefoot, shirt wrinkled from lying down, his hair messy in a way you’ve only ever seen a few times before. He doesn’t move at first. He gives you a chance to notice him, to tell him to go away if that’s what you need, but you’re curled up so much that you don’t see him at all.
Levi crosses the room quietly and crouches beside the couch. He says your name. You jolt, turning your face away immediately, one hand dragging clumsily over your cheeks as if you can erase the evidence before he can see it.
“Go away,” you choke.
“No.”
“Levi—”
His fingers touch your face before you can finish, brushing the wetness from your cheek. You push at his hand. It’s weak and pathetic, barely a refusal.
“I said go away.”
“I heard you.”
“Then why are you still here?”
He looks at you for a long moment, and whatever answer he has must not be satisfying enough to him because he doesn’t speak it. He only slides one arm beneath your shoulders and the other beneath your knees. Your body tenses, fear waking fast as he lifts you off the couch. The blanket slips. Your hands fly to his shirt, not knowing if you’re trying to push him away or keep yourself from falling.
He doesn’t put you down, and instead carries you down the hall. You should fight. You don’t know what he plans to do with you. You should twist and kick and make yourself impossible to carry, but his hold on you is firm. Grief has emptied you so much that resistance slips through your fingers. You clutch at his shirt instead.
He pushes the bedroom door open with his shoulder. His room is dark and extremely clean. The bed is made, as if he wasn’t just sleeping in it. The air smells like him, faintly like soap and cologne and cedar. Your crying hitches into smaller breaths.
He lays you down on the bed. He doesn’t climb over you. He sits at the edge at first, giving you space even now. That small amount of restraint breaks you even further, because you know what it means to him. You know he could have demanded answers by now and has chosen, again and again tonight, not to.
You reach for him before you can stop yourself. You grab his shirt, and then you’re pulling yourself toward him, or he’s moving toward you, or both of you close the distance at the same time because neither of you has the strength left to pretend this isn’t what you need. He pulls you into his chest, one arm wrapping around your back, the other hand coming to the back of your head as you bury your face against him and sob like no one is listening.
Levi holds you. He doesn’t mock you or sigh or tell you to stop crying, though part of him wants to because crying means that something is wrong, and he’s always been better at breaking wrong things than fixing them. He only keeps his arm around you, his palm slowly moving over your hair. You can’t imagine where he could have learned such tenderness.
Your tears soak into his shirt. He lets them. For a while, the only sound is your crying and his breathing, low beneath your cheek. His heartbeat is calmer than yours, and you cling to it because your own feels frantic and trapped in its ribcage.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, the words coming out mangled against his chest.
His hand pauses in your hair. “For what?”
You don’t even know where to begin. For failing. For crying. For needing him. For pushing him away. For wanting him anyway. For sitting in his house all day doing nothing. For becoming another problem in his life.
“For everything,” you say. “I feel useless.”
Levi shushes you and resumes the path of his fingers over your hair. “You’re not useless, baby doll.”
You squeeze your eyes shut. The sob that follows is weaker than the others, almost exhausted. “You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“You don’t.”
“I do,” he repeats, and this time, he says it more firmly, filled with a hint of anger on your behalf. He would gladly put his fist through whatever part of your mind keeps feeding you this poison—if only it had a face.
You breathe unevenly against him. “I’m never getting out of here.”
The truth comes out. The truth beneath the job rejections, beneath the shame, beneath the untouched dinner and the crying you couldn’t silence.
Levi goes very still. You feel his entire body lock up. You think you’ve said something wrong for a moment. Maybe you have. Maybe there’s no right thing to say in a bed that isn’t yours, against a man who’s both the reason you’re protected and the reason protection feels so much like captivity. His hand shifts from your hair to the back of your neck.
“You’re not stuck because you failed two interviews.”
He says your name. You pull back just enough to look at him. His face is close, shadowed in the dark, his eyes fixed on yours with an intensity that makes it hard to breathe. He looks tired, like the sight of you breaking has forced him to face a part of himself he doesn’t want to face.
The room is too quiet. The bed is too warm. His hand still rests at the back of your neck, and yours are still gathered in the front of his shirt, wrinkling the fabric because letting go feels impossible now that you’ve already humiliated yourself by reaching for him. Your tears have slowed, though your face is still damp, and your breath still catches now and then.
Levi watches one of those breaths tremble out of you. He tells himself not to do it. You’re upset and vulnerable. You’re in his bed because he brought you here. There are a dozen reasons to stand up, put space between you, tell you to sleep and leave before this becomes something neither of you can take back. He knows all of them. He's counted them. He’s survived this long by knowing when want is a liability.
But then your gaze drops to his mouth for one brief second, and when you look back at his eyes, there’s fear there, yes, but want as well. Loneliness. Need. The same contradiction that’s been floating between you for days.
“Tell me no,” he whispers.
Your breath stops. He’s not touching you like he did in the kitchen. He’s not pressing. He’s not taking. He’s giving you the word before he takes anything else, placing it in your hands because you both know what happened last time.
You should say it. You should pull away. You should lie down on the far side of the bed and let this pass through you without turning it into another complication, because that won’t fix the rejections, it won’t pay your debt, and it won’t make you free. It doesn’t solve anything. It might ruin everything.
But Levi’s hand is warm at the back of your neck. His shirt is damp beneath your cheek. The room smells like him. You’re so tired of being alone with yourself that the thought of pulling away feels like stepping back into the cold.
You understand the consequences. You see them clearly. You choose him anyway.
You lean in. Levi meets you halfway, and the kiss is nothing like the hunger that sparked in your apartment or in the cell. This is slower, more careful. Tender in a dangerous way, because tenderness means trust, and trust is the one thing you’ve been trying not to give him.
He’s holding himself back by force, and every second of softness is a choice he has to keep making. You kiss him back with a shaky breath caught between you. You grip his shirt a little tighter, your body turning toward his before shame can turn you away.
All you feel is comfort for a moment. Then desire pools beneath it, terrifyingly alive. Levi feels the change in you, the small shift of your body closer to his, the way your mouth follows when he starts to pull back. Something fractures in him. He pulls back a sound he refuses to make. He keeps one hand at your neck, the other at your back, holding you carefully as if you’re fragile.
He draws back only enough to look at you. You open your eyes slowly. His forehead nearly touches yours.
“Still with me, sweetheart?” he asks.
Your chest aches. You know what the right answer would be if you were smarter, if you were freer, if wanting him didn’t feel like handing him another key. But you’re here. You’re in his bed. You’re not crying anymore. And for the first time all day, your mind is quiet.
So you nod. Then, because nodding isn’t enough, because he told you to use your words once and the memory rises unbidden, you whisper, “Yes.”
Levi closes his eyes for half a second, then he kisses you again. He’s soft at first, lips barely brushing against yours. The warmth of his breath mingles with your own. There’s no rush here, only the slow press of his mouth, letting you decide how much to meet him.
Your fingers tighten in his shirt, pulling him ever so closer. Levi’s thoughts flicker with restraint. He wonders if you can sense the effort it costs him to keep his hands on your neck and back instead of letting them roam. The rejections and the weight of the day fade under the kiss. You taste the faint salt of your earlier tears. He’s here, solid and warm, and the cage of his arms no longer feels like confinement. It’s a place where vicious thoughts can’t reach you as easily.
The hunger begins to surface. He deepens the kiss with a low sound he can’t quite suppress. His tongue traces the seam of your lips, seeking entry, and when you part them, he takes it with growing intensity, the gentleness finally giving way to the need that surges through him. He rolls on top of you, your bodies aligning from chest to hips. The grind of his pelvis against yours sends a spark through you. You feel the hard line of him through his pants as he moves once, then again. Your legs part to accommodate him. The fit of your bodies draws a shared breath from both of you.
Inside Levi’s head, the sight of you beneath him like this pulls at old instincts to both claim and protect. He tempers it with the memory of your earlier sobs, choosing instead to let the motion speak of comfort laced with desire. Your thoughts race with the same fear. The fear of losing yourself to him warring against the pull of wanting to be wanted, to matter in a way that doesn’t require payment.
Levi’s hands move to the hem of your shirt. He lifts it slowly over your head. You don’t stop him. The fabric slips away. Your shorts follow, leaving you only in your underwear. The air of the room brushes your bare skin. His gaze drops for a moment, taking in the curve of your breasts. He removes his own shirt in one fluid motion. The muscle of his torso comes into view. Tattoos snake down his arms. He lowers himself again to kiss you, skin meeting skin. You arch into the contact, your hands sliding up his back to feel his warmth. The praise he murmurs against your mouth comes low.
“You’re so beautiful like this.”
He trails his hand down your stomach, slipping beneath the waistband of your underwear. One finger parts you gently, finding the slick evidence of how his kisses and touch have already affected you. Levi circles your entrance with tender strokes, his mouth never leaving yours as he kisses through the first soft gasp you give him. He adds a second finger, easing them inside with a slow push that stretches you in a way that draws a whimper from your throat. His pace is slow at first, thumb brushing your clit in light, passing circles.
Levi increases the pace, your hips moving with him. His fingers thrust deeper and faster, thumb pressing more firmly against your clit. The kiss grows hungrier, his tongue matching the rhythm below as he swallows the sounds you make. Your mind is finally at peace, the fear of tomorrow replaced by the immediacy of his touch. The pressure builds steadily, your thighs trembling around his wrist as he works you through the pleasure. Two fingers curl just right. His thumb maintains its relentless circling.
Your climax catches you with a sudden rush, your walls fluttering around his fingers. The pleasure crests and breaks through you in waves. Levi kisses you through it, his movements slowing only when your body begins to still. His thumb eases pressure to gentle strokes that draw out the aftershocks without overstimulating you. He stays close, forehead resting against yours. Your breathing evens.
Levi withdraws his fingers slowly, watching your face for the flutter of your eyelids. The absence of his touch leaves you momentarily untethered until his hands move to the waistband of his pants. The fabric slides down his hips and off his legs to reveal his hard length. He climbs over you, movements almost predatory.
He lifts your legs, positioning them over his shoulders gently, a stark contrast from the pure dominance in his gaze. His palms slide down the backs of your thighs to grip firmly before he aligns himself with your entrance. You feel him press against your heat before he pushes forward with a pressure that stretches you open around every inch.
Levi’s thoughts are a storm, his jaw tight with the effort of holding back when every instinct demands he bury himself to the hilt. He watches your face, searching for pain, for hesitation, for any signs that he should stop. Only when he sees your lips part on a gasp that contains no distress does he sink fully inside. He fills you, and you’re able to feel the pulse of him against your walls.
Your hands fist in the sheets as your body adjusts to the intrusion. Levi holds still, his chest heaving with controlled breaths. When he begins to move, it’s with slow, testing thrusts. Each withdrawal and return means to let you feel every sensation. You find yourself arching into him. Your legs over his shoulders creates an angle that makes each stroke press against a sensitive spot inside you.
The contrast of his gentleness and his power, how he holds you open and vulnerable yet shields you from the roughness you might fear, feels almost terrifying. You let your head fall back, exposing your throat to the air. But the inhibition in Levi’s movements begins to falter as your body submits to him, your muscles relaxing to accept him. His hips snap forward with increasing speed, the careful rhythm giving way to a harder, deeper pace.
He leans forward, folding your legs back further. The change in angle makes you cry out. Your hands fly to his forearms where they grip your thighs, holding on as he fucks into you with a force that rocks the bed beneath you. The control he maintains is a thin thread, snapped and rewoven with each sound you make, each clench of your body around him that tells him you’re with him, that you want this, and that you’ve chosen to be here beneath him.
You can’t speak. The words you want to say are reduced to gasps and whimpers that he swallows with your gaze. You let him set the pace, let him use your body for his pleasure. He drives into you harder, seeking the places that make your vision white at the edges. Levi curses under his breath.
“Fuck, just like that.” he groans. “Take it, sweetheart. Take everything.”
He lowers your legs then, guiding them down to wrap around his waist. The shift brings him closer, chest to chest, his face hovering inches above yours. You feel the difference immediately, the intimacy of his mouth claiming yours as he fucks you. His tongue mirrors the rhythm below. His hand finds your breast, thumb circling the nipple before pressing down lightly.
Your body moves with him rather than merely receiving him. Your hips rise to meet each downward stroke that pounds into you. It should hurt, but it builds an exquisite pressure. Levi looks at you, marveling at how you’ve transformed from the weeping creature on his couch to this responsive, hungry being in his bed. He thinks, suddenly, that he would kill to keep you here. Safe, and his.
“You’re mine,” he whispers against your mouth.
You nod frantically because in this moment, suspended between the threat of tomorrow and the reality of his body inside yours, you want to be his. You want the protection he offers even if it comes with chains.
“Say it,” he demands, his hand leaving your breast to brush your clit in a sudden touch that makes you whine. “Tell me.”
“Yours,” you gasp, the word breaking on a moan. He hits a spot that makes your toes curl. The admission feels both like surrender and relief, a confession of need that you’ve been denying for days.
The pace becomes relentless then. Levi’s control slips entirely as he chases his release. His hips work in powerful, grinding thrusts that leave you breathless. His hand comes to rest on your hip, gripping and holding you steady for his use. He curses again, a stream of praise and obscenity washing over you.
“So fucking good. You’re doing so well, taking me so deep,” he moans.
Each word brands you, marking you as his, transcending physicality. You feel the tension in him building. His rhythm stutters as he swells inside you. He buries his face in your neck, teeth grazing the tendon there. He sucks hard, a hickey blooming across your skin, throbbing, leaving a visible claim that you’ll wear tomorrow.
He cums with a broken sound, a groan that vibrates against your throat as he spills inside you. He fills you in pulses that seem to go on forever, grinding lazily as he empties himself. But he doesn’t stop, even as his own climax breaks through him. His hand slides between your bodies to find your clit, rubbing tight circles that force you closer to the edge.
“Cum for me,” he commands. “I wanna feel you squeeze me, baby doll. Give it to me.”
Your body responds to him even as your mind reels. The stimulation on your throbbing clit is intense, almost too much, but his fingers work you as if he knows your body by heart now. You still feel his hardness in you. You finally tip over the edge, and your orgasm crashes through you, making you cry out against his shoulder. Your walls clamp down on him, milking him as your vision goes dark and your body bows off the bed. He groans at the feeling, free arm wrapping around your back to hold you through it, whispering praise that you barely hear through the rushing in your ears.
“That’s it. Good girl, so beautiful.”
When the wave finally recedes, you’re limp, trembling, and utterly spent. It leaves no room for thought or fear or shame—only the floating aftermath of sweet release. Levi pulls out slowly, hissing at the sensitivity. You feel the loss of him and whine. He collapses beside you with a graceless fall, exhaustion claiming him. His chest heaves as he drags air into his lungs. For a moment, you lie apart, the sweat cooling on your skin, the sound of your breathing filling the dark room.
Then his arm reaches out, pulling you toward him. He guides you to roll onto your side, and he fits himself against your back. His chest is a solid wall of heat. You’re too tired to resist, too undone to maintain the boundaries that seemed so important hours ago, and you let him move you as he wants. It almost terrifies you how trusting you are.
His arm comes around your waist. You find his wrist with your hand, holding onto him like a lifeline. Your fingers circle his wrist in an absentminded caress. Levi shifts, his hand moving to find yours, threading his fingers through your own. He locks your hands together before he brings them to rest of your stomach, just below your navel where you can feel the phantom pulse of his release.
The gesture is so intimate, so domestic in its possessiveness, that you almost forget who you’re lying next to. You lie there in his arms, your hand locked in his, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing against your back. The warmth of him envelops you. Sleep pulls at you, your body demanding restoration after this mess of a day. Your mind fights to stay awake, to remember that this is temporary, that you’re still trapped, that the rejections still wait in your email and the debt still hangs between you.
Yet, as consciousness fades, the conflict within you worsens instead of resolves. You fear him—the violence you know he’s capable of, the control he exerts over your life, the way he’s made you need him not just for safety but for the warmth of his praise and the shelter of his body. But you want him with a hunger that shames you, want the safety of his arms and the sound of his voice calling you his, want the way he looks at you as if you’re precious even while he fucks you until he leaves marks.
The duality tears at you, the knowledge that you’ve handed him a piece of yourself tonight that you can’t take back. You crossed a line from which there may be no return, and yet the comfort of his heartbeat against your spine lulls you toward surrender.
You fear what he’ll demand tomorrow, what price this intimacy will be, whether the gentleness will vanish with the dawn and leave you with only the cage you dreaded. But you want to wake up still held, still his, still protected from the world that has shown you no mercy beyond these walls. The last though that flickers through your mind before sleep claims you is the awareness of his thumb stroking the back of your hand.
You sink into darkness with his name unspoken on your lips, your body curled into his, your hand prisoner to his on your stomach, and caught between the terror of captivity and the terrible, aching sweetness of finally—finally—not being alone.
For every person that asks "when's the next chapter?" immediately after this was posted, I'll add another day of not working on this fic :P
summary: between sleepless nights, bruised hands, and captain levi’s relentless attention, the line between self-preservation and self-destruction begins to blur. captain levi watches you like he’s waiting for you to make a mistake. the problem is that you can’t stop watching him back.
content warning(s): age difference, power imbalance, loss of innocence, mildly dubious consent, canon-typical violence, circa season 1 of aot, aged up recruits, slight eren yeager/reader, not so slowburn, eventual explicit sexual content.
chapter specific warnings: tension? mentions of death. reader passes out.
author's note: this is the first chapter of a multi-chapter fanfiction cross posted on my ao3. hope you guys enjoy! my inbox is open for fic requests and headcanon requests, as well as just to chat.
Sticking your tongue into the junction of your upper and lower teeth, you swung your sword with purpose.
Thwack!
The enemy did not relent, casting his arm over his head to shield the blow, while the other arm jutted its own weapon out towards your hip. With practiced ease, you maneuvered your body to spin, using your own momentum to propel yourself forward. Your blade slotted in the space between his collarbone and neck, pinning him down onto the ground with your knees. It was here that you had him, one more slice and he would be gone.
Eren’s green eyes widened as he looked up at you, soft tufts of grass displaying around his head like a crown. “Did Mikasa show you that and not me?” He asked as an obvious surrender, tone shifting into that of concern instead of determination. “I told her that you two training together would do more harm than good.”
He pushed himself up, face only a few inches from yours when he grinned childishly. “I mean, it would do more harm than good for Armin and I. You two would be unstoppable if we all got into an argument.”
You laughed, setting your training sword on the ground in order to crawl off of him, looking in the distance at the other cadets sparring in the low evening light. A moment later you held out your hand, to which he grabbed and used your leverage to anchor himself up, brushing the dirt off of his tan pants. “You seem too cocky for someone who was put on their ass a second ago,” you muttered.
Around you, the field buzzed with the humming sounds of cicadas clinging to the trees, the dull percussion of training blades intercepting once in a while over their song. The evening sun hung low, bleeding gold across your friends face.
“Seriously,” Eren continued, panting for breath, “whatever Mikasa is showing you, she definitely skipped over with the rest of us.”
“Maybe she just likes me more.”
A snort was heard nearby from Sasha, who was sitting cross-legged in the grass, nursing a bruise blossoming along her jaw. Next to her was Connie, muttering an apology for hitting too hard to cause harm. You took a moment to admire the scene in front of you, soldiers paired up with one another as they practiced their sparring before calling it a night, taking the last bits of light until it was replaced with the moon. It had been a month since you and your friends had joined the Scouts, desiring the freedom that came from being outside the walls. The Battle of Trost was still fresh in all of your minds, enough to where sometimes you would wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat.
The scattered conversations around the field began thinning and practice swords eventually lowered. You could see the weight of their exhaustion in their shoulders. Towards the end of the day all of you got sluggish, sleep so close yet so far away.
Sasha groaned dramatically. “I think I’m dying.”
“You say that every time someone touches you,” Connie said.
She stood up from the ground and looked down at him, giving him a light kick. “Because all of you are violent.”
You smiled despite yourself, hand reaching to your shoulder to rub absently. Everything hurts lately. Bruises were layered over older bruises before they had the time to fade, muscles sore from drills specifically were designed to push recruits until they collapsed. Hange had cheerfully informed all of you during breakfast this morning that the pain meant that your body was learning, to which you had to physically hold Jean so that he didn’t throw a spoon at them from across the mess hall.
Eren began to say something else, which you half listened to while your gaze drifted to the far side of the training grounds. It was there that you saw Captain Levi, standing near the wooded perimeter fence. One hand rested against the hilt attached to his hip while the other held him steady against the wood. He was watching the group to your right, and then in an instant, he was looking at you.
Heat crawled unpleasantly up the back of your neck.
It had become a recurring problem over the past two weeks, where you always caught his attention at the worst possible moments. His attention always shifted at times where you were idle, like now as you stood talking with your friends while you were supposed to be training, or the night that you were ordered to clean the mess hall floors and took a little bit too much time filling the bucket with water. It was as though he could sense the exact moment that your focus slipped.
You looked away first. He was difficult to look at directly for too long. His gaze was sharp in a way that made you feel abruptly aware of yourself. Your posture. Your breathing. The dirt on your boots. Though, it was too late. Out of the corner of your eye you could see him moving closer. The conversations began to dull almost instinctively, quieter in the way that you all became whenever Captain Levi crossed the grounds. Everyone tried to make themselves look busy. Sasha stood up from her sitting position while Connie pretended he was fixing the laces of his boots. Eren grabbed his sword from the ground along with yours, handing it to you.
Levi stopped a few feet away from your group, his gaze sweeping across your groups scattered training swords and half-resting soldiers. His mouth twitched.
Disapproval.
“That’s really interesting,” he said in a flat tone. “I don’t remember dismissing any of you.”
“We’ve been training for over three hours,” Eren muttered under his breath, as if to only say it to your group instead of the Captain. The moment it left his mouth you could see the regret on his face because Levi heard him anyway, and you could see your friend reconsider every life decision that led him to this moment.
“And somehow you still can’t fight for shit.”
You bit the inside of your cheek, the fleshy skin anchoring you hard enough to stop yourself from smiling.
Unfortunately for you, Levi seemed to notice that too. “You think that’s funny?”
Amusement vanished from your expression. “No, sir.”
“Hm.”
You knew that he didn’t believe you and for one unbearable second, his eyes lingered on you. Cool gray analyzing your face with the same focus you had noticed him giving broken equipment or badly cleaned floors. Your stomach dropped, preparing for another snide remark thrown your way, another way that he could spot out your lack of attention or drive.
Instead, his gaze fixed downward to the sword hanging loosely at your side in your hand.
“You’re holding it wrong.”
Your fingers instinctively tightened around the grip of the base. “I—”
“In real combat you would lose two fingers trying to catch it once it falls out of your grip.” His voice was straight as he spoke, like he was bored. “If you weren’t already impaled by the enemy.”
Heat rose to your face.
Levi extended his arm toward you expectantly. And for a second you only stared at him, blinking in confusion before realizing that he wanted your sword, which you quickly handed over. His finger brushed yours briefly, the contact of calloused fingers dragging against your skin before he stepped back. It was less than a second, but it still left you aware of your own heartbeat thumping in your chest.
He rotated the sword in his grip, like it was made for him. He was confident in the way that he held it, as though he would be able to do considerable damage with a sword that was dulled for training. You watched as his fingers curved against the hilt, thumb pressed into the leather handle to steady it.
“You’re compensating too much with your wrist,” he stated, like it was obvious. “You’ll never get a good slash on a titan with the way you were holding it. You’re better off just standing in front of it and letting it eat you.”
“I wasn’t that bad,” you muttered.
Levi’s eyes squinted.
“No,” he agreed, an amusing lilt to his voice. Would he actually compliment you for once?
“You were worse.”
Typical.
“I don’t understand what his problem is,” Eren said to you, passing a piece of bread your way from across the table. The mess hall was filled with multiple different conversations, all ranging to wildly different things. Though, after your encounter with the Captain on the training yard, your group was focused on debriefing what had happened before he let everyone go for the night. You caught the bread before it could bounce off your tray, tearing a piece from it and plopping the bit into your mouth. It was still warm.
Across from you, Armin winced. “I think the Captain is like that with everyone.”
It was typical for Armin to try and see the bright side of things, even when it came to your brooding Captain. His words comforted you more than you let on, giving him a sympathetic look before returning your gaze to the bowl of some type of stew in front of you.
“No,” Jean interjected. “He definitely enjoys being mean to her specifically.”
You shot him a glare.
Jean raised his hands up, one of them holding a spoon as he said, “What? It’s true! He just insults us. She gets a play by play of everything she did wrong.”
Eren kicked him underneath the table. “You aren’t helping.”
Despite reminiscing about your close call with the Captain earlier, you felt some of the tension you had been holding begin to loosen. The mess hall buzzed, steam rising from bowls that smelled like vegetables and broth. It felt normal, or as normal as things could feel after Trost. Your gaze drifted absently across the room, watching your fellow soldiers crowd together. Some laughed too loudly, others were falling asleep hung over tables, a few just stared at nothing.
“You know,” Connie started, “I think the Captain paying attention to you is probably a good thing.”
“That’s the worst thing anyone has ever said to me,” you replied flatly.
He grinned, but leaned forward. “No, listen. Captain Levi barely notices most people. Or doesn’t care to notice people.” A beat. Before he said, “Maybe he just thinks that you have potential.”
Jean pointed at you with his spoon. “Or maybe he thinks you’re going to die horribly.”
“That too.”
Eren raised to your defense again, but the argument blurred into the familiar background noise of the table while you tore at another piece of bread, dipping it into the broth. Potential. You doubted that it was that. There was no way that the Captain was picking on you because of that. He probably thought that you were a dumb little girl who wanted to play with swords and decided to join the Scouts to try and make a name for yourself. Or maybe he thought that you had a death wish, and he was trying to teach you that even if you die, you would die fighting. You hated that you wanted to prove him wrong.
With every fibre of your being, you just wanted to prove him wrong.
You wanted him to look at you and think you were capable instead of careless.
Sasha said something to you and you pretended to hear it, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. A hand came and laid on your own. Eren. “He’s just a dick, don’t take it personally, really,” he said, trying his best to comfort you. “He needs to get laid.”
Mikasa scrunched up her face. “Ew.”
Connie burst into laughter loud enough to turn a few heads from the nearby tables, while Jean nearly choked on his drink.
Armin looked horrified. “Eren,” he said weakly. “You can’t just say that. We should not speculate about the Captain's personal life like that.”
“Why not?” Sasha asked.
“Because if he hears us talking about this we’ll probably die.”
After the bit of laughter had settled down, Armin forced a subject change.
You couldn’t sleep.
You tried to reason with yourself that it was the bruise that was blooming on the back of your thigh from taking a fall earlier that was making you too uncomfortable. But you knew that it was because of the nightmares that plagued you the moment you closed your eyes. In the darkness, Trost waited for you.You saw blood spilling across the stone streets, dust and smoke making everything blurry. ODM gear screamed through the air alongside your fellow soldiers begging for help that never came. Titans wandered through your thoughts like gods at the top of the food chain, mouths opening and eating soldiers between rows of teeth. And afterward, the vomiting. The regurgitated mangled bodies on the ground because its stomach had become too full.
With a quiet exhale, you shoved your blanket away and sat upright. Carefully, you swung your legs over the side of the bed, the wooden floor creaking faintly beneath your feet.
Maybe fresh air would help.
You moved through the halls, pulling the door open just enough to slip outside. Once the cold air hit your face, the sharpness grounded you. For a moment, you stood there beneath the moonlight and breathed. The air was almost sweet smelling. Unlike the air you were used to behind the walls that smelled faintly of smoke and livestock. The grounds looked entirely different at night. Softer. The noise of the day had stilled into silence which left only the trees to rustle their song, the occasional owl hooting.
Your gaze looked upward toward the stars. So many people had died beneath this sky, so many people that you weren’t sure you could remember all of their names anymore.
The thought settled heavily in your chest.
“You’re going to freeze to death standing out here.”
You nearly jumped out of your skin at the voice. And when you turned your head, Captain Levi was there, sitting on the steps near one of the other entrances, half-shadowed by darkness. He was impossibly still. You wouldn’t have even known that he was there if he hadn’t made you aware of it. In his hand, there was a teacup. You could see the steam rolling off of it.
You crossed your arms against your chest instead of answering him, gaze drifting toward the stretch of trees in the distance. The forest looked endless from here. Almost consuming. Neither of you spoke to fill in the silence, which should have felt uncomfortable. Instead, however, it settled strangely still between the both of you.
He spoke again. Slightly louder this time.
“You’re useless to me if you get yourself sick.”
You considered immediately going back inside. That was probably the smart decision, because the thought of being alone at night with Captain Levi felt inherently dangerous to the peace you tried to keep in your mind, especially after the disaster that had happened earlier during training. But a part of you knew that leaving now would make it look like you were afraid of him. Which, for the record, you absolutely were, though, not in the way that he probably thought.
“I’ll survive a little cold air,” you answered instead, keeping your voice firm. Though it was after hours, he was still your Captain.
Levi made a quiet sound against the rim of his teacup, a sound that seemed like half agreement and half dismissal. “You recruits are all stubborn in the exact same way,” he muttered. “You’ve barely spent any time out of here and you think that you can survive it.”
“I survived Trost.”
“If I hadn’t come and protected you and your friends while you tried to pull Yeager out of that titan, you would have died. And we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now.”
The words thrummed through the soft air like a chord struck wrong. Your jaw tightened immediately, fingers curling against your arms. It was cruel. You tried to reason in your head. He was cruel. He spent all of this time trying to beat you down and even when you were off-duty he did the same. Images of that day came back uninvited, like you were asleep again, and you could see Eren’s titan collapsing, you could feel the absolute desperation that you had felt while trying to break him free before more Titans arrived. And then Captain Levi, cutting through them like it was just another day.
“I know that,” you answered, something defensive behind your words.
“Do you?”
Irritation flooded you.
“Yes.”
It was then that Levi stood from his spot on the steps, stretching his legs for a moment before walking closer towards you. He looked different now when you saw him in this low light now that you could see him completely. Less composed, less sharp. Like for almost a moment he wasn’t the strongest soldier that humanity had ever seen and he was just . . . Levi. He stood before you, teacup lazily slung in between his fingers of the hand that rested beside him. You stepped back a pace, and then another, wanting to put as much space in between him and you so that he wouldn’t see just how terrified you actually were that day.
“You say that,” he replied, “but you throw yourself into training like you’re trying to prove something. You overextend your swings, you ignore openings, and you stop thinking when your emotions get involved. If you want to survive more than a week when we go on our expeditions, you need to start thinking like a soldier instead of a scared little girl. Or maybe you just have a death wish. Is that what you want?”
The words were like a slap to your face. It knocked you in the same way that it had on the training field. Something sharp twisted violently into your chest. You always hated the way that Eren blew his top off before thinking about his words first, always chastising him while you were supposed to be considered the more level-headed one. But Captain Levi had struck a nerve, one that you couldn’t find in you to settle. It wasn’t what you wanted. You didn’t want to die. You wanted to survive. Levi watched you carefully, gray eyes fixed on your face with that same unbearable focus. He was testing you, you knew this.
“You’re angry,” he stated. Baiting you.
“No shit.”
“You need to figure out what you want. Then you’ll become a good soldier.”
Levi stepped closer, and this time you didn’t move back. He was close enough that you could see the push and pull of his chest raising with every breath he took. You could smell the faint smell of tea leaves and clean linen beneath the cold night air. If you looked down even slightly, you would notice the way his fingers rested loosely around the porcelain cup. You kept your eyes fixed stubbornly on his face instead. The corner of your mouth raised for a moment, trying hard to keep your emotions underneath the surface, pretending that your skin wasn’t crawling and heating up at the same time because of how close he was.
Silence was deafening. Even the owls had ceased to hoot. The trees were listening. Understanding. Your eyes watched his, a connection pulled so tight that it felt as though it could snap at any moment.
“If that’s the key to becoming a good soldier,” you asked softly, “then you must have gotten what you want, right, Captain?”
The muscle connecting his jaw to his throat tensed. You wouldn’t have even noticed it if you weren’t so close to him.
“No.”
The answer came immediately. Like it was the only thing keeping you from tearing open his ribcage and examining his heart on a silver platter. Flat. Certain. The answer lodged itself somewhere beneath your sternum, your body keeping it for later. Levi looked away first, breaking the eye contact that had briefly connected you.
“Go back to bed,” he said.
Then, after a beat:
“Before I write you up.”
The cicadas started to hum again.
The next few days passed in a blur, constellations of different moments that could only be equated in the same way that more bruises and more aches made its way on your body. Training. Cleaning. Repairs. More training. The Scouts did not seem particularly interested in whether or not recruits were exhausted and although you could complain, a part of you liked the routine of it. You were able to get lost in yourself and you always were doing things with your friends. You were barely ever alone in the things that you suffered with.
At least now you had stopped waking up screaming. That counted for something.
When you were in those moments where you weren’t with your friends, your thoughts betrayed you and you thought back to that moment with Levi.
Then you must have gotten what you wanted, right, Captain?
No.
No. A single word that danced through your entire body if you thought too much about it. No. Spoken so plainly and so sure-of-himself. It lingered, lodged deep inside of you no matter how many drills you threw yourself into, or how many hours you spent scrubbing blood from training gear or patching tears in your uniform or Eren’s. Captain Levi had looked at you that night like he saw directly through you.
And worse, sometimes when you laid in bed and thought about the way that the moonlight cast across his sharp features, you came to a mutual agreement between yourself.
You had seen something in him too.
“Move your arm.”
Eren grabbed your wrist as it twisted to tie the last of the laces against your brown boots, leaving them to fall flat. You were sitting on the edge of a bench outside with him before you were supposed to run drills with your ODM gear.
“Ow.”
“You really need to take better care of yourself.” He brushed his thumb over a bruise.
“You are possibly the worst person to have that thought considering how hard you pushed yourself all through basic,” you teased, snatching your wrist back from him and continuing to tie your shoes. Morning light spilled through the makeshift shades, catching along both of your bodies. Eren frowned at the bruise for a moment longer, like it had personally offended him.
He opened his mouth, but he was cut off by Mikasa. “We’re going to be late.”
Your group walked briskly to the forest edge, the path worn into the grass that had been walked through by probably hundreds of soldiers throughout the years. All to the same spot in the middle of the forest where you practiced slipping through the air with your ODM gear. The morning air smelled damp, last night’s rain storm helping to emit dew and pine. Somewhere high above, birds called to one another.
After Trost, all of you had become almost painfully attached to one another. Which wasn’t a bad thing, even though soldiers were supposed to stay unemotional and professional on the field, you couldn’t help the connections you had made along the way.
Even Jean.
A sharp whistle cut through the forest, and you fiddled with the last of your gear while staring forward at the noise. There were older Scouts there looking like they had been training for a while already, ODM gear attached to them like they were made for it. In the middle, Captain Levi was there, obviously the source of the whistle to gather everyone's attention. Morning light shined through the trees overhead into fractured pieces, catching against the metal canisters strapped to his thighs, illuminating onto the dark green cloak hanging from his shoulders.
Levi’s gaze swept once across the larger group of recruits that had gathered, expression unreadable. When his eyes passed over you, you could’ve sworn that they had slowed. Barely, but enough for you to recognize the faint glimmer behind them. And then they moved again, mouth open to state, “Today’s drills will be focused on maneuvering through dense coverage. Meaning that if any of you idiots decide to slam yourselves into a tree, at least try not to break the equipment while you’re at it. They’re expensive to make.”
You heard Connie stifle a laugh from behind you. “He definitely practices saying those things in the mirror.”
“Pair off,” Levi ordered. “If I watch any of you nearly kill yourselves today, I will make the next drill worse.”
Everyone immediately disbanded the group into pairs, Eren slotting himself beside you. Not that you minded, training with Eren was easy in the same way that breathing was. You knew each other’s habits too well after all the training you did together in basic. It was you who helped him, along with Reiner and Bertholdt, to train on the ODM gear that kept him in the military. He knew that you always favored your left side, and you knew the exact second that he was going to do something stupid before he even thought about it.
Around you, soldiers began to launch upward through the trees one by one, the familiar sound of the ODM gear firing with sharp metallic bursts. You had always loved this part, the moment right before taking off where gravity seemed to loosen its grip on you. Eren nudged your shoulder. “Race you to the far marker.”
“You will never beat me,” you chided.
“If you have enough time to flirt during drills, you clearly aren’t training hard enough, Yeager.”
Captain Levi.
Before you could even look behind at your Captain, you shot up into the air. “See you there, Eren!”
“Not fair, you didn’t tell me you were —” Eren’s voice dulled into the trees as you swung forward.
The world launched beneath you, gas hissing sharply from the canisters strapped to your hips while your wires shot forward to the trees, catching thick branches in their wake. You had practiced so much with this gear that it was as easy as walking. Past you would be proud, knowing how hard it was to gain the skills that you used so effortlessly now. Momentum grabbed hold while you swung between the trees, sunlight breaking across your vision. Release, fire, anchor swing. It was freedom. This was why you endured everything else. Nothing else mattered in the world when you were flying through the trees.
When you made your way to the first marker that had been slashed into the top of a tree, you took the time to look behind you. Eren was a few meters away from you, his green eyes looking into yours as you turned the corner for the next portion of the route.
A grin had spread across his face. “Oh, so now you wanna slow down?” He shouted.
You laughed softly. “You’re just too easy to beat. I wanted to give you a little help.”
Eren gained enough speed to almost catch your shoulder, shooting through the trees side by side with you for several seconds. This has always come naturally between the two of you, the movement and the instinct of it all. Eren angled sharply around a branch and for a split moment he was ahead of you, attempting to cut you off before the next marker.
Absolutely not.
You fired an anchor higher, slinging your body upward instead of around. You soared right above him perfectly, your stomach flipping with the sudden height. A laugh escaped him, loud and unrestrained. You hadn’t heard him laugh like that since Trost and that thought made your chest soften. It was good. This was good.
“Watch it!” A voice cut through the forest, suspiciously close to you.
When you looked forward, there was no mistaking it. Someone cut right in front of you, the move almost perfect if you hadn’t been lost in your own thoughts. Instead, their wire crossed dangerously close to yours. In an attempt to slow yourself, you angled a hook farther down, as low into the trees as possible as the metal of your gear shrieked.
It wasn’t enough though. Wires collided with a metallic shriek that almost sounded violent. For one horrible second, momentum yanked your body sideways while the tension of your gear snapped beneath you, a singular wire holding you up on the branches that broke under the weight of its tension, snapping in two. Trees blurred together as your balance disappeared entirely.
You closed your eyes, waiting for the impact of a tree to hit your body. But it never came, instead you felt the curve of another body hit your back, a strong arm catching around your waist on instinct just as the two of you slammed through a cluster of lower, yet still large, branches. Leaves exploded around the both of you, the sound of splintering wood cracking through your ears.
The ground was next.
Pain burst across your shoulder as the impact knocked the air from your lungs. Damp earth smeared against your uniform while the world seemed to be rolling in a collage of green and blue. You leaned your head forward, the sound of ringing in your ears overcoming any other noise until you finally seemed to have some grip back on reality.
Breathing. Close enough that you could feel it against your skin. A part of you almost wondered if you had crashed into Eren during the fall, since he was the closest person to you at the time. When you rewound your memory, you could barely see the person who passed in front of you. It could’ve been Eren. It had to be Eren.
Your eyes blinked open slowly, vision swimming for a moment before finally focusing enough to understand exactly what you were looking down at.
Captain Levi.
One of his arms remained wrapped tightly around your waist, instinct having forced him to catch you before the both of you hit the ground. His green cloak was twisted around you, branches and crushed leaves tangled through the fabric of his uniform. His fingers were dug hard enough through the harness that you could feel the pressure of them. It was apparent that he kept holding on before the both of you had slammed into the ground.
You were sprawled almost completely over him. The impact had tangled you together in a mess of limbs and ODM wires, one of your thighs resting between your legs while your chest pressed up against his own, so close that you could feel the weight of his heartbeat between your own. In the chaos of the fall, your hands had twisted into the front of his grey shirt, clinging onto him even now as you struggled to catch your breath, your knuckles white.
Too warm.
Too close.
Leaves continued to fall all around you, a considerable hole in the canopy of the forest, allowing for more sun to come peeking through than normal. There were several leaves caught in Levi’s dark hair and a stick poked right out of a hole that had formed in his shirt near his shoulder. The forest floor was littered with bark and snapped branches, obvious evidence of a disaster. Your racing heart was slamming blood so hard into your veins that you could hear your pulse. Levi was staring directly up at you, eyes sharp and narrowed beneath strands of hair that had fallen out of their neat place, splaying across his forehead.
The hand around your waist shifted, tightening reflexively before it seemed he realized he was touching you and released it to fall onto the ground. Your own hands unclenched from his shirt and you stretched your fingers, ignoring the way that you could see ten fingers on one hand instead of five, an obvious sign that you hit your head a little bit too hard. His gaze flickered from them to your face.
“You’re bleeding.”
Were you? Blinking a few times, you quickly sat up and assessed what you could see of your body, still sitting on top of him, your hips slotted against his own. When you reached one of your hands towards your face, it was then that you felt the gash on your cheek, splitting down your cheekbone and stopping, before another cut was felt on your top lip. Blood speckled against your fingertips, maroon in color, still flowing out. You turned your attention back to Captain Levi, who widened his eyes like he was trying to motion at something. Like he was trying to say —
Get off.
You scrambled backward, elbow slipping against the wet leaves beneath you that you almost toppled sideways. Pain flared from your shoulder, but humiliation was the only thing that you could feel. “I —” your voice cracked, making you clear your throat quickly, mortified while trying to untangle your ODM wires from his and somehow making the knots worse.
Levi sat upright in one smooth motion while you were fighting for some sense of dignity on the forest floor. Dirt was streaked across one of his cheeks while leaves seemed to stubbornly stay tangled through his hair. He looked deeply offended, though not as much with what happened with you but with the uncleanlyness of the whole situation. You probably would have laughed if you weren’t actively feeling as though you would die from the humiliation of it all.
So instead you fought with the tangled mess of wires, the metal cables groaning angrily in protest. He watched you for a few moments before reaching over.
“Stop,” he said, flat and immediate. “You’re just making it worse.” Levi leaned closer as his fingers moved through the wires while you sat there and pretended that you didn’t notice how close he was again. His knuckle pressed briefly against your thigh and he pulled against a particularly stubborn knot near the harness of your hip. He hummed in annoyance and you wondered if he had been in this situation before with anyone. If anyone had felt his pulse thrumming through his body like you did.
The thought hit you so suddenly that you recoiled from it like it had physically hit you. Your eyes fixed on his hands, noting the way that he was becoming more irritated the more that he loosened one knot and moved onto the next. There were callouses along his knuckles and the pads of his fingers and you hated that you took so much time to map the contours against his skin. He gave one final sharp tug against the last cable and the wires finally snapped, shifting your body slightly forward from where you sat.
“I— Captain I’m so—” You stuttered out.
“Save it,” Levi interrupted, hands braced against the harness at your hip for a second longer before he let go, standing up despite the obvious wince spread across his face. It created enough distance between the both of you that you finally felt as though you could breathe properly again. “We just have to wait for someone to come and help. I really don’t feel like lugging your concussed ass all the way back to base. And with the way you screamed, someone should be coming soon.”
He didn’t help you up, but a part of you didn’t want him to. The thought of standing up almost made you want to vomit. You stayed where you were on the ground with the crushed leaves, one hand pressed against the cut on your cheek while trying really hard not to acknowledge how violently your head was pounding now that the adrenaline of the whole ordeal was wearing off. You tilted your head back and forth to try and ease the tension in your neck, watching as the forest seemed to magnify and tense the more you did it.
“Will you stop moving?” Levi told you, scoffing and shaking his head, crossing his arms across his chest. “You’re making things worse, again. Stop.”
A sharp metallic hiss echoed through the trees.
“Finally,” Levi stated.
Commander Erwin landed first, wires retracting smoothly into place. His frame towered over you for a moment, staring at you before looking at Levi, obviously expecting some type of answer for what happened. Then from the trees you saw Hange begin to land, falling into the ground with not as much ease as Erwin, but still with a similar commanding authority. Erwin looked around the clearing that the two of you had forcibly made along with the shattered canopy and broken branches barely hanging on the trees.
“ . . . I see,” Erwin said carefully.
Hange’s eyes lit up behind their glasses with immediate excitement. “Oh my god,” they paused, spinning in place while looking upward through the trees. “Did you two fall from there?”
“No,” Levi said. “We teleported.”
“Really!?”
“No, you blabbering idiot.”
Hange seemed to barely process the insult and instead crouched directly in front of you, hands reaching for your face with unsettling enthusiasm crossing their features. “Oooooh, nasty split on the cheekbone,” they said, tilting your chin carefully to see it more clearly in the light. “This is awesome, we can finally see what type of injuries happen when someone falls from that height! Can I—”
Erwin stuck a hand up. “Maybe we can keep the scientific questions for later?”
You looked at Commander Erwin with a puzzling look. “Woah,” you said, your vision begging to fuzz and blacken. “Why do you have two hands on one arm?” Your body began swaying farther to the ground with every passing moment.
Somewhere, far away now, someone said your name.
Then, nothing.
The last thing you could see was the dirt on the forest ground getting closer and closer to your eyes.
1.3k. xoxo, puma — happy birthday month to me! now, where is katsuki and when can he dry hump me against the wall … 18+, minors and ageless blogs DNI.
For your twenty-fifth birthday, you chose laser tag.
It’s like paintballing, but painless, paintless, and in an air-conditioned room. Truly, the best of both worlds—warlike competition, protecting a base and shooting from dark corners, and, as it’s your birthday, you were made captain.
Katsuki is the captain of the opposing team, because he refused to settle for less.
You do what you always do—deliver orders, then find a nice dark corner to hide in. A corner that covers the bright blue light of your vest, preferably. You find it, right beneath some sort of slide, ducking behind a panel to protect yourself from the rest of the world. When you hear the pitter-patter of feet, you point and shoot. A name and number appear on the HUD of your laser gun: Chargebolt 664082 — HIT.
“Awh, c’mon!” You hear Denki yell from the other side, and with a snicker and a smile, you hide again.
It doesn’t take Katsuki long to find you, though. It never does.
It doesn’t matter where the group is—the beach, a club, a simple hang out—somehow, Katsuki gravitates, slowly drifting across the space until he’s by your side for the rest of the night like a semi-annoying moon.
You two aren’t…dating (yet), but you have crossed a line: kissed. A quick make-out session in the shadows, light petting in a club when no one’s looking. Obviously, a conversation needs to be had, but you’re not starting it.
It isn’t him that catches your attention, but the sound of your vest powering down for the first time during the game. It’s a depressing sound, a mechanical splat. You turn around to see Katsuki, hair haloed by black lights.
“Thought you were slick, huh?”
Despite your compromised state, you lift and pull the trigger on your gun. It doesn’t do anything, obviously, other than make Katsuki snort.
“I was until you shot me,” you huff, ever a sore loser. Katsuki presses closer in flickering orange. “There goes my streak.”
“Your streak ain’t nothin’ to brag about if you’re hidin’, Princess.” He pockets his gun, still encroaching.
“A streak is always something to brag about.”
Your vest whirrs back to life, and you scramble for your gun, only for him to beat you to it. It powers off again, and you groan. “Ugh, you suck!”
Katsuki just snickers, clearly having more fun messing with you than winning the game. Which is a little crazy—he’s always prioritized winning over everything, even when winning doesn’t really matter.
“You’re shit at this.”
He’s close, now. Close enough that you know his skin is a little tacky from sweat, and you can feel his breath along your lips. You puff.
“You’re shooting me at point blank. I don’t wanna hear it, Katsuki.”
He tries to stifle a growl by clearing his throat, but you still hear it on the way down.
“Say it again.”
“Huh?” Your eyebrows furrow, but unsure if he can see them, you give a little more context than necessary. With a little laugh, you say, “That you shot me at point blank?”
“No,” Katsuki’s hands find your waist under your vest. It powers back on, but suddenly, neither of you care very much. He knocks his forehead into yours, so close you can hear his chest rumble with his voice, even through the equipment. “My name.”
Oh.
“…Katsuki?”
He kisses you. Hard.
Hard enough that the back of your head knocks into the wall. And Katsuki, who’s always been better at apologizing through actions than words, places a hand behind your head and caresses it. He tastes sweet—for some reason, he always does—and you whimper a little, wrapping arms around his neck.
“You look kinda good like this,” he mutters as kisses fall from your lips to your jaw. You giggle.
“In a laser tag vest?”
“Nah,” he says, and bites into your neck. You slam your lips together before you can make another sound, even with EDM pounding through the room. “Hot and sweaty and mad at me.”
“If you want me to bully you, just say that,” and, Katsuki pushes you flush against the wall. You were already close enough—but now, his body presses you into it, heavy with want and infused with something new. Then, he crosses another line, and rolls his hips forward.
“Oh,” you breathe, and position your hands against his shoulders for leverage. Katsuki gives up on kissing your neck to let out a heavy sigh, uncaring about all the clunky plastic in the way.
“I don’t like when you bully me,” Katsuki says, voice low and heady, “I like watchin’ you try, though.”
“Fuck you,” you glare, but the bite is long gone. Left at the door, actually.
“Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you,” he huffs a laugh, body grinding heavy in a steady rhythm. A blink, then he has your leg in a palm and wraps it tight around his waist, pulling your hips closer to him and tilting your body at an angle. You don’t feel like you’re going to fall, so you let it happen. “Don’t tempt me, Baby. I’ll take your pants off and fuck you right here.”
He won’t. You know he won’t, but that doesn’t stop you from keening, or melting, or tugging him tighter. Katsuki chuckles at your reaction, but it’s breathless and half-assed.
“Bet you’d like showin’ everybody how good I can make you feel,” his words trail off into a moan, and the hands around your thigh and waist tighten.
“Kats—”
Katsuki takes your other leg and lifts it—thankfully, your arms are already around his neck. He shoves your back into the wall until it rattles, his slow and weighted pace never failing. You hear a scream that sounds like it’s coming from your base, and only have a moment to hope it’s a scream of success before you feel his cock catch against your clit.
“Fuck,” you moan, nails digging crescents into his shoulders. Katsuki growls at the little noises you make, spurring him further, harder, faster. The image is lewd within itself, and you can only pray no one will get creative enough to check behind the slide.
“God, Baby, you feel too good,” Katsuki pants into your ear, and the timbre of his voice makes you shiver. “I can’t—y’gotta let me fuck you.”
You laugh, but it’s useless. “Right now?”
“Fuckin’—no, not right now,” he growls. “Later. Lemme give you your birthday present, Baby.”
You snort, rolling your eyes. “Cheesy.”
“Y’like it,” Katsuki says, arrogant and callous and relatively uncaring. “C’mon, lemme—”
"Players, please return to the armory! The game is over."
It isn’t until the lights turn back on that you understand how wrecked Katsuki is.
His face is flushed a deep red, lips pink and swollen, and hair a mess (your fault). He looks at you with something wild, eyes trying to memorize everything and nothing, all while you’re still precariously perched between him and the wall. Katsuki takes a deep breath, steeling himself, before he gently sets you back on your feet. Then, he adjusts his pants.
“Later,” he says, a promise. Before he steps out, he takes one final look at you, licking his lips as a fire flashes behind his eyes. It’s gone as quick as it came. “And fix your shirt. Your tits are out.”
You look down. Your tits are, in fact, out.
You cover yourself with an embarrassed quickness, swiftly trying to fix yourself until you don’t look like you just got dry-humped to hell against a wall. Hopefully.
synopsis: you and your boyfriend have to sleep on his family sofa because his mother turned his childhood bedroom into an arts and crafts room.
what's coming up: fluff, smut (p in v, fingering (f) unprotected), having to be quiet, loads of pet names, established relationship, bkg's parents here!, set in japan, italics for japanese
luna says: this was written when i was taking requests. i am not now. thank u @marsaplanet !!! probs needs another proofread. thank u aali for title hehe
“i fucking hate this,” you boyfriend says squished beside you, forced to be a big spoon on his parent’s tiny very public living room sofa. it’s only tiny because you’re sharing it with him.
it takes you longer than necessary to twist around with the small space you’re allowed. in order to accommodate bakugou’s big body that can barely manage a single bed, you’re left to only be able to lay on your sides. though once you manage, you give katsuki a pout in the dark and his chin a peck.
“i’m sorry your mum changed your bedroom into an arts and crafts room,” then you look away from him, which is quite hard considering you’re face to face, nose to nose, “it is such a nice room though. i’d love one of those.”
since bakugou became pro, he moved out of his parent’s home at the humble age of eighteen years old and never returned permanently. for the first few years, his parents kept his bedroom how it is, ready for him to visit when he wanted a traditional home cooked dinner instead of the unhealthy western food or just a break from the intense world of heroics.
but this visit, without warning, his mother has changed his sweet all-might and manga filled bedroom into a well prepared arts and crafts room. fashion drawings up on the walls, sewing machines that cost more than your computer, rolls and rolls of fabrics and so much more.
if bakugou didn’t plan to help his father out early tomorrow morning with his fishing gear, he would have booked a nearby hotel instead of attempting to stay over on the living room sofa with you.
he does love being this close to you though. having you tangled in his arms, your leg slung over his waist and your breasts pressed to his chest. you’re in a permanent cuddle unless you want to fall off the sofa or be crushed by your boyfriend during the night.
“no, i don’t care about my bedroom. i’d rather sleep in a goddamn bed,” he complains until you shush him.
“too loud, kats. your parents are sleeping.”
bakugou rolls his eyes but he does get noticeably quieter. he tightens his grip on you and his words tickle your ear, “shoulda got a hotel nearby. we haven’t… damn.”
he trails off, blinking slowly at you.
you know exactly what he means. you curl a wheat blonde lock around your finger and pull slightly. bakugou releases a low whine that vibrates into your body.
“i know, but we’ll be home tomorrow,” you sympathise. you get it. you really do. “you can have me all to yourself then.”
you shift your lower body to get comfortable, you swear it’s only because your leg is going dead laying on your side for so long. you twist into bakugou, your crotch bumping right over his. just at the feeling of him, hard and thick against your soft thigh, you eat your words. you don’t want tomorrow, you want him now.
bakugou had been on a two week long mission across the world, solving crime and fighting villains. he’s barely been able to call you during the weeks. a few texts littered in and definitely no photos due to the top secret nature of the mission. only to then arrive in your home country to meet you at the airport to fly to japan to meet his parents. it was the only time he could fit them in on his busy schedule and in an attempt to spend as much time with you as possible, you came along also.
which leads you about to hump your boyfriend like a teenager in his family living room. you were surrounded by family photos and cute baby photos. even a drawing he made of all-might when he was seven next to a photo of him with all-might at seventeen. you even see the baby photos his mother has already text to you, she knows to send every one she finds for your collection.
but face to face with the grown katsuki, large hand spread over your lower back to press your hips into his. you can practically taste his breath, minty toothpaste that freshens your nose also. even in the dark you can see the lovesick way he stares at you, a sad pitiful gaze on your lips then your eyes. it even makes you laugh because despite how hot you are, trapped in his sleepy cuddle, you refuse to wear your usual pyjamas in his living room. your usual little boy shorts and a tank top for bed time. big tshirt and underwear. you’re in a long sleeve plaid set, just in case anyone wakes up for a glass of water in the night.
bakugou can work around all the fabric. placing his hand on your bare back. pinging your elastic waistband against your hip. he doesn’t give a fuck, still counting this as his home despite the lack of bedroom. he’s shirtless, just a pair of shorts on.
“i haven’t seen you in weeks, doesn’t even feel like i had you today and the only alone time we get is on my fuckin’ sofa,” he huffs, stuffing his big head in the crook of your neck. bakugou inhales harshly, nose brushing against your silk bonnet, chest pressed right into yours.
you’re already whining, gripping on a semblance of control. “tomorrow, kats. tomorrow.”
you feel his stubble against your cheek, prickly but makes him look so fine. a few years older, a little rougher. bakugou pulls out your neck at your tone. he can predict you from a mile away.
“y’need me, baby? i haven’t been takin’ care of you, have i?”
always the first to read the room, always the first to read you. sugar sweet words from him have you falling apart like a dandelion, using your hooked leg around his waist to hump your hips against his cock.
it has been weeks. you’re used to being dicked down at least four times a week by him with multiple rounds but now, nothing. you could drool at the memory of being filled to the brim, your knees by your ears as he thrusts as an alternate way to show his love. honestly, you’d love to be pounded by him right now, pressed into a mattress with your beautiful man above you.
“b-but we can’t. your parents are across the hall. i’m not waking them. a-nd all your baby photos are out, this is your living room,” you reply, chewing on your bottom lip. you can feel your clit pulse, a hot tightness that gets you moving without meaning to, “we don’t have space either a-and you’re loud.”
bakugou narrows his eyes, pursing his lips, “you’re louder than me.”
“kats,” you warn, “remember in april, for your birthday?”
“that’s ‘cause you fuckin’ touched my—,”
you peck his lips to shut him up but it only draws out the palpable need between you both. your hand flies to his cheek as he pulls you back in. he rests on his forearm slightly to get the best angle on your lips, sliding his tongue into your mouth.
your kisses are louder than the words you just spoke.
everything happens all at once with a rush you didn’t know you both felt. on the same equilibrium, you clutch a tuft of bakugou’s blonde locks to keep his open mouth, his tongue licking after yours. but every time he tries, you smile or grin or touch his tongue for a second before pulling back.
“stop playin’ with me, baby,” he whines against your lips, “gimme a taste.”
it’s always done something to you, your boyfriend just yesterday was shouting at his sidekicks and team in a foreign country, strategising a plan and being the voice everybody listens to. to now, him listening to you, begging you to give him more.
you don’t need to speak, you just slot your mouth over his in a wet kiss that is all tongue. you lick yours over his, circle it with the tip before letting him suck completely.
your moans bubble up, your thigh tenses around his waist and bakugou’s hand under your shirt is hot.
“you’re gonna have to fuck me, kats. i can’t sleep like this,” you whisper, laying kisses across his jaw as he catches his heaving breaths.
you lick over his earlobe, complete with a nibble to make him fall apart. “fuck. i know, i know. turn around f’me.”
you pout, “why? i wanna see your face.”
he grins, he’s exactly the same, “just for now. it’ll be easier for me. i’ll still be here.”
you huff dramatically, awkwardly shifting around so your back is to his chest. you lock eyes with three year old katsuki in the cutest red dungarees you’ve ever seen. though the actual katsuki behind you already has his massive hand under your shirt and on your stomach, fingers passing your elasticated waistband.
your hand flies to his, “not in front of your baby photos. look how cute you were.”
bakugou scoffs behind you, instead opting to unbutton your pyjama shirt, “the fuck? were? i still am.”
you look back, letting him reveal your breasts. you shove down the blanket to your knees. “you hate me calling you cute?”
bakugou kisses your neck then presses his cock into your ass without meaning to, “i’m still the cutest man you know.”
“you’re so stupid,” you giggle softly, eyes fluttering shut as his hands finally sneak past your waistband, over your tuft of hair and onto your soft clit. “oh shit.”
bakugou knows you better than he knows himself. he knew you wouldn’t be wearing underwear, he knew you’d already be wet and he knew you’d give in.
with two flat pads of his fingers, katsuki rubs firm clockwise circles into you, letting you shove and kick your pyjama bottoms to the ground. he lets you adjust to him, opening your legs wider and resting your leg on his hip behind you.
you moan open mouthed, head falling back onto his bicep as he lifts himself upon his elbow.
“quiet, baby. feels good, though?” he asks, completely captivated by you.
it looks like you’re from a sexy christmas calendar despite it being mid july. your red and green plaid pyjama shirt is completely unbuttoned, naked body stretched around his and rolling your hips into his hand.
“so good. so good, gorgeous,” you mumble, running your hand over his thick arm between your legs. you kiss his bicep by your cheek, “missed this with you. being—,” you inhale sharply, then soften into a whine, “being this close to you.”
“i know, baby. i get it. didn’t see your pretty face for two weeks. was going insane, staring at photos of you. fisted my cock over them one night,” he grunts into your ear and he feels your breathing hitch, your head roll back to look at him already looking down at you.
“kats, oh god,” you mewl as the sounds between your legs get louder, squelching and wet. “w-which picture, baby?”
katsuki stops the circles on your clit, instead choosing to sink his two fingers inside of you. you reach your hand behind you, fingers crawling into his hair and gripping. it only riles him up, a deep growl into your neck.
“those mirror selfies you sent before i left. on your bed, ass up in those tiny ass yellow panties you’ve got. and that one i took of you in my bed half naked in my old tee, so fuckin’ sexy baby.”
he curls his fingers inside, rubbing at your wet ribbed walls over and over again, pressing against your softest spots.
“oh fuck. oh fuck, kats,” you chant, your hips jolting without thought, your lower half burning up with the influx of pleasure, “right there. please.”
“you’re so beautiful, baby,” your boyfriend coos. he feels your stomach tense on his arm and he knows exactly what that means, “come for me, all over my hand. c’mon, darlin’.”
sliding your hand between your thighs, you only rub your clit a few times as bakugou keeps up pistoning inside you. despite your brewing orgasm, you’re only excited about being completely and utterly full by him afterwards.
you let your orgasm wash over you with ease. clenching your eyes shut as you’re mindful to keep quiet. honey and delight ripples over your body, a warming heat spreading under your skin starting right at your core.
“kats… kats… fuck,” you mumble and when you’re about to do one of your typical high pitched screams, bakugou smushes his face over yours to swallow them. he’s feels your vocal chords vibrate in the kiss and only when he’s sure you’re going to be quiet, he pulls off you.
you stop touching at your clit and bakugou slowly pulls his fingers out of you to stuff in his mouth.
you’re panting heavy, eyes closed and laying back on him with all your weight. still, you manage to laugh “you’re so… you really missed me?”
with your heaving chest, you look back at katsuki, shirtless in the dark with his tongue between his two fingers. “a fuckin’ stupid amount.”
you eye his tattoo of your name on his collarbone, then your eyes on his inner bicep amongst his tattoo sleeve. katsuki hasn’t seen his parents in months, you only a few weeks ago yet he still flew you across the world to spend time with him. it all hits you differently now, his love spreading through you at a rate you can’t measure.
“i love you. thanks for bringing me here.”
bakugou smirks, pecking your forehead, “one orgasm and you’re getting sappy on me?”
you scrunch your eyebrows together, “katsuki. say it back now.”
“‘course i goddamn love you.” he hums, watching as you twist around to face him again.
you’re back to being nose to nose with your lover, bare chest against bare chest. “your koibito.”
this is your second visit to japan with katsuki meeting his parents. you’ve heard him speak japanese over the phone and chatting with his friends. he’s taught you a few words and sentences, often helpful when he’s watching his japanese dramas with the english subtitles on for you.
but one word his father taught you was koibito. it was the first thing he said when you stepped out of the taxi with the same smile as your boyfriend and his arms out to embrace you.
“you brought your koibito!” katsuki’s father says to him, in a mix of both languages so you understand also. his arms wrap around you in greeting.
you don’t miss bakugou’s blush but you do miss when he says something very fast to his father in japanese.
“what’s koibito?” you ask, as his father brings your suitcase inside and you watch katsuki take his out the car boot.
he’s still flushed, cute red cheeks as he glances up at you. “lover. like my partner. my person.”
“oh!” you say, “why didn’t he just say girlfriend?”
you know the word for girlfriend.
bakugou sighs under his breath, placing his suitcase on the floor, “i think ‘cause it’s my second time bringing you ‘round. koibito is more serious, a committed relationship.”
you grin, hugging his arm, “i’m your koibito!”
bakugou says the same thing he said then but more solemnly. with a soft nod, “you are and i’m yours.”
you can’t help but pout at him, lifting your face to press your lips into his. it’s starts off slow, controlled but all too soon, bakugou is shoving his shorts below his ass and you’re wrapping your fingers around his cock.
“gonna love you properly when we—,”
“shh, it’s okay. just want you now,” you speak into his mouth, obsessed with how quickly he begins panting. you flick your wrist over him a few times. he’s already as big as he can get, stiff and curved, slapped against his lower stomach.
“put me in, baby,” katsuki drawls, his lips over your cheek.
again, you cock your leg over his hip. you just need to lift up a little, press his cockhead between your legs and let him do the rest but—
“we need to use a condom. can’t make a mess on the sofa, kats,” you whine.
half lidded eyes look back at you. you can tell he’s strategising, adding up ratios to likelihoods and where the hell his wallet is and if he even stocked it with condoms.
you feel him pulse, hot and heavy in your hand.
“no clue where they are, baby. we can put the blanket under us and i’ll wash it in the mornin’. yeah?” he brushes his nose over yours.
honestly, bakugou could have said anything and you would have said sure.
after a rushed shuffle of stuffing the blanket underneath your hips, you fist bakugou’s tip and press him against your opening.
“move kats,” you whisper and in one push, bakugou slides into you utterly and completely.
in unison, a moan ripples out of you both, one of pure relief. even though you’re across the world from yours, slotted like a final puzzle piece with your lover feels like home.
you slide a hand under bakugou’s cheek between the pillow and wrap your other arm around his back in a cuddle. bakugou’s the same, with a hand spread over your lower back and his other arm under your side to keep you close.
“you are so perfect,” bakugou whispers to you, pressing a kiss to your lips. you’re warm and slippery, an easy glide from your orgasm before. he almost doesn’t want to move, wanting you to cockwarm him until the morning.
“so are you,” you smile, breathing a little shaky because despite not moving, he still manages to press against your sensitive spots. you bite down on your bottom lip to suppress a groan. “f-fuck.”
“i used to sit here as a kid, wonderin’ when i’d get a girl. what she’d look like, if i’d even like her,” he chuckles to himself. he taps your ass softly.
“w-why wouldn’t you like your girlfriend?” you reply, blinking slowly.
“i was a dick. girls would ask me out at school and i never liked ‘em back. thought my first relationship would be completely one sided.” he breathes a half hearted laugh. “how wrong was i?”
you giggle softly, brushing his locks off his forehead. “so wrong. i’d love to tell teen katsuki how many times you begged to take me out.”
he kisses your cheek, “he’d say you’re a fuckin’ liar.”
“flying me here to meet your parents twice. you love me so much. it actually might be one sided.” you cheese and bakugou playfully rolls his eyes.
“won’t even be fuckin’ surprised with how much i think about you.”
bakugou punctuates his comment with a thrust, an easy bounce of his hips as you lay tangled side by side.
he sees your eyes roll back in real time, a swear falling past your lips.
“oh shit. oh shit, i missed this,” you warble as bakugou keeps up his thrusts, every one keeping him deep and full inside of you.
“shh, baby,” he says over your lips, “fuck, i love you.”
“i love you too.”
every slap of bakugou’s hips causes your chest to bounce, has you inching up the sofa but he keeps you in place. he feels incredible, everywhere. his lips on your neck, nibbling your shoulder. you don’t mean to scratch down his back but when the sweet gets sweeter you need a release somewhere.
it’s only when bakugou speeds up his thrusts, thighs slapping against thighs, heavy breaths transferred from mouth to mouth that the sofa starts to creak. loudly.
“we’re… we’re too loud,” you moan in pleasure, practically hugging bakugou’s big head to your shoulder.
“old ass fuckin’—,” bakugou bites on your shoulder to stop his moan waking up the whole house, he can’t stop now. if it’s not the squelching of you and him, the sofa is groaning too.
there’s nothing you can do about it but stop though you both refuse to. he’s hitting all your best spots at this pace. it’s as if fireworks are being lit all over your skin, your next orgasm rumbling.
“p-please don’t stop,” you cry into him, “i’m so close.”
“not stoppin’ for shit, baby,”
having not seen each other in two weeks, means you’re both closer quicker than usual. bakugou notes your cute little gasp, you’re about to come.
“all for me,” he coos, “lemme have it all.”
amongst the slaps, the creaks and bakugou’s accidental loud grunts, you come all over his cock.
again, he envelops you in a kiss, swallowing everything you release. you tremble and shake in his arms, tensing tight around him which only sets him off.
he tries to keep up his pace for your orgasm but his own makes him jolty and stuttered. instead he goes for slow and deep, keeping you still with his arm locked around you.
“my beautiful baby,” he’s completely fucked out as he spills inside of you, the added friction of his come making him slide even deeper.
your hand flies to his hip, “t-too much.”
bakugou gets you, mumbling an apology in your temple and opting to pull out. but once he does, dribbles of his come does too.
“oh fuck.”
with the original plan completely forgotten, bakugou grabs your pyjama bottoms and wipes you up.
“katsuki!” you whisper-whine.
“didn’t wanna make a mess. don’t want my mum on my case,” he speaks to between your legs, lightly dabbing you down.
“i hope we weren’t loud” you say, blinking up at him. then embarrassment washes over you, “acting like horny teenagers. we should have waited katsuki. we were so loud.”
bakugou kisses you quiet, “they’re both old as fuck, nothin’ is wakin’ them up. you’re good, baby. we’re good.”
“still don’t even know if your mother likes me—,”
“fuck off with that shit. you both text all the time.”
it’s true, that’s how you grow your folder of bakugou fun facts and baby stories.
“okay,” you mumble and you feel cosy when he kisses you on the tip of the nose. “i really liked this.”
bakugou grins cutely, stuffing your dirty pyjama bottoms on the floor. he’ll remember to wash them tomorrow. “yeah? next time i’ll eat you and—,”
“shh, i said i enjoyed this now with you,” you emphasise and bakugou understands.
“me too. missed you.”
breakfast with the bakugou’s is a mixture of japanese and english. you forced katsuki into a t-shirt because your scratches down his back look like hes been attacked by a cat in his sleep. he’s also in a new pair of shorts since he gave the ones he wore last night to you. your pyjama bottoms stained with him are currently what you’re staring at, swirling around the washing machine.
you refuse to talk, completely convinced your boyfriend’s parents heard you fucking their son in their living room the night before. you stuff your scrambled egg in your mouth and katsuki can feel the anxiety dripping from you.
he sighs to himself, “did you guys hear anythin’ last night?”
you gasp, kicking katsuki’s foot under the table. what the fuck?
“what do you mean? was it the matsumo’s sprinklers again? they’re always fucking going off at night.” his mother replies in japanese and you blink at her, “our stupid neighbours sprinklers are broken. sorry if they woke you up, honey.”
you sit up straight, shocked at how you weren’t caught, “oh uh, no! it was only for five minutes and it stopped.”
you look over at katsuki who grins sadistically.
“i heard dad snoring. still haven’t got that checked out, huh?”
“snoring?” his dad frowns, with accented english.
“snoring, dad.” katsuki translates.
“i’ve been tellin’ him!” his mother chips in, “he still refuses to go!”
“there is nothing wrong with a little snoring,” his father defends, “sorry if you heard it though, yn.”
you shake your head, “not a thing! i must have been asleep.”
for the rest of breakfast, you watch as the bakugous laugh, eat and bicker amongst themselves. every booming laugh from katsuki has him looking at you, checking if you’re okay, feeling safe and included.
as katsuki’s mum shows his dad something on her phone, katsuki squeezes your thigh.
“told ya they didn’t hear shit.”
but katsuki’s mum has ears of an eagle, her head robotically turning to look at you both.
“hear what?”
you almost choke on your spit.
katsuki rolls his eyes, “nothin’ mum. mind your business.”
“don’t smart me. i will still slap your head.”
comments n reblogs are appreciated. no part 2 comments thanks
synopsis: you and your boyfriend have to sleep on his family sofa because his mother turned his bedroom into an arts and crafts room.
what's coming up: fluff, smut (p in v, fingering (f) unprotected), having to be quiet, loads of pet names, established relationship, bkg's parents here!, set in japan, italics for japanese
luna says: this was written when i was taking requests. i am not now. thank u @marsaplanet !!! probs needs another proofread. thank u aali for title hehe
“i fucking hate this,” you boyfriend says squished beside you, forced to be a big spoon on his parent’s tiny very public living room sofa. it’s only tiny because you’re sharing it with him.
it takes you longer than necessary to twist around with the small space you’re allowed. in order to accommodate bakugou’s big body that can barely manage a single bed, you’re left to only be able to lay on your sides. though once you manage, you give katsuki a pout in the dark and his chin a peck.
“i’m sorry your mum changed your bedroom into an arts and crafts room,” then you look away from him, which is quite hard considering you’re face to face, nose to nose, “it is such a nice room though. i’d love one of those.”
since bakugou became pro, he moved out of his parent’s home at the humble age of eighteen years old and never returned permanently. for the first few years, his parents kept his bedroom how it is, ready for him to visit when he wanted a traditional home cooked dinner instead of the unhealthy western food or just a break from the intense world of heroics.
but this visit, without warning, his mother has changed his sweet all-might and manga filled bedroom into a well prepared arts and crafts room. fashion drawings up on the walls, sewing machines that cost more than your computer, rolls and rolls of fabrics and so much more.
if bakugou didn’t plan to help his father out early tomorrow morning with his fishing gear, he would have booked a nearby hotel instead of attempting to stay over on the living room sofa with you.
he does love being this close to you though. having you tangled in his arms, your leg slung over his waist and your breasts pressed to his chest. you’re in a permanent cuddle unless you want to fall off the sofa or be crushed by your boyfriend during the night.
“no, i don’t care about my bedroom. i’d rather sleep in a goddamn bed,” he complains until you shush him.
“too loud, kats. your parents are sleeping.”
bakugou rolls his eyes but he does get noticeably quieter. he tightens his grip on you and his words tickle your ear, “shoulda got a hotel nearby. we haven’t… damn.”
he trails off, blinking slowly at you.
you know exactly what he means. you curl a wheat blonde lock around your finger and pull slightly. bakugou releases a low whine that vibrates into your body.
“i know, but we’ll be home tomorrow,” you sympathise. you get it. you really do. “you can have me all to yourself then.”
you shift your lower body to get comfortable, you swear it’s only because your leg is going dead laying on your side for so long. you twist into bakugou, your crotch bumping right over his. just at the feeling of him, hard and thick against your soft thigh, you eat your words. you don’t want tomorrow, you want him now.
bakugou had been on a two week long mission across the world, solving crime and fighting villains. he’s barely been able to call you during the weeks. a few texts littered in and definitely no photos due to the top secret nature of the mission. only to then arrive in your home country to meet you at the airport to fly to japan to meet his parents. it was the only time he could fit them in on his busy schedule and in an attempt to spend as much time with you as possible, you came along also.
which leads you about to hump your boyfriend like a teenager in his family living room. you were surrounded by family photos and cute baby photos. even a drawing he made of all-might when he was seven next to a photo of him with all-might at seventeen. you get to the baby photos his mother has already text to you, she knows to send every one she finds for your collection.
but face to face with the grown katsuki, large hand spread over your lower back to press your hips into his. you can practically taste his breath, minty toothpaste that freshens your nose also. even in the dark you can see the lovesick way he stares at you, a sad pitiful gaze on your lips then your eyes. it even makes you laugh because despite how hot you are, trapped in his sleepy cuddle, you refuse to wear your usual pyjamas in his living room. your usual little boy shorts and a tank top for bed time. big tshirt and underwear. you’re in a long sleeve plaid set, just in case anyone wakes up for a glass of water in the night.
bakugou can work around all the fabric. placing his hand on your bare back. pinging your elastic waistband against your hip. he doesn’t give a fuck, still counting this as his home despite the lack of bedroom. he’s shirtless, just a pair of shorts on.
“i haven’t seen you in weeks, doesn’t even feel like i had you today and the only alone time we get is on my fuckin’ sofa,” he huffs, stuffing his big head in the crook of your neck. bakugou inhales harshly, nose brushing against your silk bonnet, chest pressed right into yours.
you’re already whining, gripping on a semblance of control. “tomorrow, kats. tomorrow.”
you feel his stubble against your cheek, prickly but makes him look so fine. a few years older, a little rougher. bakugou pulls out your neck at your tone. he can predict you from a mile away.
“y’need me, baby? i haven’t been takin’ care of you, have i?”
always the first to read the room, always the first to read you. sugar sweet words from him have you falling apart like a dandelion, using your hooked leg around his waist to hump your hips against his cock.
it has been weeks. you’re used to being dicked down at least four times a week by him with multiple rounds but now, nothing. you could drool at the memory of being filled to the brim, your knees by your ears as he thrusts as an alternate way to show his love. honestly, you’d love to be pounded by him right now, pressed into a mattress with your beautiful man above you.
“b-but we can’t. your parents are across the hall. i’m not waking them. a-nd all your baby photos are out, this is your living room,” you reply, chewing on your bottom lip. you can feel your clit pulse, a hot tightness that gets you moving without meaning to, “we don’t have space either a-and you’re loud.”
bakugou narrows his eyes, pursing his lips, “you’re louder than me.”
“kats,” you warn, “remember in april, for your birthday?”
“that’s ‘cause you fuckin’ touched my—,”
you peck his lips to shut him up but it only draws out the palpable need between you both. your hand flies to his cheek as he pulls you back in. he rests on his forearm slightly to get the best angle on your lips, sliding his tongue into your mouth.
your kisses are louder than the words you just spoke.
everything happens all at once with a rush you didn’t know you both felt. on the same equilibrium, you clutch a tuft of bakugou’s blonde locks to keep his open mouth over yours, his tongue licking after yours. but every time he tries, you smile or grin or touch his tongue for a second before pulling back.
“stop playin’ with me, baby,” he whines against your lips, “gimme a taste.”
it’s always done something to you, your boyfriend just yesterday was shouting at his sidekicks and team in a foreign country, strategising a plan and being the voice everybody listens to. to now, him listening to you, begging you to give him more.
you don’t need to speak, you just slot your mouth over his in a wet kiss that is all tongue. you lick your tongue over his, circle it with the tip before letting him suck completely.
your moans bubble up, your thigh tenses around his waist and bakugou’s hand under your shirt is hot.
“you’re gonna have to fuck me, kats. i can’t sleep like this,” you whisper, laying kisses across his jaw as he catches his heaving breaths.
you lick over his earlobe, complete with a nibble to make him fall apart. “fuck. i know, i know. turn around f’me.”
you pout, “why? i wanna see your face.”
he grins, he’s exactly the same, “just for now. it’ll be easier for me. i’ll still be here.”
you huff dramatically, awkwardly shifting around so your back is to his chest. you lock eyes with three year old katsuki in the cutest red dungarees you’ve ever seen. though the actual katsuki behind you already has his massive hand under your shirt and on your stomach, fingers passing your elasticated waistband.
your hand flies to his, “not in front of your baby photos. look how cute you were.”
bakugou scoffs behind you, instead opting to unbutton your pyjama shirt, “the fuck? were? i still am.”
you look back, letting him reveal your breasts. you shove down the blanket to your knees. “you hate me calling you cute?”
bakugou kisses your neck then presses his cock into your ass without meaning to, “i’m still the cutest man you know.”
“you’re so stupid,” you giggle softly, eyes fluttering shut as his hands finally sneak past your waistband, over your tuft of hair and onto your soft clit. “oh shit.”
bakugou knows you better than he knows himself. he knew you wouldn’t be wearing underwear, he knew you’d already be wet and he knew you’d give in.
with two flat pads of his fingers, katsuki rubs firm clockwise circles into you, letting you shove and kick your pyjama bottoms to the ground. he lets you adjust to him, opening your legs wider and resting your leg on his hip behind you.
you moan open mouthed, head falling back onto his bicep as he lifts himself upon his elbow.
“quiet, baby. feels good, though?” he asks, completely captivated by you.
it looks like you’re from a sexy christmas calendar despite it being mid july. your red and green plaid pyjama shirt is completely unbuttoned, naked body stretched around his and rolling your hips into his hand.
“so good. so good, gorgeous,” you mumble, running your hand over his thick arm between your legs. you kiss his bicep by your cheek, “missed this with you. being—,” you inhale sharply, then soften into a whine, “being this close to you.”
“i know, baby. i get it. didn’t see your pretty face for two weeks. was going insane, staring at photos of you. fisted my cock over them one night,” he grunts into your ear and he feels your breathing hitch, your head roll back to look at him already looking down at you.
“kats, oh god,” you mewl as the sounds between your legs get louder, squelching and wet. “w-which picture, baby?”
katsuki stops the circles on your clit, instead choosing to sink his two fingers inside of you. you reach your hand behind you, fingers crawling into his hair and gripping. it only riles him up, a deep growl into your neck.
“those mirror selfies you sent before i left. on your bed, ass up in those tiny ass yellow panties you’ve got. and that one i took of you in my bed half naked in my old tee, so fuckin’ sexy baby.”
he curls his fingers inside, rubbing at your wet ribbed walls over and over again, pressing against your softest spots.
“oh fuck. oh fuck, kats,” you chant, your hips jolting without thought, your lower half burning up with the influx of pleasure, “right there. please.”
“you’re so beautiful, baby,” your boyfriend coos. he feels your stomach tense on his arm and he knows exactly what that means, “come for me, all over my hand. c’mon, darlin’.”
sliding your hand between your thighs, you only rub your clit a few times as bakugou keeps up pistoning inside you. despite your brewing orgasm, you’re only excited about being completely and utterly full by him afterwards.
you let your orgasm wash over you with ease. clenching your eyes shut as you’re mindful to keep quiet. honey and delight ripples over your body, a warming heat spreading under your skin starting right at your core.
“kats… kats… fuck,” you mumble and when you’re about to do one of your typical high pitched screams, bakugou smushes his face over yours to swallow them. he’s feels your vocal chords vibrate in the kiss and only when he’s sure you’re going to be quiet, he pulls off you.
you stop touching at your clit and bakugou slowly pulls his fingers out of you to stuff in his mouth.
you’re panting heavy, eyes closed and laying back on him with all your weight. still, you manage to laugh “you’re so… you really missed me?”
with your heaving chest, you look back at katsuki, shirtless in the dark with his tongue between his two fingers. “a fuckin’ stupid amount.”
you eye his tattoo of your name on his collarbone, then your eyes on his inner bicep amongst his tattoo sleeve. katsuki hasn’t seen his parents in months, you only a few weeks ago yet he still flew you across the world to spend time with him. it all hits you differently now, his love spreading through you at a rate you can’t measure.
“i love you. thanks for bringing me here.”
bakugou smirks, pecking your forehead, “one orgasm and you’re getting sappy on me?”
you scrunch your eyebrows together, “katsuki. say it back now.”
“‘course i goddamn love you.” he hums, watching as you twist around to face him again.
you’re back to being nose to nose with your lover, bare chest against bare chest. “your koibito.”
this is your second visit to japan with katsuki meeting his parents but despite that, you’ve heard him speak japanese over the phone and chatting with his friends. he’s taught you a few words and sentences, often helpful when he’s watching his japanese dramas with the english subtitles on for you.
but one word his father taught you was koibito. it was the first thing he said when you stepped out of the taxi with the same smile as your boyfriend and his arms out to embrace you.
“you brought your koibito!” katsuki’s father says to him, in a mix of both languages so you understand also. his arms wrap around you in greeting.
you don’t miss bakugou’s blush but you do miss when he says something very fast to his father in japanese.
“what’s koibito?” you ask, as his father brings your suitcase inside and you watch katsuki take his out the car boot.
he’s still flushed, cute red cheeks as he glances up at you. “lover. like my partner. my person.”
“oh!” you say, “why didn’t he just say girlfriend?”
you know the word for girlfriend.
bakugou sighs under his breath, placing his suitcase on the floor, “i think ‘cause it’s my second time bringing you ‘round. koibito is more serious, a committed relationship.”
you grin, hugging his arm, “i’m your koibito!”
bakugou says the same thing he said then but more solemnly. with a soft nod, “you are and i’m yours.”
you can’t help but pout at him, lifting your face to press your lips into his. it’s starts off slow, controlled but all too soon, bakugou is shoving his shorts below his ass and you’re wrapping your fingers around his cock.
“gonna love you properly when we—,”
“shh, it’s okay. just want you now,” you speak into his mouth, obsessed with how quickly he begins panting. you flick your wrist over him a few times. he’s already as big as he can get, stiff and curved, slapped against his lower stomach.
“put me in, baby,” katsuki drawls, his lips over your cheek.
again, you cock your leg over his hip. you just need to lift up a little, press his cockhead between your legs and let him do the rest but—
“we need to use a condom. can’t make a mess on the sofa, kats,” you whine.
half lidded eyes look back at you. you can tell he’s strategising, adding up ratios to likelihoods and where the hell his wallet is and if he even stocked it with condoms.
you feel him pulse, hot and heavy in your hand.
“no clue where they are, baby. we can put the blanket under us and i’ll wash it in the mornin’. yeah?” he brushes his nose over yours.
honestly, bakugou could have said anything and you would have said sure.
after a rushed shuffle of stuffing the blanket underneath your hips, you fist bakugou’s tip and press him against your opening.
“move kats,” you whisper and in one push, bakugou slides into you utterly and completely.
in unison, a moan ripples out of you both, one of pure relief. even though you’re across the world from yours, slotted like a final puzzle piece with your lover feels like home.
you slide a hand under bakugou’s cheek between the pillow and wrap your other arm around his back in a cuddle. bakugou’s the same, with a hand spread over your lower back and his other arm under your side to keep you close.
“you are so perfect,” bakugou whispers to you, pressing a kiss to your lips. you’re warm and slippery, an easy glide from your orgasm before. he almost doesn’t want to move, wanting you to cockwarm him until the morning.
“so are you,” you smile, breathing a little shaky because despite not moving, he still manages to press against your sensitive spots. you bite down on your bottom lip to suppress a groan. “f-fuck.”
“i used to sit here as a kid, wonderin’ when i’d get a girl. what she’d look like, if i’d even like her,” he chuckles to himself. he taps your ass softly.
“w-why wouldn’t you like your girlfriend?” you reply, blinking slowly.
“i was a dick. girls would ask me out at school and i never liked ‘em back. thought my first relationship would be completely one sided.” he breathes a half hearted laugh. “how wrong was i?”
you giggle softly, brushing his locks off his forehead. “so wrong. i’d love to tell teen katsuki how many times you begged to take me out.”
he kisses your cheek, “he’d say you’re a fuckin’ liar.”
“flying me here to meet your parents twice. you love me so much. it actually might be one sided.” you cheese and bakugou playfully rolls his eyes.
“won’t even be fuckin’ surprised with how much i think about you.”
bakugou punctuates his comment with a thrust, an easy bounce of his hips as you lay tangled side by side.
he sees your eyes roll back in real time, a swear falling past your lips.
“oh shit. oh shit, i missed this,” you warble as bakugou keeps up his thrusts, every one keeping him deep and full inside of you.
“shh, baby,” he says over your lips, “fuck, i love you.”
“i love you too.”
every slap of bakugou’s hips causes your chest to bounce, has you inching up the sofa but he keeps you in place. he feels incredible, everywhere. his lips on your neck, nibbling your shoulder. you don’t mean to scratch down his back but when the sweet gets sweeter you need a release somewhere.
it’s only when bakugou speeds up his thrusts, thighs slapping against thighs, heavy breaths transferred from mouth to mouth that the sofa starts to creak. loudly.
“we’re… we’re too loud,” you moan in pleasure, practically hugging bakugou’s big head to your shoulder.
“old ass fuckin’—,” bakugou bites on your shoulder to stop his moan waking up the whole house, he can’t stop now. if it’s not the squelching of you and him, the sofa is groaning too.
there’s nothing you can do about it but stop though you both refuse to. he’s hitting all your best spots at this pace. it’s as if fireworks are being lit all over your skin, your next orgasm rumbling.
“p-please don’t stop,” you cry into him, “i’m so close.”
“not stoppin’ for shit, baby,”
having not seen each other in two weeks, means you’re both closer quicker than usual. bakugou notes your cute little gasp, you’re about to come.
“all for me,” he coos, “lemme have it all.”
amongst the slaps, the creaks and bakugou’s accidental loud grunts, you come all over his cock.
again, he envelops you in a kiss, swallowing everything you release. you tremble and shake in his arms, tensing tight around him which only sets him off.
he tries to keep up his pace for your orgasm but his own makes him jolty and stuttered. instead he goes for slow and deep, keeping you still with his arm locked around you.
“my beautiful baby,” he’s completely fucked out as he spills inside of you, the added friction of his come making him slide even deeper.
your hand flies to his hip, “t-too much.”
bakugou gets you, mumbling an apology in your temple and opting to pull out. but once he does, dribbles of his come does too.
“oh fuck,”
with the original plan completely forgotten, bakugou grabs your pyjama bottoms and wipes you up.
“katsuki!” you whisper-whine.
“didn’t wanna make a mess. don’t want my mum on my ass,” he speaks to between your legs, lightly dabbing you down.
“i hope we weren’t loud” you say, blinking up at him. then embarrassment washes over you, “acting like horny teenagers. we should have waited katsuki. we were so loud.”
bakugou kisses you quiet, “they’re both old as fuck, nothin’ is wakin’ them up. you’re good, baby. we’re good.”
“still don’t even know if your mother likes me—,”
“fuck off with that shit. you both text all the time.”
it’s true, that’s how you grow your folder of bakugou fun facts and baby stories.
“okay,” you mumble and you feel cosy when he kisses you on the tip of the nose. “i really liked this.”
bakugou grins cutely, stuffing your dirty pyjama bottoms on the floor. he’ll remember to wash them tomorrow. “yeah? next time i’ll eat you and—,”
“shh, i said i enjoyed this now with you,” you emphasise and bakugou gets it.
“me too. missed you.”
breakfast with the bakugou’s is a mixture of japanese and english. you forced Katsuki into a t-shirt because your scratches down his back look like hes been attacked by a cat in his sleep. he’s also in a new pair of shorts since he gave the ones he wore last night to you. your pyjama bottoms stained with him are currently what you’re staring at, swirling around the washing machine.
you refuse to talk, completely convinced your boyfriend’s parents heard you fucking their son in their living room the night before. you stuff your scrambled egg in your mouth and katsuki can feel the anxiety dripping from you.
he sighs to himself, “did you guys hear anythin’ last night?”
you gasp, kicking katsuki’s foot under the table. what the fuck?
“what do you mean? was it the matsumo’s sprinklers again? they’re always fucking going off at night.” his mother replies in japanese and you blink at her, “our stupid neighbours sprinklers are broken. sorry if they woke you up, honey.”
you sit up straight, shocked at how you weren’t caught, “oh uh, no! it was only for five minutes and it stopped.”
you look over at katsuki who grins sadistically.
“i heard dad snoring. still haven’t got that checked out, huh?”
“snoring?” his dad frowns, with accented english.
“snoring, dad.” katsuki translates.
“i’ve been tellin’ him!” his mother chips in, “he still refuses to go!”
“there is nothing wrong with a little snoring,” his father defends, “sorry if you heard it though, yn.”
you shake your head, “not a thing! i must have been asleep.”
for the rest of breakfast, you watch as the bakugous laugh, eat and bicker amongst themselves. every booming laugh from katsuki has him looking at you, checking if you’re okay, feeling safe and included.
as katsuki’s mum shows his dad something on her phone, katsuki squeezes your thigh.
“told ya they didn’t hear shit.”
but katsuki’s mum has ears of an eagle, her head robotically turning to look at you both.
“hear what?”
you almost choke on your spit.
katsuki rolls his eyes, “nothin’ mum. mind your business.”
It takes you three days to lose the argument against yourself.
You don’t call it losing at first, because that makes it sound like you were ever truly impartial. You call it waiting. You call it being reasonable. You call it not letting one good birthday conversation, one apology, one pen in a black box with red ribbon, and one quiet admission loosen all the careful knots you tied inside yourself over the past year.
Three days, you tell yourself, is restraint.
Three days is, objectively, not a very long time. It's barely a fragment of a week. It's the distance between one lesson plan and the next small crisis caused by someone forgetting their assignment in the most theatrical way possible. It's one pile of papers graded with a pen too expensive for the emotional state you’re in. It's three mornings of coffee, three evenings of resisting your own hand, three nights of turning your phone screen down as if that makes the contact inside it less present.
Three days is nothing and also absurdly long when his number is sitting in your phone again.
Not Champion. Not the stupid contact you once teased him about because of course he would save himself into your phone like a brand and a challenge and a warning. Just Sukuna. Plain, clean, almost too bare. There is something more intimate about that than you expected, like you removed all decoration and still found him there underneath it. It stares back whenever your thumb hovers too near the search bar, whenever you open messages out of habit, whenever you check a notification that turns out to be your phone company or a coworker asking if you finished adjusting next week’s lesson plan.
You tell yourself you are being normal.
You are not.
On the first day after your birthday, you don't text him because the conversation still sits too fresh under your skin.
You sleep warm and unsettled, the expensive pen on your desk among the other birthday gifts, its weight ridiculous even before you use it. In the morning, you tell yourself it was a good conversation, that’s all. Necessary. Maybe overdue. It doesn't need immediate continuation. You both got to say things. You accepted the apology. You gave him a way back into contact, but that doesn't mean you have to rush toward it like a fool who forgot what hurt feels like.
You are not that foolish.
You are also, unfortunately, not that detached.
You go to work. You smile at students. You use the pen he gave you because refusing to use a perfectly good pen would be childish and because part of you wants to know whether it writes as well as it looks. It does.
Annoyingly.
The ink glides without skipping. The weight is perfect between your fingers. It makes your usual pen feel like a plastic straw. You hate that he chose so well. You hate that you love it. You hate that every red mark you leave on a paper feels like some small betrayal of your own attempt to remain composed.
You write “Please expand this point” beside one student’s paragraph and think, entirely against your will, that Sukuna would probably say the child has expanded nothing except your suffering.
You nearly laugh alone at your desk. That irritates you too.
Three students receive corrections written with luxury ink they don't deserve. One of them, a girl who notices everything, pauses when you hand back the paper and squints at the pen in your hand.
“Teacher, is that new?”
You look down at it as if you have been caught holding evidence.
“It was a gift.”
“It looks expensive!”
“It's obnoxiously expensive,” you say, softly.
“From your boyfriend?”
You almost laugh, but it catches oddly before reaching your mouth.
“No,” you say, and keep your tone neutral in a way that makes it sound like the truth and not a door opening onto an entire private country. “From a friend.”
Friend.
The word behaves badly in your mouth, but it's the only available word that doesn’t demand explanations you’re not ready to give. But it's too small for him, and too generous, and too cautious all at once. Sukuna has never fit inside clean labels, which is partly how you ended up two years into loving him without knowing what to call the thing you were living in.
You spend the second day being normal with the determination of someone forcing a door shut while wind presses from the other side. You are not sitting alone in your apartment, staring at Sukuna’s contact like a woman who has lost every ounce of dignity to a black sedan, McDonald’s fries, and a pen too expensive for grading fractions of effort out of ten. You are not simply lying in bed with your phone in both hands, his name bright on the screen, convincing yourself one message would not be a relapse if it's typed with clear intent and emotional responsibility. You are, in fact, doing very normal things.
You go to work again. You teach. You answer emails. You eat lunch in the staff room with Maki, who watches you with the peripheral attentiveness of someone pretending not to monitor your emotional stability while absolutely monitoring it. You grade with the pen again. You go home. You shower. You stand in front of your closet longer than necessary even though no one is coming over and you are not going anywhere.
Sukuna doesn't text.
That shouldn't surprise you. He said he missed you, but he didn’t ask for anything. He put his number in your phone, but he didn’t send a message after driving away. He gave you the room to decide whether the contact remains decorative or alive.
It makes you feel safer, but also restless in a way you don't want to admit.
You keep expecting the old force. The message at the wrong hour. The blunt claim. Coming over. Open the door. Picking you up. Not because he ever ignored your boundaries in the usual way, not because he ever treated your refusal as irrelevant, but because he had always moved like wanting was an engine and his confidence was the road. He used to arrive in your life with the pressure of a storm approaching. Careless sometimes, careful others, but unmistakably there. Now there is space, and the space is respectful, and respect shouldn't feel so much like an ache.
You try not to punish him internally for doing the thing you need him to do. That’s harder than you expect.
Three days still pass with all the small violences of an ordinary week. Bells ringing. Students asking whether an assignment is actually due if they did not understand it, as though deadlines operate on personal enlightenment. Staff room coffee tasting burnt no matter who makes it. Your birthday decorations slowly disappearing from your desk, little gifts finding places in drawers, the expensive pen becoming both tool and symbol against your will.
At night, you lie in bed and don't text him.
The first night, it's pride.
The second night, it's caution.
By the third, it becomes something closer to self-discipline, and you begin to resent how much discipline is required for a single message.
Then Yuuji destroys you. Apparently it’s an Itadori thing.
It happens around early evening, when you are at home wearing loose shorts and an old shirt, hair clipped back badly, trying to decide whether dinner should involve actual cooking or a dignified arrangement of leftovers. Your phone buzzes on the counter while you are rinsing a mug. You dry one hand on a towel and check it with no particular expectation.
Yuuji has sent a picture.
It arrives without warning in the late evening, after dinner, while you are sitting on your couch with one leg tucked under you and a drama paused on the TV because you have spent the past fifteen minutes scrolling through your phone instead of watching it.
The message preview is simple.
LOOK AT HER
You open it and the sound that leaves you is not dignified. It's not even human enough to be called a gasp. It's a small wounded noise produced somewhere between your throat and your ribs, immediate and helpless, because Yuuji is holding a very small orange kitten in both hands, and the kitten looks like someone took a tangerine, rolled it through dust, taught it resentment, and then gave it ears too big for its head. Her little paws are resting over Yuuji’s fingers. Her eyes are round and serious. Her fur sticks out in uneven fuzz. She is staring at the camera with the expression of an old queen who has been inconvenienced by commoners.
You zoom in. Then zoom in again. Your chest hurts from the amount of affection that slams through it.
YUUJI
What is THAT
Did you adopt a cat?????
His reply comes with the speed of someone who has been waiting to explain.
I WISH
this is Sukuna’s new daughter
You stare at the words. Then at the kitten. Then back at the words.
There are several things your brain tries to do at once. It tries to imagine Sukuna buying cat litter. It tries to reconcile the man who used to glare at children who got too close to his bike with the phrase new daughter. It tries to preserve your emotional caution in the face of a kitten small enough to fit in his palm. It fails at all three with impressive speed.
I’m sorry
Sukuna’s WHAT
Yuuji sends three more pictures as if evidence will clarify anything.
One is the kitten on Sukuna’s black jacket, chewing the zipper. You can see only part of his hand in the corner, large and tattooed, one finger bent as if ready to stop her from falling. Another picture shows her inside a gray pet bed, glaring at the camera with such concentrated displeasure that you have to press your hand over your mouth. The third is slightly blurry, taken while she is apparently trying to climb Yuuji’s hoodie string.
he found her at a gas station after he dropped you home
took her to a 24h vet
bought like half the clinic
she’s small and stubborn and very loud
still nameless
I’m calling her Sukuling until he gives her a name
You laugh so abruptly it startles you.
Sukuling. Sukuna’s new daughter.
The sentence shouldn't hit you in the chest the way it does. It's ridiculous. It's a cat. A kitten. A stray, probably, judging by the slight unevenness of her fur and the seriousness of her little face. It has nothing to do with the apology, with the pen, with the way Sukuna said he missed you and did not reach for you after saying it. It has nothing to do with the way his hands stayed on the steering wheel during the drive, how restraint made the air inside the car heavier than touch would have been.
And yet.
Sukuna with a kitten.
Sukuna, who used to scowl at every tiny dog in apartment elevators as if disgusted by their existence. Sukuna, who once said people who dressed pets in clothes deserved some investigation, then spent too many minutes watching a video of a cat in a raincoat because you pretended not to notice. Sukuna, whose hands are built for handlebars, heavy tools, fists, trophies, your waist, and apparently now for holding something so little it can sit in his palm.
The warmth is dangerous.
You want to know too much. You want every tiny detail — whether he panicked at the vet, whether he let the kitten sleep in his bed, whether he pretended not to care while buying little bowls and toys and food. You want to know if he named her in his head. If he talks to her. If she follows him around the apartment yelling at his ankles.
Then the want hits the obvious wall.
If you want to meet Sukuna’s new daughter, you have to text Sukuna. Possibly visit Sukuna. Possibly sit in his apartment again.
You lower the phone to your lap and stare at the paused TV. The actor on the screen looks devastated about something completely unrelated and therefore useless to you.
“No,” you say aloud to your empty apartment.
Your phone buzzes again.
she’s so tiny
also she screams
do you think Sukuling is too much
It's absolutely too much
Keep doing it
You send a row of hearts you immediately regret, because your affection for the kitten is too naked and Yuuji will use it. Still, he only sends a sticker of a crying dog and tells you she is even cuter in person.
You endure another day.
That is the word. Endure.
Wanting to know means wanting to ask him. Wanting to ask him means opening that line again.
And that’s not nothing.
It's so easy to pretend the difficult part is whether you still have feelings for him. That answer is unfortunately clear. It sits inside you with the same stubbornness he does, heavy and alive despite distance, despite hurt, despite the whole year of trying to make peace with the shape of life without him. You love him. You have loved him through anger, silence, another relationship, through fireworks on a rooftop and panic outside a stadium, through the sight of him beside Kenny and the ache of imagining he had chosen a world that fit him better.
The difficult part is not feeling. The difficult part is deciding what you are allowed to do with it.
So you endure the third day with heroic self-control, which means you only look at the kitten picture six more times. Maybe seven. You don't text Sukuna. You don't ask Yuuji to send more pictures because that feels like using his brother as a contraband tunnel, and you have already promised yourself not to make Yuuji carry things between you. You simply go about your life like an adult woman with responsibilities and emotional intelligence and absolutely no weakness for tiny orange animals.
That night, you dream of a kitten meowing from inside a motocross helmet.
On the next morning your dignity loses.
Your students are louder than usual, or maybe you simply have less patience for ordinary noise because part of your brain keeps replaying the kitten’s grave little face. Maki catches you looking at your phone during lunch and narrows her eyes.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That was your guilty nothing.”
“How would you even know that?”
“I know all your nothings.”
You put the phone face down on the table and Maki leans back, her coffee held in one hand, eyes assessing.
“Is this about him?”
You don’t answer fast enough. Her mouth flattens, but not with anger. Concern first. Anger is behind it, available if needed, but she doesn’t draw it yet.
“He has a kitten,” you say, and she blinks. It's deeply satisfying to stun her for once.
“What?”
“A kitten.”
“Sukuna? That Sukuna?”
“Unless there’s another massive, emotionally constipated motocross champion collecting tiny orange kittens from gas stations.”
Maki stares at you, then slowly lowers her coffee.
“That sounds weirdly like a trap designed specifically for you.”
“It’s not a trap.”
“Does it look stupid?”
“It looks like a plushie that decided it would try to take over the world.”
Maki exhales through her nose and looks up at the ceiling as if asking for strength from whatever god supervises best friends with terrible taste in men.
“You’re going to text him.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m being so normal.” You raise your brows, offended, but not really. “I’m invested in the tiny little animal.”
“You’re invested in his accidental single-father arc.”
You hate her for phrasing it so well.
You survive the rest of the day mostly because work gives you things to put between yourself and your own weakness. In your defense, it doesn't come out of nowhere.
You are sitting at your desk after classes, the window cracked open because the room is warm from the afternoon heat, papers stacked in front of you, the expensive pen uncapped in your hand. Outside, students are leaving in waves. Your phone sits by your notebook. You don't touch it for five minutes. Then you do.
You open Sukuna’s contact.
Just Sukuna.
The contact still sits there like a reset, but not an erasure. You know too much for erasure. The road back, if there is one, can't be paved over old damage and called smooth because nobody wants to trip on it. You know that.
Still, your thumb hovers over the message field.
You type.
Delete.
Type again.
Delete.
You glare at the phone as if it started this.
Then, before you can overthink your way into another whole day of suffering, you write:
Were you planning to keep your little fluffy ball a secret for longer? Also, what is her name?
You send it. Immediately, your stomach drops.
It's absurd. You are not sending a confession. You are asking about a cat. A small cat. A cat whose existence Yuuji already revealed with no discretion whatsoever. This is a normal message. Friendly. Light. Reasonable. It gives him something to answer without making either of you bleed on the floor.
Still, you lock the phone and put it face down. Then pick it up ten seconds later.
No answer. You put it down again.
You last almost a minute.
When the screen lights up, your body reacts before your mind can maintain dignity. You grab the phone so fast the pen rolls off the desk and clatters against the floor.
Sukuna sent an image.
The kitten is sitting on his palm. Not both hands. One hand.
That’s what gets you first — his hand is so large that she looks unreal on it, a bright, fuzzy little ball arranged with complete seriousness, tail curled around her side, paws gathered under her chest. She is cleaner than in Yuuji’s pictures, orange fur fluffed, eyes clearer, ears absurd. His thumb rests near her side, not touching, just close enough to show the scale. The contrast does something terrible to you. The same hand that once gripped handlebars at impossible speed, that carried the weight of a machine through the air, that touched you like certainty when he still had the right, now holds a kitten like a fragile secret.
Under the picture, his message reads:
Probably gonna have no name. I call her Pest. Creature. Little shit when she screams nonstop
You make a sound that is half laugh, half offended gasp.
That is no way to speak of a little princess
Princess is generous
She tried to eat my shoelace and then screamed because it moved
She’s a baby. She’s learning the world.
She can learn quietly
You smile despite yourself. It's immediate, soft, and so familiar you almost feel the ache of it under your ribs. This rhythm. The insult that isn’t an insult. The way he lets you correct him because he likes it even when he pretends he doesn’t. The sharp little back-and-forth that used to fill cars and kitchens and long, tired evenings after events.
His typing bubble appears.
Disappears.
Appears again.
You’re free to give her a name
You still for a moment and worry your lower lip between your teeth.
It's such a small invitation. Just a cat name. Nothing more.
Not nothing, though.
You know it's not nothing because your heart has started doing that stupid, unhelpful thing where it beats harder than the situation requires. He is offering you a place in something new, a tiny domestic detail, a creature he rescued the night after he saw you. He is not asking you to come over. He is not pushing. He is not saying he found a way to put something between you that you can't resist.
But he is leaving the space open.
You stare at the picture again. The kitten stares back like she already expects tribute.
I’ll need to meet her to name her properly
This time, he answers quickly.
Obviously. She’s too important for lazy naming
You smile despite yourself. Then his next message comes.
Come by after work if you want. No pressure.
No pressure.
You read it twice.
The old Sukuna would not have added that. Or he would have said it with enough arrogance to make it meaningless. This one writes it plainly and leaves it there, a small, careful boundary marker, almost awkward from his hands. No pressure. Two words that shouldn't feel so intimate, and yet they do, because what is more intimate than a man like him choosing not to shove his want into your space and call it honesty?
You breathe in. Breathe out.
I can stop by for a little while
She’ll be awake. Unfortunately
Good. I’m coming to see her, not you
Cruel woman.
You stare at the words, feeling the old rhythm flicker between your ribs.
She probably deserves better company.
She bit my finger this morning, so maybe you’re right.
You laugh alone in the classroom. Then you pick up the pen from the floor, cap it, and spend the rest of the afternoon pretending you are not aware of every passing minute.
By the time you stand in front of Sukuna’s apartment door, your nervous system has become an unreliable employee.
You have been here before, and that’s precisely the issue. Everything looks the same.
Buildings don't care about breakups. Elevators don't hold grudges. Hallways don't pause because your pulse changes when you step out on a familiar floor. Still, your body remembers. The path to his door sits in your muscles before your mind approves it.
How many times did you come here with a bag of clothes after work? How many times did you let yourself in because he gave you a key with no ceremony and expected you to understand the weight of it? How many evenings did you arrive to find him half-dead on the couch after training, or fresh from a shower, or sprawled in the kitchen eating something because you threatened him into feeding himself properly?
The hallway is familiar in a way that catches under your ribs. The elevator ride, the polished floor, the lighting that used to make late-night arrivals feel a little softer because you were tired and he was beside you, his keys in hand, his shoulder warm against yours. You remember coming here after races with his gear bag knocking against his leg, both of you smelling like sweat and dust and stadium food. You remember weekday evenings when he would open the door with his hair damp from a shower, shirt loose, face already scowling like you had personally inconvenienced him by arriving at the time he told you to.
You remember leaving too.
Not from here, not that last night, but in all the ways that mattered. The things Shoko returned. The shirts sent back. The key no longer in your life. The drawer that belonged to you, emptied. The absence of his apartment becoming one of the many quiet disciplines of healing.
Now you stand here with your work bag on your shoulder and your heart being dramatic because of a kitten.
You knock.
There is a beat of silence.
Then a high, thin meow from inside.
Your face changes before the door even opens.
It's awful, the way seeing him in his apartment hits differently from seeing him in the car. Here, without windshield, steering wheel, night air, or McDonald’s bags as buffers, he is simply there. Black shirt. Loose sweatpants. Bare feet. Hair messier than it was three days ago, pushed back with less success. The scar on his face visible in the afternoon light. The single carmine eye going over you once with enough restraint that you feel the effort of him stopping before it becomes hunger.
The first thing you notice is not his size, though it still fills the doorway. Not his scars, though your eyes touch them like a habit you have not lost. Not the black shirt stretched across his shoulders and broad chest, not the sharp line of his jaw, not the dog tag chain glinting at his collarbone.
It's the orange blur trying to climb his pant leg.
Sukuna looks down with deep offense.
“No.”
The kitten answers with a furious little sound. You forget how to be nervous.
“Oh my God.”
Sukuna lifts his gaze to you, and something in his face eases at your expression. He doesn’t smile outright, but the corner of his mouth shifts up, and the single red eye on you warms in a way that makes you wish your heart had better manners.
“She heard you outside and started screaming,” he says.
The kitten meows again.
You step in because the door is open and because the little thing is looking up at you now, ears forward, body vibrating with the confidence of an emperor trapped in a tennis ball. You crouch automatically.
“Hello, tiny baby,” you coo at her.
Sukuna makes a rough sound.
“She’s not a baby. She’s a parasite.”
“She is absolutely a baby.”
The kitten approaches your shoe, sniffs, then places one paw on it as if claiming the territory. You press a hand against your mouth to contain yourself and fail. The sound that escapes you is soft and ridiculous, and Sukuna watches it happen like he has forgotten the correct shape of his own face.
You reach a hand out slowly. The kitten sniffs your fingers. Her nose is damp and tiny. Then she bumps her head into your knuckles and begins to purr.
Loudly.
Too loudly for her size.
Your chest caves in around something dangerously sweet.
“Oh no,” you whisper.
Sukuna leans one shoulder against the doorframe after closing the door. His arms are crossed, but not defensively. More like he needed to put his hands somewhere. His shoulders are slightly lowered. His face has the guarded severity he wears when something inside him is too exposed and he is pretending it isn’t.
The kitten climbs onto your bent knee.
“Oh, we’re bold.”
“She has no fear. Or brains.”
“Don’t be rude.”
“She does that to manipulate people.”
“It’s working.”
“Weak.”
“You sent me a picture of her sitting in your hand like a cute trophy, you’re no better.”
“Evidence.”
“Of what?”
“That she exists.”
You look up at him from where you’re crouched, fingers scratching gently under the kitten’s chin while she stretches her little neck with shameless delight.
“You took her to the vet, bought her an entire apartment’s worth of supplies, and let Yuuji call her your daughter.”
“I didn’t let him do shit. He’s just a brat with a loud mouth.”
“Like your daughter.”
His eye narrows. The kitten meows. You smile down at her.
“Exactly.”
Sukuna turns away first, but not fast enough to hide the tiny shift in his mouth.
“Come in before she decides your shoelace is her prey.”
His apartment is both exactly the same and not.
The furniture remains where it was, the couch, the low coffee table, the clean lines, the shelves with too many trophies and not enough sentimental objects. The space still carries him in every corner — dark, expensive without seeming decorated, orderly in a way that suggests control rather than domestic enthusiasm. But there are now interruptions. A small litter box tucked discreetly near the laundry area. A ridiculous cat bed in the living room, already abandoned. A tiny scratching post. Two toys under the coffee table. A bowl near the kitchen.
Life has made clutter in Sukuna’s apartment. You try not to stare too fondly at it.
The kitten follows you as if you have passed inspection. She trots behind your feet with serious concentration, occasionally veering slightly sideways because her body is still learning how to kitten efficiently. You sit down on the living room floor because there is no other possible choice. The moment you lower yourself, she climbs one of your knees, slips, scrambles, and then attacks the string toy Sukuna tosses toward you without comment.
You spend the next twenty minutes with your entire world reduced to a loud orange plushie with claws.
She leaps badly. She misses more than she catches. She makes fierce little chirps when the string evades her. Her tail puffs when she gets excited. She skids on the floor, tumbles over one of her own paws, rights herself with offended dignity, then pounces again as if nothing humiliating happened.
You laugh until your cheeks hurt. Somewhere above you, Sukuna sits on the couch.
You know because the cushion shifts and his presence settles near you, but you don't look right away. That is partly because the kitten demands all focus, and partly because you can feel him looking. His forearms rest on his knees, fingers loosely linked, body bent forward slightly. At first, you think he is watching the cat. Then, when you glance up after a particularly dramatic kitten tumble, you realize he is indeed watching both of you.
There is something in his face that makes your laughter catch.
Soft is not the right word for Sukuna. Not because he is incapable of it, as you learned the hard way and the beautiful way, but because softness on him never looks like surrender. It looks like a blade laid carefully on a table. It looks like strength choosing not to press. It looks like restraint, attention, a quiet lowering of whatever brutal machinery usually keeps him moving.
The late afternoon light catches the scar on his face.
It no longer shocks you. The first time you saw the changed shape of him after the accident, your heart broke for the pain he carried, not the loss of his old face. Now the scar is simply part of the man sitting on the couch in front of you, large and too still, trying to let something soft happen in his living room without taking it apart to see how it works.
His eye is on you. On the way your hands move with the kitten. On your smile. On your skirt gathered under your thighs. On your hair falling forward when you lean down to encourage the small orange menace to catch the toy. He doesn't look hungry in the old reckless way. Not like he plans to take. He looks full of wanting anyway, and the restraint around it makes the air feel warmer.
You look away first. Not because you don’t like it, it’s because you do. Because your body remembers too many things and your mind is still trying to keep pace with your better judgment.
The kitten saves you by launching herself at the string and rolling directly into your lap.
“Oh, excellent attack,” you praise. “Terrible form, but brave!”
Sukuna huffs.
“Don’t encourage her. She already thinks she can fight furniture. And me.”
“She can.”
“She weighs nothing.”
“Emotionally, she’s huge.”
“She screamed at my foot this morning.”
“Maybe it deserved it.”
“I wasn’t even moving it.”
“Threatening aura. Maybe it was stinky.”
“Yeah, maybe it was. Yuuji used the same excuse for her violence.”
His laugh is short and low, gone almost as soon as it arrives, but it settles under your skin.
“Former champion defeated by younger brother and baby cat. Tragic outcome.”
His mouth curves, not quite a full grin, but enough to make heat move through you.
“You getting bold again?”
“Again?”
“You were never shy about disrespect.”
“I was extremely respectful. You just deserved a lot of correction.”
“Still do, apparently.”
The words touch the air lightly, but the memory of his birthday-night answer flickers beneath them.
Or I’ll deserve it.
You feel it, and you know he does too, because his expression shifts almost imperceptibly. Not regret as much as it's awareness. He doesn't snatch the mood back with a joke. He lets the echo exist, then lets it pass when the kitten flops dramatically onto her side and kicks the string with both hind legs.
Eventually, the kitten gets tired in the sudden way kittens do, as if an invisible switch turns off every bone in her body. One moment she is biting the string. The next she is wobbling toward you, climbing onto your lap with determined little paws. She kneads once on your skirt, purring so loudly you feel the vibration through the fabric, then decides your lap is not enough.
She climbs your shirt. You gasp, then laugh as tiny claws catch carefully, not deep enough to hurt but enough to make you help her.
“Oh, okay, ambitious girl.”
Sukuna shifts forward.
“She does that.”
“I can see that.”
“She likes sleeping here.” He taps the side of his neck with two fingers, almost absentmindedly. Then he seems to realize what he revealed and drops his hand.
Your smile becomes unbearable. The kitten reaches your collarbone and tries to tuck herself into the space between your neck and shoulder, apparently disappointed by the fact that you are not built like a six-foot-plus motocross champion with shoulders broad enough to host small wildlife. You lend her a hand, cupping her tiny body so she can settle. Her fur tickles your skin. Her paws press against the neckline of your blouse. She turns twice, bumps her head against your jaw, then melts into a warm, purring heap.
“Oh,” you say quietly.
Sukuna watches from the couch. His expression does something complicated.
You stroke the kitten with one finger along her spine. She is so small that one careful movement covers most of her back. Her purr deepens, absurdly loud near your ear.
“You can just toss her on the couch. She’ll sleep.”
Your head lifts with immediate offense.
“I would never do that to a baby.”
“She’s really manipulating you.”
“I hope she knows I’m very easy to manipulate.”
“She figured it out faster than most.”
You glare. He looks pleased.
For a while, you sit there like that — you on the floor, the kitten asleep against your shoulder, Sukuna on the couch pretending not to be affected by the sight. The apartment settles around you in a way that feels too good to trust easily because it's too familiar.
You ask, partly to make yourself look at something other than his mouth,
“How have you been?”
His eye sharpens with amusement.
“You asked me that three days ago.”
“And things can happen in three days.”
“Nothing much.” He glances at the kitten tucked against you. “Except the pest sleeping on your shoulder.”
Your nose wrinkles.
“Don't talk ill of the baby.”
“She eats better than I do and screams when doors close. She’s fine.”
“You’re lucky she’s asleep and can't hear your slander.”
“She hears everything. Chooses violence anyway.”
You bite back a smile. He stands after a moment, and your body tracks him before you can stop it. The height of him, the controlled weight of his movements, the scar pulling faintly when he turns his head. He moves toward the kitchen, then looks back.
“Tea?”
You shouldn't feel as much as you do from one word.
“What kind?”
He opens a cabinet.
“That one you used to buy. Earl grey créme or something.”
Your gaze holds on his back. The brand comes into view when he takes the box out, and your heart gives an odd, warm twist. You used to keep that tea in his apartment because he claimed not to care what you drank and then somehow never ran out of it. He used to say it smelled like flowers and citrus trying too hard. He used to accept mugs of it at one in the morning after events and drink every drop with the expression of a man doing manual labor.
You smirk because softness without teasing would choke you.
“I accept. I’m glad you developed a bit of good taste.”
He turns his head just enough for you to see the line of his mouth.
“I’ve matured.”
“Have you?”
He pauses as if genuinely considering whether to make a joke or let the word stand.
“Trying.” The kettle begins to heat. Then he adds. “Don’t get too smug. It was in the cabinet.”
“From when?”
“A while.”
“Sukuna.”
“It’s not expired.”
“That’s not the same as an answer?”
“You want tea or an investigation?”
“Both, preferably. And no food poisoning.”
“Greedy. I’ll see what I can do for you.”
You smile down at the kitten and whisper,
“Your father is impossible.”
From the kitchen, he says,
“Don’t teach her that word.”
“Father?”
“Impossible.”
The afternoon bleeds into evening so quietly that you almost don't notice the shift.
The sky outside his windows changes from harsh pale blue to a softer gold, then to the faintly bruised color of early night. The tea is good. Of course it is. You hold the mug carefully because the kitten wakes up once, stretches against your neck, then slides down into your lap like liquid fluff. She eats again, an impressive amount for something so small, making tiny satisfied sounds over the dish while Sukuna watches with the vigilance of someone pretending he is only ensuring she doesn’t choke.
You talk about little things because little things are safer and, somehow, more dangerous.
You talk about your classes, about one student’s wildly creative excuse for missing homework, about Yuuji’s insistence that the kitten needs a name with prestige and dramatic theme music. Sukuna tells you the vet said orange girls are rare, and he says it in a tone that implies the cat has become even more troublesome through genetics. You tell him she is a limited edition. He says she is defective. You tell him all the best creatures are.
His eye flickers to you when you say that. You look into your tea.
It's strange to sit in his living room after everything, drinking tea. Strange and tender and quietly terrifying. You missed this more than you let yourself know — not the grand gestures, not the events, not the rush of being close to him when he was untouchable to everyone else, but this. The ordinary geography of him. The way he occupies a room. The rhythm of his responses. The sight of his hand around a mug. The little noises he makes instead of laughing fully when you catch him amused.
You missed being near him when neither of you had to perform.
The kitten wakes again with sudden purpose and decides the string toy must die properly this time. You drag it across the rug while she chases, pounces, misses, retreats, attacks from behind the leg of the coffee table, then climbs onto Sukuna’s boot and bites the lace.
He looks down at her.
“No.”
She bites harder. You laugh into your mug.
“She respects you so much,” you say.
“She’s alive because of me. God wanted her dead and now I’m learning why.”
“And now she has rights. Don’t be cryptic about the baby.”
“I should’ve left her at the gas station.”
“No, you shouldn’t have.”
You don’t say it softly. You say it simply, because it's true.
His gaze moves to you. For a second, something passes between you that has nothing to do with the kitten and everything to do with the man sitting across from you, the man who stopped at a gas station after driving you home and heard a tiny cry and chose not to walk away. He could pretend indifference all he wanted. You know what doing nothing looks like. This is not that.
He looks away first, jaw shifting.
“She was too loud to ignore.”
“Of course.”
“Don’t use that tone.”
“What tone?”
“The one where you pretend not to know I’m full of shit.”
You smile.
“I missed using that tone.”
The confession slips out before you can measure it. It's small. Not I missed you. But the air changes anyway, and you feel his attention settle on you fully. Your fingers pause around the mug. The kitten saves you again by attacking the string with such ferocity that she rolls onto her back and kicks at it with both hind legs.
Sukuna lets the moment pass.
He could press, yet he doesn’t. He reaches down instead and rescues the string from being swallowed.
“She fights like Yuuji did when he was five.”
“Badly?”
“With a lot of misplaced confidence.”
You laugh, and the tension softens instead of disappearing.
That becomes the shape of the evening — closeness offered in pieces, restraint holding the edges, humor stitched through places that would otherwise be too tender to touch. It surprises you how much you have missed this too. Not only the ache, not only the heat, not only the dramatic gravity Sukuna drags into every room by existing. You missed the little things. His dry commentary. The way he watches you understand something before reacting to it. The quiet between sentences. The fact that he doesn't need constant noise to believe your company is real.
When the room darkens enough that the lamps come on, you check the time and feel reality tug at you.
It's a weekday. You have work tomorrow.
The responsible part of your brain raises a hand. The rest of you tries to pretend you can't see it. Still, you set your empty mug down.
“I need to go home.”
Sukuna’s face doesn't fall. He is too controlled for that. But something in him stills.
“Right.”
The kitten, as if she understands abandonment in the most dramatic possible terms, meows when you stand.
“Oh, baby.”
“Traitor.” Sukuna mutters.
You crouch to scratch behind her ear. The purr starts so quickly you almost dissolve. The scratch becomes two fingers under her chin. Then she leans into your hand, eyes closing, and you lose the last of your discipline. You lift her gently, supporting her tiny body, and she curls into a fuzzy ball against your chest with such trust that you press a kiss to the top of her head. She smells faintly like kitten shampoo, food, and warm fur.
Sukuna’s eye narrows.
You see it.
You absolutely see it.
It's quick, almost hidden, but you have known this man through enough moods to recognize the way jealousy looks when he wants to call it something else. Not dangerous. Not possessive in the way that would make you retreat. More like a disgruntled disbelief that the tiny orange freeloader has received a kiss with no effort while he stands nearby behaving himself like restraint is a physically demanding sport.
Something hot and wicked twists through your stomach. You keep your face innocent.
“She’s so precious,” you say, and kiss the kitten again just because you can.
His jaw shifts. The kitten purrs, smug without knowing it.
He wants.
You know he wants.
And this time he is not taking.
That knowledge does something terrible to you.
You walk toward him and hold her out.
“Here. Hold the baby.”
His mouth opens. You know what he is about to say before he says it. Something like put her down, or she has legs, or she’s not made of glass. You cut him off with a look.
“Hold the baby, Sukuna.”
He stares at you. You stare back.
His exhale is long and deeply burdened. He takes the kitten with more care than his sigh suggests. His hands close around her small body, broad palms adjusting instinctively to support her chest and hind legs. She doesn't protest. In fact, she settles immediately against him as if returning to her rightful throne.
“I’m already dealing with a yelling girl every day,” he says. “Might as well obey.”
You make a soft amused sound that comes too close to tenderness.
He looks down at the kitten to avoid looking at you.
You look at them too long.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing.”
“That expression is not nothing.”
“You look like a cat dad.”
His face goes flat.
“Get out.”
You laugh and head toward the door.
He takes you to the door with her cradled in one arm. The sight does damage. It shouldn't. He is still enormous. Still scarred. Still sharp at every edge. Still the man who hurt you, the man who apologized, the man standing in an apartment changed by a creature he insists on calling pest while holding her like the world might be rude enough to drop her.
At the door, while you put your shoes on, he asks,
“What name are you giving the little pest?”
You pause. Because, honestly, you forgot.
You came here for the stated purpose of meeting and naming the kitten, and then you spent the entire afternoon being devoured by her cuteness and the dangerous comfort of Sukuna’s living room. Now she is staring at you from his arm, round and fuzzy and authoritarian, one paw hooked lightly over his wrist.
“Oh.”
His brow rises.
“You forgot?”
“I was busy experiencing her cuteness.”
You look at the kitten properly. She is round and fuzzy in that strange kitten way, her whole body still not proportioned correctly. Her ears point outward. Her eyes are fierce and a little sleepy. She has the air of a tiny monarch who will accept worship, snacks, and violence in any order.
Orange. Small. Sweet. Loud. Impossible not to love.
“Ponkan,” you decide.
Sukuna glances down.
“Ponkan like the tangerine?”
“Yes.” You reach out and gently touch one fingertip between the kitten’s ears. “She’s a very cute kind of mandarin.”
He looks at the cat for a moment longer than necessary. Then his eye lifts to you.
“You’re a strange woman.”
The tone is the same.
It reaches back through time so sharply that, for half a breath, you are in another year. In another doorway. With a clean shirt in your bag and his hand at your waist and no knowledge yet of how badly things could break. He used to say it with annoyance pretending not to be affection. He says it now with the same warmth tucked under the words, but there is caution around it too, a careful distance that makes it hurt more and matter more.
Something twirls inside you. You are not proud of how quickly your body remembers him.
You lift your chin.
“You’re a strange man with a tangerine daughter.”
“She’s not my daughter.”
Ponkan meows.
He glances at her, then back at you, defeated in ways he will never admit.
“She’s freeloading.”
You roll your eyes because your alternative is looking too affected. The elevator dings softly somewhere below. You press the button.
“Send me pictures of her,” you say. “Whenever you can.”
His gaze holds yours. You realize, too late, how domestic that sounds. But he only tilts his head a little and says,
“If you want to co-parent the cat, you’re paying child support.”
A laugh breaks out of you before you can stop it. It fills the hallway, bright and startled, and his mouth shifts as he watches you.
“I can bring toys and snacks. She deserves them.”
“She has enough toys.”
“That’s not how having a cat works.”
“You’ve had a cat?”
“No.”
“Then why do you sound sure?”
“Because I have common sense.”
The elevator doors open. You step inside, still smiling, and turn to face them — Sukuna standing in his doorway with a tiny orange kitten in his arms, looking like the universe has played an elaborate joke on him and he has decided to tolerate it only because the joke purrs.
You lift your hand.
“Good night, Sukuna. Good night, Ponkan.”
The kitten meows.
“She heard you.”
“I hope so.”
The doors slide closed on the sight of his face softened by lamplight and reluctant affection, and you stand alone in the elevator with your hand pressed around the strap of your bag, still smiling like an idiot.
It feels light. That surprises you.
It makes you happy. That scares you a little.
By the time you get home, your phone is full of Ponkan pictures, so you send them to Maki because not doing so would be a crime against friendship and because you need someone to witness the severity of the situation.
Maki replies after three minutes.
You have been won by the evil man and his evil adorable minion again.
I have not yet.
The answer is a mistake. You know it the moment you send it. Maki replies with a photo she has clearly edited in under thirty seconds — a white background, one giant bold word in all caps.
YET.
Then another message:
Interesting word choice.
You stare at it. Your face heats.
Shut up and go to sleep.
You throw your phone onto the bed and then pick it up again because you are weak and because the pictures are there. Ponkan in your lap. Ponkan mid-pounce, blurred into orange chaos. Ponkan in Sukuna’s hand. Ponkan asleep against your shoulder.
You scroll through them slowly.
Maki is not wrong.
You hate that she is not wrong.
You have not been won, not fully, not blindly, not in the way some foolish part of you might have allowed if Sukuna had come back with the old force and your heart had mistaken being overwhelmed for being chosen. You are not going to pretend one apology, one gift, one soft afternoon with a kitten, fixes the break in the foundation. Trust doesn't repair itself because longing wants a shortcut. You know that. You know it so clearly it hurts.
But you are struggling. Internally, quietly, constantly.
Because you do see it.
You see it in every act of restraint. In the fact that he didn’t contact you after your birthday, even though you know him well enough to know silence must have cost him. In the way he answered your cat message without turning it into an immediate demand. In the open invitation with no pressure attached. In the way he didn’t touch you even when you stood close in his doorway with his kitten in your hands and your mouth still warm from kissing the little orange head.
You see it when he lets you decide the pace before either of you has even named the road.
You wish you could go back.
The thought comes as you wash your face, brush your teeth, change into sleep clothes, and set your work bag near the door for morning. You wish, in a stupid, aching, impossible way, that you could step backward into the version of the story where you still had a drawer at his place and a key in your bag. Where you could go to his apartment after work without your chest tightening first. Where his hand on your thigh in the car did not have to be a question with an answer. Where loving him did not come with evidence stacked beside it.
But going back is not possible. Maybe it shouldn't be. The old version had beautiful things in it. It also had rot under the floorboards you did not know how to see until it broke under you. A bet. An omission. People knowing what you did not. His self-loathing waiting to become a weapon. Your own willingness to understand him almost faster than he understood himself.
No. You can't go back.
You can only build something new, if you choose to, and only if he chooses it too. New foundation. Stronger because it can't pretend history is smooth. Stronger because the worst thing is not hidden in a room full of people waiting for Naoya’s mouth to turn cruel. Stronger because maybe this time Sukuna knows love can't be treated like a trophy for surviving enough damage.
Right before sleep, your phone lights up.
Sukuna sent an image.
You open it and immediately regret having a functioning heart.
He is lying down. The picture is angled from below his jaw, probably taken with one hand from bed. Ponkan is curled in the crook of his neck, a tiny orange comma pressed against his throat. His black shirt collar is visible. The edge of his scar cuts along his face, softened by shadow. You can see the chain of the dog tag disappearing near his collarbone. Ponkan’s eyes are closed. One paw rests against his neck like she has found the safest possible place in the world and intends to colonize it.
You are not prepared for that view. You are really, really not prepared.
There’s something obscene about it in the emotional sense. Not sexual. Worse. Domestic. Vulnerable. Sukuna, the champion, the reckless menace, the man who once survived a crash that rearranged your life, lying still because a kitten trusts him enough to sleep on his pulse.
Your throat tightens. You react with a heart because words feel dangerous.
Then, because you are still you, you type:
Don’t crush her in your sleep.
His response comes a minute later.
She’s the one sleeping on top of me. Your worries are on the wrong body.
You smile into the dark.
Good night, Sukuna.
Night.
A second later:
Ponkan says nothing. Useless.
You laugh softly, alone in bed, and the warmth in your chest stays there even after the phone screen dims. You sleep with it.
The pictures keep coming.
Not too many. That’s part of what gets you. He doesn't flood your phone. He doesn't use Ponkan as a constant excuse to keep himself on your screen. He sends one in the morning, sometimes with no caption. One at night, maybe. Occasionally one in the middle of the day when she has done something especially absurd.
Ponkan inside his boot, peering out like a soldier in a trench. Ponkan sitting inside his helmet, tiny body dwarfed by the padding, one paw on the visor opening. Ponkan on Yuuji’s lap, biting the drawstring of his hoodie while Yuuji’s face is blurred from laughing. Ponkan in the pocket of Sukuna’s jacket, her head sticking out like she is being smuggled across borders. Ponkan asleep on a folded towel. Ponkan standing in her food bowl with wet food on one paw, captioned: Your princess is an idiot.
She’s exploring texture.
She is standing in dinner like a moron.
You save all of them. You don't tell him that.
The week becomes strangely gentle because of it. You wake up wondering whether there will be a picture. You don't always get one immediately, but when you do, it shifts the day. The teaching remains teaching — noise, questions, grading, administrative nonsense, small victories when a student understands something, small defeats when another forgets they own a notebook. But between all of that is orange fur and Sukuna’s dry captions, and your own replies, and the careful revival of something that used to be ordinary.
The texts are not only about Ponkan by the end of the week.
You tell him the pen has made grading emotionally dangerous because now you feel disappointed by every other pen you own. He replies that your standards are finally improving. You send him a picture of a comment you wrote on a paper — “This argument has potential, but right now it's mostly vibes” — with the student’s name hidden. He says the kid should respect the precision. You tell him not to encourage teacher cruelty. He says he learned from the best.
You ask if Ponkan has destroyed anything important. He sends a picture of a scratched box and writes, Define important.
You ask if he is still listening to Shoko. He says yes, unfortunately. Then adds, Before you ask, no riding stupid. You stare at that message for a long time because he anticipated the fear without making you say it.
The weekend arrives before you fully understand how much you have been waiting for it.
Yuuji somehow turns the second visit into a social event.
You don’t know if he does it intentionally or if his personality simply expands until other people are involved. He says he wants to see Ponkan again. You mention you might go over. He asks if he can come too, then adds that Maki should probably be invited so she doesn’t think Sukuna is luring you with a baby animal like a villain with marketing skills. You tell him that phrasing will not help anyone. He says honesty is important.
You ask Maki. She agrees too quickly. Which means she has been waiting for you to ask.
Choso ends up included after Sukuna apparently tells him, or Yuuji does, or perhaps Ponkan sends invitations through sheer gravitational force. By Saturday evening, Sukuna’s apartment contains you, Maki, Yuuji, Choso, Sukuna, and one very tiny cat who behaves as if she arranged the whole thing.
Everyone falls in love with her — this is not at all surprising.
Even Maki, who enters the apartment with the expression of someone prepared to commit inspection and violence in equal measure, lasts exactly forty seconds before crouching down to let Ponkan sniff her fingers. Ponkan, brave and politically astute, immediately climbs onto her knee.
Maki looks down, and although her face doesn't soften, her hand does.
You notice. So does Sukuna.
He stands near the kitchen island, arms crossed, watching Maki scratch Ponkan under the chin with a suspicious level of gentleness.
“Didn’t think you liked small things,” he says.
Maki doesn't look up.
“I like plenty of small things. Knives. Bullets. The amount of patience I have for you.”
Yuuji wheezes. Choso makes a soft choking sound that might be an attempt not to laugh. Sukuna’s mouth curves.
“Thanks for not trying to kill me in my own kitchen.”
“The night is young.”
You glance at her.
“Maki.”
“What? I’m being social.”
Sukuna huffs like he respects the effort and the apartment feels fuller than it used to, but not in the suffocating way you feared. There is some tension, yes. How could there not be? You don't put people who love you, people who hurt you, and people who failed you in the same room and expect the air to behave like nothing happened. But Ponkan is there, walking across the floor with the swagger of a creature carrying diplomatic immunity, and somehow that helps. She becomes the tiny orange center of gravity around which everyone can orbit without staring too directly at the past.
Yuuji lies on the floor almost immediately, arms stretched above his head while Ponkan attacks the cords of his hoodie. He lets her. He narrates her violence as a heroic battle.
Choso sits quietly at first, hands folded, watching the kitten with grave tenderness. When Ponkan toddles toward him, he offers one finger. She bites it. He looks honored.
Sukuna orders everyone to stop letting her think biting is acceptable.
No one listens.
Maki sends a picture to Nobara and receives a string of messages so fast her phone buzzes like an insect. She reads one aloud.
“Tell the evil man I am emotionally conflicted because the kitten is perfect but he is still on probation.”
“Tell her I don’t care.” Sukuna says.
Maki types, then says,
“I told her you cried.”
“You’re all irritating.”
The early part of the evening finds an awkward rhythm and then, slowly, a real one. Maki doesn't threaten Sukuna too much. Only a little. Mostly with her eyes. Choso greets you with visible nerves and a softness that makes you immediately want to ease him even though part of you knows you do not owe him ease. Yuuji fills gaps with noise, talking about Ponkan’s crimes, Sukuna’s terrible naming instincts, and how he personally feels Sukuling remains a strong option even if everyone else is committed to citrus.
“She is not called Sukuling,” Sukuna says from the kitchen.
“Her full legal name can be Ponkan Sukuling Itadori-Ryomen,” Yuuji says.
“No.”
Maki, to your horror, looks thoughtful.
“Ponkan Sukuling has character.”
“Don’t help him,” Sukuna snaps.
You cradle Ponkan against your chest and whisper,
“Your father is so sensitive.”
Sukuna’s eye cuts to you. Heat flickers low in your stomach. The fact that he says nothing makes it worse.
You sit on the floor with Ponkan eventually, dragging a toy in slow circles while she stalks it from behind the coffee table. Sukuna, Maki, and Yuuji drift into the kitchen to discuss food with the seriousness of diplomats negotiating a treaty. Choso remains in the living room.
He comes closer to where you are sitting on the floor with Ponkan and the string toy.
He stands beside you for a second too long. You look up.
He has the expression of a kicked dog trying very hard to look like a serious adult man. His shoulders are set, hands at his sides, eyes lowered with such concentrated guilt that you feel your own chest soften despite yourself.
“Sit,” you say gently, “before I feel the need to pull a chair out for you and hand it over.”
His eyes widen a fraction, then soften with something like gratitude. He lowers himself onto the floor at your side, careful to leave space. Ponkan abandons the toy and runs at his knee, then changes her mind halfway and flops onto her side.
The kitchen voices continue behind you. Maki arguing for something spicy. Yuuji saying he can handle spice, which everyone knows is a lie. Sukuna telling him he once cried because of convenience store curry. Yuuji protesting the historical accuracy.
Choso takes a deep breath. You keep your fingers moving along the string toy, but your attention turns quiet.
“I want to apologize.”
You knew it was coming. Still, the words alter the air. He looks at you directly, though it seems to cost him. The words are simple. No preamble. No attempt to make them look less heavy.
Ponkan catches your finger instead of the toy and begins nibbling with soft little teeth. You let her because it gives your hand something to do. Choso looks down.
“It wasn’t fair of me not to tell you something I knew. I thought it wasn’t my place. I told myself it happened before I knew you properly, and then when I saw he actually liked you, and that you liked him despite everything, I thought bringing it up would only hurt you for no reason.” His voice stays even, but you can hear the strain beneath it. “That was cowardice. The moment you offered me friendship, I should have been honest. Instead I omitted it and let you stand around people who knew something about the beginning of your own relationship that you didn’t. I’m sorry.”
You listen. That’s harder than people think. Anger wants to interrupt. Hurt wants to protect itself by speaking too quickly. But Choso deserves the dignity of being heard through the apology, and you deserve the clarity of knowing whether he understands what he did. So you sit there with Ponkan nibbling on your finger, the apartment warm around you, Sukuna’s voice low in the kitchen, and you let Choso say the whole thing.
“When you were kind to me, when you talked to me and trusted me and treated me like your friend, I should have understood that meant I owed you honesty too. Not only loyalty to him. I omitted it because it was easier and because I didn’t want to hurt you. But I helped create the situation where you got hurt worse.” His mouth tightens. “I’m sorry. Truly.”
The kitchen has gone slightly quieter. Not silent, but aware. You let Choso’s apology sit between you long enough for it to be real.
Broken trust is not repaired by immediate warmth. You know that now with a clarity that feels almost physical. But apology matters when it doesn't ask you to pretend nothing happened. Choso is not making excuses. He is not saying Sukuna changed as if that erases what you didn’t know. He is not begging you to make him feel better.
So you nod slowly. When he finishes, his hands are curled loosely over his knees. You look at him.
“Yeah,” you say. “That sucked.”
He flinches slightly, then nods.
“And I don’t think you had bad intentions. That doesn’t make it harmless, but it matters. I was hurt because I trusted you too, not in the same way I trusted Sukuna, but enough that knowing you knew made me feel really stupid for a while. Especially because I liked you. I trusted you in a different way from the team, I think. You felt safe.” You look down at Ponkan, who is now chewing your finger like she has found the meaning of life. “Broken trust is never fun.”
His expression twists. You soften your voice, not to absolve him, but because truth doesn't always need a blade.
“But I accept your apology.”
His dark eyes gleam. He blinks hard, once.
Oh.
The poor man.
You almost laugh, not because it's funny, but because Choso is fighting for his life to look stern and composed while clearly being a breath away from crying from relief. He was sorry. Really sorry. From the bottom of his heart, in that deeply Choso way that makes guilt look like an illness he has been carrying under his ribs. His nostrils flare slightly.
“Thank you,” he says quietly.
Ponkan releases your finger and attacks his shoelace. He swallows and looks down at her like she has saved him from eye contact.
“Can I ask something?”
“You can ask.”
“If you’re around…” He pauses, then tries again. “Would it be okay to talk about motocross with you again? The technical parts. Races. Bikes. If you would rather not have me around, I understand. Both options are okay, really, I won’t treat you different—”
There is such earnest anxiety in him that your answer comes softer than planned.
“Choso.”
He stops. You smile.
“I’d love to go back into the technicalities with you. I missed our talks.”
His attempt to hide happiness is terrible. It's truly awful. His mouth presses into a line that trembles at the edges. His eyes brighten again. He nods very seriously, as if you have just reinstated him into a sacred order.
“I missed them too,” he says.
You lift Ponkan carefully and place her in his lap like a sacred offering.
His hands come up immediately, gentle and uncertain. She sniffs him, then climbs onto his thigh, purring because apparently Ponkan has decided every person in this room exists to adore her. Choso looks down at her with wet eyes and says, very unconvincingly,
“It’s allergies.”
“Of course.”
“From the fur,” he tries badly.
“She’s very furry,” you indulge the lie.
“Yeah.”
You smile at him, warm and forgiving enough for now. From the kitchen, Sukuna calls,
“Is he crying?”
Choso straightens with Ponkan halfway up his chest.
“No.”
Maki appears in the kitchen doorway.
“He is.”
“I’m not.”
Yuuji leans around Maki’s shoulder.
“Aww, Choso.”
“I have allergies,” Choso insists, sounding genuinely distressed at the possibility of being perceived. Sukuna looks over Maki’s head, catches your eye, and the warmth in his gaze makes the entire exchange land somewhere deeper.
Dinner becomes Chinese takeout because the kitchen council decides on it after too much negotiation and one brief argument about whether ordering more dumplings counts as wisdom or gluttony. Sukuna pays before anyone else can protest. Maki tells him buying food doesn't grant moral superiority. He tells her he wasn’t under that delusion. Yuuji asks if they can at least pretend dinner has healed society. Choso, still holding Ponkan, says dumplings help most situations. By the time it arrives, the apartment has settled into something almost normal.
Almost.
You don't miss the careful glances. Maki watching Sukuna when she thinks you are not looking. Sukuna noticing and allowing it. Choso quieter after the apology but lighter. Yuuji filling silence before it can become too jagged. You, aware of all of them, aware of yourself, aware of Ponkan marching across takeout menus like a tiny inspector.
You eat from cartons, pass sauces, rescue Ponkan from trying to put her paw in rice, and argue about race clips Yuuji pulls up on the TV because he wants to understand the sport better and keeps asking questions that make Sukuna look pained. Choso answers most of them before Sukuna can insult him too badly. You find yourself adding explanations, correcting Yuuji’s assumptions, pointing out where a rider’s line choice changes the turn, how body position shifts before a jump, why the whoops punish rhythm errors faster than people expect.
Choso and you end up discussing suspension settings because he mentions a rider who changed setup mid-season and you immediately ask whether the issue was corner entry or landing stability. His whole face comes alive. He explains with his hands, careful not to knock over sauce, describing how different track surfaces affect what riders need from the bike. You ask questions because you still know more than a casual spectator and less than someone who lives in a garage, which is exactly where the conversation is fun.
Sukuna watches from the couch, one ankle planted over his thigh near the knee, posture lazy in a way you don't trust. He inserts corrections when Choso gets too diplomatic about a bad technical decision. You argue once because you think he is being too harsh about a rider who probably had limited setup time. He tells you limited setup time doesn't excuse riding like he has never met physics. You tell him physics probably didn’t like him either. His grin flashes.
The words feel strange at first.
Then good.
You missed talking about it. That truth comes with sadness attached, because liking motocross after everything sometimes felt like loving a place haunted by an accident. But the technical language still lives in you. The fascination did not die just because pain moved into the stadium seats. When Choso lights up at one of your observations, when Sukuna glances down with that sharp, pleased flicker he used to get when you noticed something most casual viewers missed, the old joy rises carefully through the fear.
At some point, the seating rearranges itself without discussion.
Sukuna and Choso end up on the couch. Yuuji lies on the floor with Ponkan on top of him, letting her attack his hoodie cords with saintly patience. Maki takes the armchair across from the couch, one leg crossed over the other, a carton balanced in her hand. You sit on the floor with your back against the couch, right in front of Sukuna’s spot, because Ponkan had been chasing a toy near your feet and you stayed there after she abandoned it.
Sukuna’s legs are spread around you, not touching at first.
Then, as the evening loosens, your shoulders brush the inside of his knees whenever either of you shifts. Light contact. Almost nothing. Enough to make your body aware of him in quiet, repeated pulses. If you tilt your head back, you would see him upside down. You know this because the thought keeps occurring and you keep not doing it. Then you do, and he is already looking down.
Maki goes quiet. You know that quiet. That quiet is not peace. It's loading.
She sets her food down, wipes her fingers, and looks directly at Sukuna.
“So,” she says, calm in a way that makes Yuuji stop mid-sentence on the floor. “Before we all try socializing like normal adults again, do you have any other disgusting thing you used to do, say, hide, or whatever that we should know about?”
Yuuji’s head whips toward her so fast Ponkan startles, does a little jump, and then immediately climbs onto his hair like it's a safe platform.
“Ow— Ponkan, no, that’s my scalp.” Yuuji says, frozen under kitten claws.
Choso goes so still on the couch you think he might have stopped breathing.
You crane your neck back slightly to look at Sukuna.
He doesn't look offended.
That surprises you a bit, not even because he has no reason to accept the question, but because Sukuna has never enjoyed being challenged in his own space, in front of people, with you sitting at his feet and his brother on the floor. The old him might have sharpened instantly. Might have turned it into dominance. Might have asked Maki who the hell she thought she was.
He does none of that. His gaze stays on Maki, steady and serious, and the contact of his knees near your shoulders becomes more noticeable because he doesn't move away. The room feels abruptly like territory, but not in a simple masculine way. It feels like sitting between a tiger and a black leopard while they decide whether respect is possible without bloodshed.
Sukuna’s knees bracket your shoulders. Maki sits across from him, still as a blade. She is not physically bigger than him, not even close, but she has never needed size to be dangerous. Sukuna, for once, doesn't meet threat with threat. He meets it like he knew it was coming.
“I never apologized to you for that bullshit either,” he says. “So I’m doing it now.”
Serious. Direct. Unflinching.
Your body goes strange, it feels too alert. Choso remains beside Sukuna like a witness trying not to vanish. Yuuji lies on the floor, eyes wide, Ponkan now chewing his hair as if the emotional stakes of adult conversation are none of her concern.
Sukuna continues, voice level.
“I used to find someone in the crowd when events started. Tell the crew I’d get the person to fuck me by the end of the night. That’s about it. It became more of a stupid ritual than a bet after a while, but that doesn’t make it less disgusting.”
Your stomach twists, not as sharply as it did the first time, but enough, because hearing it plainly still hurts. Because this is the truth without Naoya’s cruelty wrapped around it. Because he is saying it with you sitting between his knees and your best friend across from him, and he is not trying to make it sound better than it was.
Maki’s jaw works once.
“Good. At least you know.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“You were disgusting for doing that.”
“Yes.”
“And you,” she says, eyes cutting to Choso, who unfreezes so fast it is almost painful. He bows his head immediately.
“I’m sorry. I should have told you too. I failed her as a friend, and I understand why that made you angry.”
Maki studies him for a long moment.
“Don’t make me regret tolerating you.”
“I won’t.”
Maki looks at him for a long second, then nods once. Not forgiveness. Acknowledgment. Choso accepts it like more than he expected.
Yuuji is still lying on the floor, one hand carefully trying to detach Ponkan from his hair without hurting her.
“This is the most stressful dinner with a kitten I’ve ever attended.”
“You attend many?” Sukuna asks dryly.
“First one. Still wins.”
Maki ignores them and looks at you, which makes your throat tighten. Her eyes are not hard when they land on you. Protective, always. Tired, maybe. But there is something else there too. Trust, given reluctantly and with both hands ready to catch you if it breaks.
“I can’t allow or forbid anything regarding your choices,” she says. “You’re an adult and you know what you do. So if you trust Sukuna won’t hurt you again, I trust your judgment.”
The silence after that is full. You don't know what to do with it.
There was a time when Maki would have turned the whole world into a weapon if you asked. There is still that version of her in the room. You can feel it. But she is giving you something better than control. She is giving you faith in your own choice, even if she hates the risk.
You look down at your hands. Then you feel Sukuna shift behind you.
His knees brush your shoulders more deliberately this time, not pressing, not claiming, but present. His torso leans forward enough that he blocks a little of the ceiling light above you, casting you in his shadow. It would have felt different once. Possessive. A public placement. Now it feels like he is there and forcing himself to stay silent because Maki is not speaking to him.
You think he probably doesn't appreciate being talked about like a dangerous animal whose handling has to be evaluated. You also think he knows he earned it.
He says nothing. That makes your chest hurt more than any defensive speech would have.
“Thank you,” you say quietly.
Maki shrugs, as if the entire conversation has not cost her anything.
“Don’t make me be reasonable too often. It’s bad for my brand.”
Yuuji exhales dramatically from the floor.
“Okay. Wow. That was intense. I think Ponkan bit my face as emotional support.”
Ponkan meows.
The pressure in the room eases slightly. Maki picks up her food again.
“That’s all.”
It's not all.
Because Yuuji finds his voice.
He finally frees his hair from Ponkan, rolls to his side, and sets the kitten on the rug. She immediately begins roaming for her next victim, tiny tail up. Yuuji props himself on one elbow and looks between you and Sukuna with the expression of someone about to do something he knows may get him murdered but has decided his conscience requires it.
“Actually,” he says.
Sukuna’s head turns slowly.
“No.”
“I didn’t even ask yet.”
“You started with actually. Nothing good follows.”
Yuuji ignores him, though his face suggests he is bracing for impact. He looks at you first, apologetic and determined, then at Sukuna.
“Have you two discussed anything about what you want from now on? Like, aside from apologies?”
Your entire body goes still.
Oh.
No.
Maki’s eyebrows lift with immediate, delighted shock. She looks like she did not expect Yuuji to throw a live grenade but deeply respects the form. Choso looks like he regrets having a physical form. Sukuna’s body goes quiet behind you.
Yuuji pushes on, brave or foolish or both.
“I know it’s not my business. It’s definitely not my business. But I think my big brother should stop being so emotionally clogged and tell you what he feels. Properly. Or at least not hover around it like a malfunctioning robot making everyone decode him like a broken radio.”
“Yuuji,” you say, because anxiety needs a target.
“Sorry. I’m just saying.”
You don't dare look up at Sukuna. You can't be sure what exactly Yuuji means by tell you what he feels. Your heart is already trying to supply answers it has no right to demand. You stare at Ponkan instead as she trots toward Choso’s abandoned takeout container and gets gently redirected by his hand.
The room waits. Then Sukuna shifts.
“I told her how I feel,” he says.
His voice is low, controlled, but there is something under it that makes your skin prickle. You keep looking at the rug.
“I told her I missed her,” he continues. “And I still do. That’s my problem to deal with, not hers. Not anyone else’s.”
Maki’s eyes widen just a fraction, and then her face does something unholy. Shock first. Then enjoyment. Not cruel enjoyment. Worse. Sister enjoyment. The kind that says she has just witnessed Yuuji drop a bomb and Sukuna answer it without exploding, and she plans to replay this later while making you suffer.
The brief silence is broken by Ponkan meowing again at Choso, who murmurs something to her like she is a small unstable client.
“No stealing food,” he tells her softly. You finally tilt your head back.
Sukuna is already looking down at you.
Of course he is.
The angle makes him look almost unreal, face upside down from your position, red eye steady, scar cutting through the lamplight. He leans further, and your heart stops for one stupid second because his face is closer now, because the couch behind you becomes too small, because his warmth is at your back, his knees near your shoulders, his voice about to touch the side of your head.
But all he does is bend near your ear and murmur,
“I’m not letting Maki and Yuuji come back here at the same time. I promised Shoko I’d keep my cortisol levels low. They’re sabotaging my treatment.”
You cackle.
It bursts out of you so suddenly that Ponkan startles in Choso’s lap. You slap Sukuna’s leg lightly, more instinct than decision, your palm contacting firm muscle through his pants for one brief second before you pull back. He goes still under the touch.
The evening softens again after that.
Not because the conversation meant nothing, but because it meant enough and didn’t destroy the room. Maybe that’s what normal adults do. Not avoid every hard thing, not turn each one into a battlefield, but ask, answer, breathe, order food, let a kitten bite someone’s hoodie, and keep going.
You find yourself relaxing back against the couch without intending to. The back of your shoulder brushes Sukuna’s shin. He doesn't move away. Neither do you.
The takeout containers empty. The TV plays more motocross clips. Yuuji asks fewer terrible questions and more useful ones. Choso gradually relaxes enough to talk setup and traction with you, his voice gaining life when you ask about how one rider handled a deep rut in a muddy outdoor race. Sukuna interrupts to say the rider nearly lost the rear because he came in greedy. You argue that calculated greed is part of racing. Sukuna tells you not when the calculation is bad. Maki says all of this looks like men trying very hard to die in interesting shapes.
Then you admit, quietly,
“I miss the races a bit. And the stadium.”
The room notices. Maki’s gaze cuts to you.
“Last time you went, you almost fainted.”
Sukuna’s head turns.
“What?”
It comes out sharp, immediate and worried before restraint catches it.
“Because she saw you riding, dumbass.” Maki deadpans.
You close your eyes briefly.
“What? He asked!”
Sukuna’s face hardens, not at you. At himself.
“When?”
“The same day you approached me,” Maki says. “Outside.”
Sukuna clicks his tongue, the sound low and irritated. Maki’s eyes narrow.
“What? You hoped I’d tell you she wasn’t feeling well so you could pull the dumb hero act and go ruin things a little more?”
“I wouldn’t have.”
Yuuji and Choso make doubting noises at the same time.
You turn your head to stare at them. Yuuji looks away. Choso suddenly becomes fascinated by Ponkan’s ears. Sukuna glares at both of them, then reaches over and plucks Ponkan from Choso’s lap with one hand. She dangles for half a second before he settles her on his shoulder like a tiny orange parrot.
“She’s the only one who respects me in my own house,” he says.
Ponkan immediately bites his earlobe.
You laugh so hard your stomach hurts.
Sukuna closes his eye for a second while Yuuji collapses onto his back in hysterics and Maki looks satisfied in a way that suggests cosmic justice has briefly visited. Choso, poor Choso, tries not to laugh too obviously and fails when Ponkan clings to Sukuna’s shoulder with tiny paws and continues her campaign against his ear.
It's the weekend, so people stay later than they should.
Not too late, but late enough for the sky outside to deepen fully and the city lights to sharpen beyond the windows. Takeout containers are cleared, slowly, with more arguing than cleaning requires. Ponkan falls asleep, wakes up, attacks a paper bag, falls asleep again. Yuuji declares himself her favorite uncle. Maki says there is no competition because the other uncle is Choso and he looks ready to write Ponkan into his will. Choso says nothing, which is incriminating.
By the time people start leaving, the apartment is warm from bodies, food, laughter, and the small chaos of a kitten who has explored every lap in the room and judged all of them useful.
Choso leaves first, saying he is spending the night with his girlfriend. Maki offers him a ride automatically, and he says he is fine because he came with his bike. Something about that small exchange makes you smile. The worlds are crossing carefully, not seamlessly, but without shattering.
Yuuji stretches, arms over his head, and looks around Sukuna’s living room with theatrical consideration.
“I’m wondering if I should just sleep over.”
Sukuna is on him instantly.
Not violently, but with the efficiency of an older brother who has manhandled this specific younger brother for most of their lives. He catches Yuuji by the back of his hoodie and steers him toward the door while Yuuji laughs and drags his feet.
“Out.”
“Wow. Kicked out in front of guests.”
“Out.”
“I love you too.”
“Go home.”
“You’re afraid I’ll bond with Ponkan more than you.”
“You’re trying so hard to make me revoke your access on the front gate.”
Yuuji grins at you over his shoulder while Sukuna pushes him toward the entryway.
“Tell Ponkan I love her.”
“She doesn’t know you.”
Maki stands, amused, gathering her things.
“Come on, sentimental brat. I’ll make sure you get downstairs without being thrown through a wall.”
You take the chance to rise too, even though Ponkan is asleep in your arms, purring so comfortably that the idea of setting her down feels morally wrong. You look at her little face tucked against your sleeve and hesitate. Sukuna notices that.
“You can stay a little while if you want,” he says.
Your eyes lift. He is standing near the door after successfully ejecting Yuuji, one hand still on the handle, his body angled like the offer costs him something but he is determined not to make it sound like a demand.
“I’m not kicking anyone out,” he adds. “Except Yuuji. I can do that. He’s family.”
Yuuji, from the hall, calls,
“I heard that!”
“You were meant to.”
You should leave. You know that. Staying alone with Sukuna after a warm evening, while the apartment still holds everyone’s laughter and your body is already too aware of him, is probably not the cautious choice. Slow means slow. Boundaries mean boundaries. You told yourself you would not let softness make you stupid.
But the invitation is open, not pressed into your hands. He doesn't step closer. He doesn't lower his voice. He leaves the door literally open as Maki and Yuuji wait in the hallway.
A little while.
You glance down at Ponkan. She is fully asleep, one paw tucked near her face.
“Sure,” you say. “A little while.”
Maki’s gaze snaps to you. You give her a look that says you know. She lifts both hands slightly, not surrendering, just acknowledging the adult-choice territory she promised to respect.
“I have my phone. If I need to come back and make him suffer, I will.”
Sukuna looks at her.
“You say that like you’re waiting for a coupon.”
“I don’t need discounts.”
“Goodnight, Maki,” you say before this can become another duel. She hugs you quickly at the door, one arm around your shoulders, careful of Ponkan.
“Text me.”
“I will.”
Yuuji gives you a softer smile behind her.
“Goodnight. Bye, Ponkan.” Ponkan sleeps through his farewell. “Bye! Don’t be emotionally clogged!”
Sukuna closes the door before the sentence finishes. The click of it shutting changes the apartment.
The quiet after company has a texture. You feel it settle over the living room, over the abandoned takeout containers, over the toys on the floor, over the space between you and him. Sukuna stands by the door for a moment with his hand still near the lock, then turns back.
You return to the living room and sit on the floor again because Ponkan shifts when you consider the couch, and you don't want to wake her. You cradle her in your lap, stroking one finger over her soft head.
Sukuna doesn't take his previous spot on the couch. He sits in the armchair across from you. Facing you, and the choice is so deliberate you feel it. Separate enough to be respectful. Close enough to talk. You stroke Ponkan’s back with one finger and watch Sukuna try to organize himself. It’s almost painfully obvious now that you know what to look for. The faint set of his jaw. The way his gaze drops once, then returns. The stillness of his hands. He looks less like a man at ease in his own apartment and more like he did in the car on your birthday — braced, determined, not sure where to put all the things he wants without making them too large for you. He looks at you, looks at Ponkan, looks at the window, then back at you.
You give him mercy because you are beginning to understand that mercy, used carefully, is not the same as letting someone off the hook.
“Did Yuuji and Maki get into your head?”
He scoffs. That means yes. Then a beat passes.
“Yeah,” he says. “Maybe.”
Your mouth curves.
“That was almost honest.”
“Don’t start grading me with that pen.”
“I could. It writes beautifully.”
“I know.”
“You sound proud of yourself.”
“I chose well.”
“You did.”
His face changes at the quiet sincerity. Only slightly. A tightening around the eye, a shift in his breathing, like praise still enters him with too much force when it's not about racing. Then he looks down at his hands.
“They’re annoying.”
“They love us.”
The us slips out before you can inspect it. Sukuna notices and his eye sharpens, but he doesn't pounce on it.
“They’re still annoying,” he says instead. “But maybe we should talk about something else.”
The statement is too open to be casual.
You shift slightly, legs folded to one side, Ponkan warm in your lap now. The kitten sighs in her sleep, slumbering through the complications of being an adult human being with an adult life and adult relationships, entirely unconcerned with the way your heart has begun making poor structural decisions behind your ribs.
You look at her because she is easier to look at than the man in front of you. Adult life is cruel, you think, in the most absurdly calm way. A kitten can sleep through emotional tension. She can be loved by everyone in the room and worry only about food, warmth, and whether hoodie strings can be defeated. Meanwhile, you are sitting on the floor of your ex-not-ex’s apartment trying to understand what shape love can have after betrayal.
Your pulse answers before you do.
“Okay,” you say, “What something else do you want to discuss?”
Your tone is lighter than the anxiety gathering beneath your ribs. Curious, almost gentle. You want to see what he thinks matters. You want to know whether Yuuji’s grenade left shrapnel in him. You want, dangerously, to hear him say something that makes the waiting inside you less shapeless.
He looks at you for a long second. Then, as if the armchair is suddenly too much distance for what he means to say, he slides forward and lowers himself onto the floor.
The movement steals your breath a little.
He’s to the floor across from you, not too close, but closer than before. Eye level, or as close as possible considering he is still taller and broader even seated. The choice lands softly. He could loom from the chair, but he puts himself on the floor with you, knees bent, forearms resting loosely, gaze steady.
He meets your eyes.
“I should probably ask if you ever think you can see yourself back with me.”
You stop breathing and your heart trips, but he continues before you can answer, voice low but very clear.
“Not like before, not the same way. But with me.”
“Oh shit,” you let it escape too honestly, a little too shocked, before any dignity can intervene.
His face goes flat.
“At least this time you didn’t choke and almost die. Progress.”
You let out a stunned laugh, one hand pressing carefully around Ponkan so you don’t jostle her.
“I wasn’t expecting you to actually be this pointed and direct like this.”
“I’ve been working on being less terrible at shit like this.”
“I can see that.”
“I’m not asking for an answer because I think I’m owed one,” he says, and the words come slower now, shaped with care. “I want to align my expectations accordingly.”
Your eyebrow rises. He grimaces faintly, as if hearing himself.
“That sounded like Nanami.”
“A little.”
“What I mean is—” He stops, exhales, then looks at you more directly. “I’ll wait or stop waiting depending on what you tell me. I’m not saying I’ll go away if the answer isn’t what I want. I’m not cutting contact unless you want that. I like you. Your company. Your presence. Everything you bring into a room.” His jaw works once. “You. As a person. It doesn’t matter if you’re with me as a friend or something else. I just need to know, and I know how hypocritical that sounds, if I should have any kind of hope in that. Or if I should see you as my friend and co-parent to this small orange little pest.”
You look down at Ponkan. She is completely gone to the world, purring faintly in her sleep, tiny stomach rising and falling. It's so unfair that something this small gets to be simple. Hungry, eat. Tired, sleep. Lonely, scream at Sukuna’s bedroom door until he gives in. No history. No old wounds requiring language. No careful negotiation of love, hope, trust, desire, friendship, fear.
You stroke her paw with your thumb.
You imagine saying no. You imagine saying friendship only. You test it privately, in the space behind your ribs. Could you do that? Could you keep him in your life, visit Ponkan, talk about races with Choso, sit in rooms with Yuuji and Maki and Sukuna and not reach for anything more? If you told him no, would he keep respecting it? Would he keep treating you with this careful steadiness? Would he continue as a friend, genuinely, or would want curdle into pressure eventually?
The only way to know would be to choose that road and watch his actions over time.
But there is another truth sitting under all the caution.
You love him.
A year was not long enough to dim it. Heartbreak did not do the clean, merciful damage people sometimes claim it does. You loved Kashimo too, in a different way, a real way, kind and grateful and tender, and that is part of why you let him go properly instead of using him as proof you had moved on. But Sukuna remains lodged in a place that has never stopped recognizing him. Not as the champion. Not as the danger. Not as the man on posters or the man beside a bike. Him. The unbearable, difficult, infuriating man who learned to let a kitten sleep on his neck and bought you a pen because he remembered a five-second glance from two years ago.
You really, really love him.
After everything. After the parking lot. After the silence. After Kashimo’s gentleness, after your careful attempt to build another life, after months of refusing to watch races, after seeing him beside Kenny in photographs and feeling something tear quietly inside you. The love did not leave. It changed color. It learned caution. It lost some innocence. But it is there, stubborn and breathing, looking at him from across a living room floor while a kitten sleeps between you.
You lift your eyes.
His focus on you is almost painful.
You can see how much effort it takes for him to remain still. It's in his shoulders, in the hands loosely clasped between his knees, in the way his jaw stays tight as if he is physically holding himself in place. He asked for the answer. Now he has to survive waiting for it.
“I like you,” you say. His eye flickers. You swallow and continue. “Hell, I love you. That didn’t change.”
The effect on him is immediate and contained only by force.
His whole body seems to seize around the words. His eye sharpens with such intensity that heat rushes through you. His body leans forward a fraction before he stops himself, like instinct tried to cross the room and restraint caught it by the throat. His hands flex once against his knees. The focus on his face becomes almost frightening, not because you fear him, but because you understand what it costs him not to lunge at the sentence. Not to grab, claim, kiss, demand, turn your confession into proof that everything can be restored by wanting hard enough.
He stays where he is.
You continue before either of you can drown in that one sentence.
“I thought about taking things slow... which is probably hard for someone who loves velocity, but that’s what I can offer for now. Slow. Not pretending nothing happened, or jumping back into what we were because what we were had things inside it that hurt me. I don’t want to rebuild the same house with fresh paint.”
His gaze doesn't leave yours. You breathe carefully.
“I’m willing to try a restart,” you say. “If you think you can endure slow.”
His shoulders lower. It's subtle, but the relief moves through him like a physical thing. His breathing deepens. Some locked part of his chest releases enough that his posture shifts, not collapsing, just no longer braced against impact. His eye remains intense, but the edge of dread retreats from it.
“I can do slow,” he says.
You tilt your head slightly and wait.
“I’m great at it,”his mouth curves as he says, dangerous and familiar.
You give him a look. He holds it for one full second. Then, because he is still Sukuna and apparently incapable of leaving tenderness unsinged, he asks,
“So, wanna spend the night?”
Your eyes widen. His hands lift immediately.
“It’s a joke.”
“Sukuna.”
“Humor, if you will.”
You stare at him. He looks unapologetic and slightly too pleased with himself.
“I won’t hit you,” you say, “out of respect for Ponkan, who is too young to witness that level of violence.”
“Merciful.”
“She deserves a peaceful childhood.”
“With Yuuji as an uncle? Impossible.”
You laugh, shaking your head, and the intensity loosens just enough to let both of you breathe.
He leans back on one hand, and the change in his body makes the air shift. Not threatening. Not quite flirtatious. But something warmer slides back into the space, old rhythm finding new footing.
“You can teach me, then.”
“How generous of me, after all, I’m a teacher.”
“I’m aware. It’s one of your flaws.”
You smile despite yourself. Ponkan, still asleep, makes a tiny sound. Both of you look down at her and the tenderness that follows is quiet and unavoidable.
Sukuna’s gaze rests on the kitten, then lifts to you.
“Did you come by car or app?”
“App.”
“Can I take you home?”
You look at him for a moment.
The question is simple. The asking is not.
He is giving you room to refuse. Again. No assumption. No grabbing keys and expecting you to follow. No making the decision through momentum. You nod.
“It’s fine. You can.”
He stands first, then reaches down, but not for you. For Ponkan.
You pass her carefully into his hands, and she wakes just enough to blink at him, deeply betrayed by movement. He murmurs something too low for you to catch. It sounds insulting, probably. It also makes her settle instantly against his chest. You try not to melt through the floor.
He puts Ponkan in her bed, waits half a second to ensure she doesn't immediately escape, and grabs his keys. She does escape. He looks down at her, then at you.
“You see?”
“She loves you.”
“She has poor judgment.”
“Don’t project.”
He gives you a look. You smile sweetly.
It takes five more minutes to leave because Ponkan follows both of you to the door and cries like you are abandoning her to war. Sukuna sighs, picks her up, carries her back to the living room, distracts her with a toy, and returns before she can realize she has been deceived.
By the time you reach the car, the night air has cooled enough to feel good against your face.
His car smells familiar. Clean leather. A trace of him. Something faint from the gas station maybe, or maybe you imagine it because you know the story now. The passenger seat accepts you again. He waits until you buckle your seatbelt before pulling out, which you notice and say nothing about.
The car ride begins with his usual command.
“Connect the Bluetooth and play something.”
You do. He complains before the first song reaches the chorus. You smile out the window.
It is the same old drill, the same familiar ritual, but not identical. That is the distinction you keep feeling all night. The shape resembles what you knew, but the weight is new. He grumbles about your music taste, but he doesn't use the teasing as a way to avoid the charged quiet completely. He keeps his hands on the wheel. When the streetlights pass over his face, you see him thinking between insults, measuring the road and the silence and whatever slow means now.
He wants hope. You gave him some. Now both of you have to learn how not to mishandle it.
As the car approaches your building, he speaks without looking away from the road.
“I’ll need you to tell me what taking things slow means.”
You turn your head.
“I thought you said you were great at it?”
His glare is immediate.
You smirk.
The car pulls up by the entrance. For a moment, neither of you moves. The engine hums. Your seatbelt rests against your chest. His hand is on the wheel, fingers relaxed but not fully. You see the old impulse in him again, and the new restraint around it. You feel your own want answer, warm and low and complicated.
Slow, you think. Slow doesn't mean nothing.
You unbuckle.
Then, before caution can take too much credit for keeping you intact, you lean across the space between you. Not towards his mouth. That would be too fast, maybe. Too much for the fragile new rules neither of you has written yet. You press a kiss to his face, on the scarred skin.
The scar is warm beneath your lips. Slightly different in texture, but not something separate from him. The contact is brief. Soft. Devastating. Deliberate enough that it cannot be mistaken for accident. When you pull back, he has turned his face toward you, his eye fixed on yours with an expression that strips the air out of your lungs.
Want is there.
So is shock.
So is something almost fragile, buried under the intensity of being seen exactly where he once thought he had become least lovable.
You open the door before either of you can turn the moment into something too large.
“Thank you for the ride,” you say, stepping out.
His voice comes lower.
“You’re just leaving after that?”
You smile, hand on the door.
“I’m willing to teach you how to take things slow. Like the hare and the turtle.”
His eye narrows.
“Did you just call me a bunny?”
You grin.
“Good night, Sukuna.”
You close the door gently and walk toward the gate, still smiling so hard it almost hurts. Behind you, his car remains idling. You do not turn around right away because you know he is watching, and because letting him watch you leave without calling you back feels like part of the lesson too.
At the gate, you glance over your shoulder.
He is still there. One hand on the wheel, face angled toward you, scar touched by streetlight, expression unreadable to anyone who has not loved him long enough to know when silence is crowded.
You lift your hand in a small wave. He doesn't wave back, only watches.
But his mouth moves, barely, like the beginning of a smile he refuses to let become too obvious.
You go inside with warmth under your skin, not simple, not safe in the careless way, but real. You know there will be difficult conversations ahead. Definitions. Boundaries. Trust rebuilt through repetition, not declarations. There will be Maki’s questions, Yuuji’s badly timed honesty, Shoko’s sharp little assessments, Choso’s careful attempts to be normal, and Sukuna learning, painfully, that slow doesn't mean standing still. It means choosing not to run just because want has always felt like speed to him.
But tonight, there’s enough for you to let yourself take a deep breath of relief. There’s a kitten named Ponkan. A week of pictures. An apartment that no longer feels only haunted. A man who asks what hope is allowed to look like instead of taking it. A kiss placed on scarred skin, gentle enough to be a beginning and heated enough to be a warning.
And when you reach your door, your phone buzzes. A text from Sukuna.
The turtle wins, doesn’t it?
You laugh softly in the hallway, forehead nearly dropping against your apartment door.
Yes.
A pause.
Annoying story.
Educational story.
I hate rabbits now.
You are the rabbit.
Sleep before I regret asking you for lessons.
You smile, unlocking your door.
Goodnight, bunny.
His reply takes longer. Long enough that you imagine him staring at the screen, offended and helplessly pleased in equal measure.
Goodnight, strange woman.
You step into your apartment and close the door behind you, still smiling.
For the first time in a long while, hope doesn't feel like something reckless dragging you forward too fast. It feels like something small and warm placed carefully in your hands, asking you to hold it properly this time.
And you want to.
God, you want to.
I love everything about you that hurts
So let me see your moves, let me see your moves
Lips pressed close to mine, true blue
But the prince of any failing empire knows that
Everybody wants, everybody wants
To drive on through the night, if it's the drive back home
Things aren't the same anymore
Some nights it gets so bad
I almost pick up the phone
Trade baby blues for wide eyed browns
I sleep with your old shirts
And walk through this house in your shoes
I know it's strange
It's a strange way of saying
That I know I'm supposed to love you
I'm supposed to love you
I've already given up on myself twice
Third time is the charm, third time is the charm
(Threw) caution to the wind, but I've got a lousy arm
And I've traced your shadows on the wall, now I kiss them
Whenever I'm down, whenever I'm down
Figured on not figuring myself out
Things aren't the same anymore
Some nights it get so bad
I almost pick up the phone
Trade baby blues for wide eyed browns
I sleep with your old shirts
And walk through this house in your shoes
I know it's strange
It's a strange way of saying
That I know I'm supposed to love you
I'm supposed to love you
I was born under a bad sign, you saved my life
That night on the roof of your hotel
Cross my heart and hope to die
Splinter from the headboard in my eye
Photo-proofed kisses I remember so well
Trade baby blues for wide eyed browns
I sleep with your old shirts
And walk through this house in your shoes
I know it's strange
It's a strange way of saying
That I know I'm supposed to love you
I'm supposed to love you
꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ my list of my favorite popular/ and underrated writers on tumblr that I just love reading their fics and take such a nice inspiration for their writing, their style, aesthetic, or just pure amazing talent in writing such amazing fics, headcanons, drabbles, ppl who i just spam like and enjoy their fics everytime!! YOU ARE SEXY AMAZING AND DOING GOD'S WORKK!! I LUV Y'all and appreciate y'all! (made a 2nd one cuz tumblr is lame, probably will make a 3rd part because there's more writers that i love and needs attention!)
❝ in space, no one can hear you scream. they can't hear you wake up alone in a hunk of space junk against your will. they can't hear your ship get engulfed by a much larger and very alien one.
and they certainly can't hear you fall in love with the four-armed grumpy alien you meet while you're trapped within your own ship. ❞
☾⋆ cw ; mdni, 18+ only. strangers to lovers. slow burn. hurt/comfort. angst. fluff. smut. depictions of [likely inaccurate] science experiments. medical discussions. needles. illness. reader and sukuna can't exist in the same atmosphere. they're both huge nerds. bug discussions. mild violence. pet names [human, ange, baby]. trueform!sukuna. piv. inter-species sex. fingering. oral [f! receiving]. monsterfucking. sukuna has 2 dicks. size difference. biting. manhandling. licking. spitting/drool.
inspired heavily by project hail mary/iron lung/alien earth. mild modulo spoilers. sukuna is simurian. changed simurian lore.
☾⋆ wc ; 37.9k.
wattpad || ao3 || main masterlist
Your lashes flutter, eyes opening to sterile, controlled lighting. Lifting an arm feels like a hurdle to overcome when your muscles behave far more like limp pasta than something meant to support a full biological system. After your arm protests the very concept of movement, you flex your fingers, adjusting to the harsh whites of your surroundings.
“Movement detected.”
Blinking hard, you slowly take in your surroundings, expecting a hospital bay, only to be met with smooth white surfaces that tell a different story. Space.
It hits you like a truck and by sheer force of will, you lift an arm to your head, expecting some sort of blunt force trauma. That you must be seeing things. Rubbing your temples makes you aware of several tubes all connected to a tight white suit clinging to your skin. As you begin tugging on the tubes, many release with a hiss while others simply come loose without fanfare.
“Crew aboard: one member. Arrival imminent.”
You have to be dreaming. Hallucinating. Something.
Managing to weakly push to your feet, you stumble through the halls of the ship on a weak gait. It’s a small vessel, with a science bay through a sealing door just outside the medical bay where you awoke, four bunks and a washroom in what you assume is sleeping quarters, and the bridge itself. It’s small, but clearly designed for more than one crew member. Your heart drops at the thought, because that’s when it truly comes flooding back.
Your work. The project. The disease. The creature.
Several pieces of the same puzzle, but each one troubling in its own right.
Still groggy from the induced coma, you force yourself to take a seat in the hall, grateful for what you can only assume is artificial gravity. You might have been sick if you had awoken in zero gravity.
Taking a breath as you sit in the center of a large octagonal hall, you force yourself to breathe. Long breaths, drawing each one out in an effort to keep yourself from boiling over when memories of the very thing that put you here feel fresh in spite of your ten year induced coma. It shouldn’t be you here. You, some entomologist they found online for a paper suggesting beetles are smarter than people think.
You weren’t even really good with people. Just bugs. You spent most of your time alone with your stag beetles, attempting to bring out the very intelligence you’d written about. You never minded being alone. Maybe it’s sad that you spoke to the beetles, but they kept you company in their own way. Yet here you are now, onboard a space ship by sheer coincidence, if it can even be called that. And it’s not the loneliness you fear.
No, you’re content to grab a marker and draw a face on one of the many white walls, call it ‘Wilson’ and name yourself the next Tom Hanks, even if your acting credits are undeserving.
What scares you is the narrow hallways holding you hostage in a vacuum. Once you reach the supposed ‘destination’ that the ship’s programmed voice spoke of being imminent, gravity will cut out. The ship will rely on your ability to navigate yourself through its halls and hell, even navigate the damn hunk of metal through space yourself to send the mission target back. You’re a fucking entomologist. A bug scientist. What the hell are they hoping for from you?
With a sharp inhale, you push back up to your feet, navigating through the cramped hall until you reach the bridge. There are a number of screens and what feel like countless buttons and switches, all labeled with tape. You suppose that’s meant to be for your convenience given that you’re no pilot, but the amount of labels is a textbook in and of itself. Frustrating.
Slipping past the second of two chairs on the bridge, your eyes are glued to the first window you’ve seen. Your lips part as the marvel of space itself comes into view when you slip into the nook by the window.
It’s beautiful. Stunning. It’s full of twinkling stars and the far more consistent shine of distant planets. There’s debris of various different kinds of space rock meandering endlessly through a void. There’s a gorgeous mildly yellow-green planet not too far away with pink and blue accents. Its surface is probably unlike everything you’ve ever seen.
Seeing a planet from space is another kind of beast. Space travel is relatively new to humanity as far as the general public is aware, and you certainly never envisioned yourself aboard a spacecraft. In another world, under other circumstances, it might even be a dream.
The nearest sun has you staring down at your fingers, wondering if the faint heat you feel might be from its rays or if you’re imagining things already, hardly a few minutes into your trip. That is, if you don’t count the several years in which you were in an induced coma.
Flexing your fingers again as you stare at them, it’s not until a shadow takes away the sun’s distant rays, that you notice something incoming quickly. Your eyes widen at the sight of a ship, alien in appearance. Long, slender, dark grays in sharp and jagged angles all come together to build a ship that makes yours look not entirely unlike the very bugs you study. Very, very small. Insignificant.
“Oh shit,” you gasp in wide-eyed disbelief as something straight out of a sci-fi movie moves in a line straight towards you. “Oh shit” you gasp again, racing to push yourself to your feet and clamber for the pilot’s chair as though the labels will push you into action. Paralyzed on the chair, the most you can do is skim each word in hopes that one might magically say ‘turn one hundred and eighty degrees and get the hell away from the giant evil-looking alien spaceship’.
Unfortunately, you never find that button. With your hands hovering over the controls, you find yourself watching in horror as you’re swallowed whole by the other spacecraft. “Oh shit.”
Your ship is harshly jostled as all of a sudden the hull drops like a stone onto something hard and metal, screeching as it slides across what you can only assume is a bay of the other ship as you stare into the darkened corridor of the inside of an alien spacecraft. You grip the chair for purchase in an effort not to get thrown aside while your ship blares warning and lights flicker.
“Oh shit,” you breathe when the lights outside your ship flick on and flood the bridge with the harsh lighting of a warehouse. There doesn’t seem to be any other ships aboard if this is a bay or hangar, but it certainly looks like one… Though you suppose you’re basing that off of movie knowledge, which is probably stupid. Especially for a scientist at the top of your field.
Slowly descending from your chair, you approach the window in awe, staring out into the metal box. It’s largely human, with pipes running up the walls and across the ceiling, lights in long bulbs overhead and lower lighting from small circular vent-like structures. The structure seems rougher than the smooth metals of your ship, almost as though it’s made of an unpolished mineral, with a luster that dictates something akin to quartz or obsidian, but it’s slightly off. The only thing inhuman about the entire thing is the text. It’s not entirely unfamiliar, the sort of thing that you wager you could decipher in time, but when you spot movement at the far bay, you figure time isn’t exactly on your side.
What a way to wake up after ten years.
The alien figure that approaches your ship isn’t human. But… they aren’t inhuman either. You know they aren’t human, with an extra pair of limbs attached to their upper torso and an extra pair of eyes aboard a plate of some sort on the right side of their face, but otherwise the only thing inhuman about them is their massive size, standing at what must be ten feet tall.
A tight shirt clings to their upper torso, some sort of spacesuit loosely draped from their torso in an off-pink that matches their short hair. Markings line their jaw, coming up just beneath their eyes not unlike tattoos, though you can’t be sure whether or not that’s what they are. The most inhuman feature of all, however, is the blood red gaze they fix your ship with as they walk in an even, calm stride towards the door.
A creature with a calm like this is one that knows it’s powerful. It’s the type of confidence befitting of someone who far outclasses everything they’ve ever come across and doesn’t fear the beyond like you do. “Oh shit!”
It’s just about the only words you can manage as you clumsily navigate towards the small porthole of the door where the alien has deduced they may find you. Peering out the small circular window, you can only pray you aren’t about to be probed or something similar.
When the alien approaches your ship with some sort of technology in-hand, you tap on the glass to get their attention. The large alien’s head rises, their brow lowering to a scowl of sorts as they examine you. This close, they look startlingly like a human man. Like the kind of man you might see in a gladiator movie given his sheer size and musculature, sure, but human enough to reason with. He speaks some sort of language, but you can’t understand a word he utters.
The language is a mix of huffs, growls, clicks, and what you would otherwise consider sounds not unlike the languages found on earth. Between each noise that reminds you vaguely of an echolocation sort of noise is a very human syllable. If you were to put the syllables together without the clicking, you might even get something akin to human vocabulary.
By all accounts, this is an intimidating encounter. His gaze is sharp, almost grating in looks alone. His pupils have rings surrounding them that give him a formidable appearance. His mother tongue is so different from any language you’ve ever encountered– human or animal– that the only thing you even can compare it to are films. Some part of you is wired to expect a Xenomorph to uncurl from wires and silently drop to the ground, acidic saliva dripping from its mouth, and yet the man remains still, awaiting your reply before he answers in kind.
Maybe it’s your poor instinct for danger, but you’re far more intrigued than you are concerned.
“Uh– Hello!” You attempt to reply in an effort to keep the peace, further perplexing the alien whose eyes narrow. Your heart pounds behind your rib cage as you give your best effort to not get eaten. Or examined. Or whatever this species does. “I come in peace!” You offer, making a peace sign through the door with a wide grin.
His gaze slides to your hand, his deduction of the action clear in the way his narrowed eyes regard the action. He frowns like you’ve caused him an inconvenience, gliding his finger along the device in his hand briefly as he looks away. You almost wish he was more animalistic. You’re a better read on animal behaviour than human.
“Okay, um– hold on!” You hold up one finger, clumsily dashing back through the ship to the science bay. You grab a white board and marker, making your way back to the porthole. The four-armed alien is tapping on what you assume to be the screen of the device he brought with him, though his attention returns to you once you reappear. You draw a circle and the general outline of the continents, presenting the image to him. “I’m a human. From Earth,” you say, pointing to your drawing.
The alien’s gaze lowers to your drawing, then he taps on the screen of his device, growing more frustrated by the moment. When the device doesn’t seem to give him the results he wishes for, his shoulders visibly fall in frustration as he faces you again. His gaze fixes the drawing, then you once more.
When he doesn't reply, you quickly erase the drawing of earth, and draw something that might be more familiar. You draw the very thing you’re here in search of as clearly as you can from memory.
CRM-12. A creature so foreign, the scientists never even gave it a name. Beetle-like in appearance in spite of its size, which begged your attention, one of the heads in entomology. A creature intelligent beyond any credit they were willing to give it, treating it as lesser than even rodents. It was no more than an experiment, and your reason for being in the middle of uncharted space.
You present the drawing of the creature, a metallic brown beetle with accents that resemble an oil spill, iridescent pinks visible in the sun. Its eyes, however, are completely unlike any insect. Cat-like, they follow movement like the eyes of a higher being. Like they know. You hope that comes across in a crude drawing with a black marker.
The alien looks at the drawing you present, seeming to recognize it. He stares at you and chuffs, almost like a tiger, followed by a syllable unrecognizable to you.
“You know it?” Your brows raise eagerly at the reaction that you’re fairly sure is a yes given the way big cats so often use the first portion of the sound.
Another chuff in reply, then the syllable. You can work with that. The recognition in his gaze tells you that it isn’t a no, which means you’re communicating, even if it’s preschool-level communication. Even if he seems frustrated by the whole ordeal. Or maybe by you. Or the device. You really can’t say.
“Oh my god, you know it? I’m looking for it!” You point with a grin, intrigued by the alien life that seems to be as advanced, if not more than humanity.
He watches your eager movements with hooded eyes, all four following the way your body almost seems ahead of your mind as you attempt communication. In a far more languid movement, he lifts an arm, simply tapping once on the door as he stares at you, awaiting.
You purse your lips, fairly confident you understand. “Oh– I can’t leave my ship,” you glance down at the door’s handle. “Um– hold on.” You raise one finger again, drawing another picture on your whiteboard. This time, you present the alien species with a poorly drawn version of your ship, an ‘X’, and a stick figure of you, with your tongue out and an ‘X’ for either eye. “I would die in your atmosphere. I mean, probably. I guess I don’t know.”
One of his brows raises at the crude demonstration before he looks you up and down once through the porthole. He huffs, something of disbelief or maybe annoyance, before looking around the bay. He replicates your motion, raising one finger in a ‘hold on’ type of manner, disappearing for a minute. When he returns after a few moments, he lifts a lower arm to present to you a new device. From the device comes a hologram far more advanced than anything earth has managed thus far.
Your eyes widen at the sight of the very beetle-like species you’re here for. You nod, giving a thumbs up. “Yes! Yes, that’s it!” You loudly proclaim with a grin.
He recoils, though you can’t quite place why. He watches your reactions, the smile, the thumbs’ up, the nod, and chuffs in reply. Alright, communication.
“Hey, um, there’s–” You stammer over words, before giving your signal for ‘hold on’. Quickly and crudely attempting to draw your best version of the window by the bridge. You hold it up to the person opposite you, pointing in the general direction of the much larger window across the ship.
His sharp gaze follows the direction you point, his head moving in that direction altogether, before chuffing and surprisingly disappearing. You blink, before quickly moving in that direction as well, cables and tubing still drifting listlessly behind your clothing from when you awoke. You stare down briefly at the ordeal, at the mess you’re sure you look, and figure that’s a problem for when an alien isn’t staring you down.
You’re just grateful he isn’t looking at you in the same way humanity looked at that beetle. That stupid, god forsaken alien beetle. Even if he does seem a bit annoyed with you.
Dragging the cables along with you, you slip past the chairs in the bridge to the larger window where your new alien peer is curiously examining the circuitry within the bridge. “This is the bridge,” you explain, pointing behind you. “For the captain.” You turn to face him again, unsure if he understands a word you’re saying, but the need to fill the air is unfortunately at the forefront of your mind. Slipping into the nook of the window, you watch as his crimson gaze tracks your movements, dropping to the cables that he examines for a moment. “These are just cables,” you explain, holding them up.
He grunts through a deadpan expression as though he has that figured out already, and it’s at this moment that you realize how grateful you are that there’s an atmosphere at all in his ship right now to carry either of your voices so that you can communicate. The entire thing is fascinating beyond any kind of entomology you’ve ever been witness to. Of course, you’d have an easier time grasping his behaviour if he were a bug, but you suppose you didn’t get much of a good understanding of CRM-12’s behaviour anyway in light of the events that took place with the species on Earth.
CRM-12. The thought makes you wonder. “Do you have a name?” You glance down at the whiteboard, but you aren’t sure how much it’ll help. “A, uh–” You point to yourself, stating your name, then to him. “What’s your name?”
He straightens, and in a very alien language gives you a series of growls and hisses, along with a series of somewhat more human-sounding syllables. You attempt to replicate the sound, you really do. The problem is that your vocal chords simply can’t shape the same noises that his can. He frowns as you can’t reach one of the clicks in your vocal range, and surprisingly offers something more familiar.
“Sukuna.”
Your lips purse as you stare out the window at him. It’s shockingly close to the syllables that sit intermittently between the clicks and growls in his name, like his language might not be as far off as you originally hypothesized.
“Human.” He adds, then replicates your name, shockingly nearly perfect.
“Yeah!” You agree with a grin. “That’s my name. I’m human.”
“My name,” he forms the words, copying them in his deep baritone voice. It sounds somewhat foreign after you’ve heard primarily chuffs and hums, but he doesn’t struggle to form the words. They’re clipped, like his tone isn’t intentional and there’s a rasp to his words like his throat wants to add the clicking to the words, but doesn’t.
You have an itch to write and document everything you can, but your lab is a few light years away and your journal is… yet to be found, since you awoke. You do what you can to catalogue every detail for later in your mind.
“Okay, okay.” Beyond interested and excited by the ordeal, you make a wild motion with both arms towards– well– everything. “This is my ship.”
Sukuna’s gaze lifts to the exterior of the ship, then returns to you. An upper arm lifts, muscle that’s inherently humanoid rippling beneath what looks to be something similar to a performance long sleeve clinging to his arm. He taps twice on the window. “Ship.” Then directly in front of you. “Your ship.”
“Yeah,” you breathe in disbelief. “Is this your ship?”
He points back, chuffing. “My ship.”
The velocity of his ability to learn is stunning. In fact, you would wager a bet that not only is he so far advanced that he outclasses Humanity by miles, you would be willing to be there’s more to it than that. The scowls, the grimaces, the huffs. Could he be annoyed that you’re not capable of picking up his language? “Are you–” you point to him, then the chair behind you, “the captain?”
His gaze examines you as you point towards the seat on the bridge behind you. Understanding your gist, he chuffs.
“Holy shit,” your breath. Looking eagerly past him into the rest of the hangar bay, you press your hands to the window. He straightens, taking a step back as he stares at you with a raised chin. “Where are the rest of you? Do you have a crew? Do you have scientists?”
He growls, but it doesn’t appear to be a warning. Your limited knowledge of his language tells you it may just be a vocalization that’s within his language, but you can’t say for sure. You can’t be sure whether he’s answering in his own language or simply frustrated with your onslaught of questions. Maybe both.
“Are you alone?” You offer the option. “Just you?” You point.
To that, he straightens slightly, his gaze dropping as he evaluates your stature. He must determine you aren’t a threat, because he finally replies with a chuff. “Alone. Just Sukuna.”
It’s unbelievable, truly. It’s not the fact that there’s other intelligent life that baffles and equally excites you, but the fact that not only does he seem to be far more advanced, but it’s clear you’re both studying one another’s behavior. More interestingly, he’s making sense of your language so quickly without so much as forgetting a word that you’re fairly sure his species can outdo humanity’s feats in an evening. You watch him pick up words before you’ve even used it in much more than a sentence to yourself. He adjusts so quickly that it has you questioning everything you know about life outside of Earth. About life on Earth. About behavior, intelligence, and everything you’ve studied so hard when it comes to entomology.
Much of the… day? Is spent going back and forth, focusing primarily on language using the whiteboard, and you’re surprised to find Sukuna doesn’t just keep up, but clearly surpasses your intelligence. He’s offput by noise and moves at a much slower pace that gives you the impression that he wouldn’t know the expression ‘life is short’. You wonder how many years he’s wandered the universe.
He primarily listens and learns, letting you yap about tenses and grammar with little more than an aloof frown. He rarely inquires, but as his knowledge grows, he becomes more at ease. The rigidity in his upper and lower shoulders releases, and his expression shifts from one of skepticism to intrigue. Before you can inquire about his species or language, however, your ship comes online. With a robotic timbre, an announcement comes across the speakers. “Please report to the lab for documentation.”
You stare back into the ship for a moment before facing your new companion. “I need to go make a report,” you explain. “The humans back on Earth want a video of how things are going.”
You can’t be sure how much of that he understands given that he’s largely a closed book, but he chuffs his general understanding.
“Do you… sleep?” You make a motion of sleeping. “Or eat?” And point to your mouth.
The mere suggestion has him yawning, revealing primordial fangs behind his lips. He doesn’t grace you with a reply otherwise.
In a series of clicks and hisses, he says something you’re unable to translate and turns on his heel. Your best assumption is that he’s wished you a goodnight, so you opt to do the same. “Goodnight, Sukuna!” You call loudly from your side of the glass.
He tilts his head slightly, then shakes it, but doesn’t look back.
You watch the spot where he disappeared for a long moment. In the barren bay, the lights click as one by one they shut off until you’re left with only the ambient light of the interior of your own ship. Stepping back from the glass, you blink to yourself. He’s unlike anything you could have imagined when it came to aliens. It’s not like you haven’t met one, given that your assignment on Earth was studying CRM-12 and your assignment now is simply to retrieve more of them, and while you know even that creature’s intelligence was largely underestimated, you never imagined another planet like Earth could exist.
Maybe the atmosphere doesn’t match your own. Maybe there’s no oxygen. Maybe his planet is overruled by dinosaurs. You wouldn’t know. But somewhere out there is a planet with architecture and entire civilizations that you don’t know the first thing about.
As you make your way to the lab, a small camera prepped for you to record, you swear you’re still jittery with excitement. The scientist that swims in your veins can’t wait for tomorrow to come, ignoring every natural instinct to exercise caution. You don’t see yourself sleeping well in spite of the fact that your body remains heavy with the weight of several induced years of sleep.
Without thinking twice, you flip the camera’s screen to look back at yourself and begin recording. You recount your ship being engulfed, describe Sukuna, and explain your findings in largely scientific terminology.
“I know he’s not what I’m here for, but– This could be… I mean…” You shake your head. “I’m not giving up on this research,” you steel yourself, staring into the camera. Chewing on your lower lip, you reach for the camera, shutting the screen and effectively stopping the recording without signing off.
You take the extra time in the evening to put yourself back together. You’re not trained for space, or even for the use of this vessel as a whole, but you track down a sponge bath and washroom, before finally managing to find a small compartment with your belongings.
Dragging the compartment out from the netted area in which it resides, you open it slowly. Within are some clothes– some your own, most provided by the company responsible for your launch– along with a few general sanitary items. It’s largely impersonal, which you suppose you expected. Having prepared for this, you reach into the pocket of a hoodie and pull out the one thing you hoped to keep with you.
You breathe out a sigh of relief, unfolding a photo. The lines through the center block out only a modicum of the happiness held within it, but at its core it’s everything you wanted to hold onto. You’re holding the camera with a huge grin, an Extatosoma Tiaratum, a large stick insect, climbs along your shoulder, and your beloved Lucanus Elaphus, an Elk Stag Beetle, is in your hand. To your left is your best friend Shoko and her German Shepherd puppy, a month after she adopted him. She’s holding him like her pride and joy in spite of the fact that throughout her entire veterinary medicine degree, she swore she’d stick to an animal with less genetically pre-disposed health problems.
You had just gotten back from a research trip back then and were meeting her pup for the first time while she cared for your bugs while you were away.
It’s strange to think that she’s ten years older now. Your bugs are surely dead, and Shoko hasn’t seen you in over ten years. Your heart pangs as you pull the familiar hoodie on over your head and tuck the photo back in your pocket as you make your way back to the bed that didn’t exactly do wonders for your neck as you make way for the second day in uncharted territory.
–
The morning greets you in the same way it did yesterday. Cold, sterile, and controlled. The white lights flick on without asking, deciding your schedule before you ever do. You blink away the sleep in your eyes, grabbing a dehydrated granola bar sort of thing to bring with you to the bridge as you dress yourself in white pants and your own hoodie.
Sukuna still isn’t there when you arrive at the bridge, so you do the only thing you really can do in the enclosed ship bay. You come prepared this time, with a model of your ship, your whiteboard, some snacks, water, and a journal and pen to note your findings. Not necessarily for humanity’s sake, but out of habit, for you. With everything spread out around you, you reach into your pocket, pulling out your photo with Shoko. Your thumb smooths along the fold lines before you set it off to the side in front of you. Then as you would on any other day, you note your findings with small drawings in the column of your journal.
After a short wait, the bay’s lights flick on one after another with a metallic clang as each one begins pulling electricity to the large hangar. Sukuna has also come more prepared, with another new device in one of his many hands and what looks to be a spacesuit draped over another arm. He’s wearing much the same top in a slightly deeper tone of gray and baggy pants this time around, with that same overall neutral expression on his face.
Neutral is generous, given how grumpy he looks in human terms. Given how grumpy he is. Maybe it’s just his species, you can’t be sure, but he gives you the impression you frustrate him.
You perk up at the sight of him regardless as he approaches in the direction of the door’s porthole, changing his stride when he spots you at the window.
He clicks and grunts, which you assume is a greeting of sorts.
“Hi, Sukuna! Did you sleep good?”
He doesn’t beat around the bush. “Sleep bad.”
“Oh. Why?”
He approaches the window, dropping the suit on his arm into a pile on the floor. “Human loud,” he states, pointing accusingly at you with a finger to the window.
“Me? This ship is huge, there’s no way you heard me. I don’t even snore!” You pout first, but your mind doesn’t give you the time to be offended as something occurs to you. “Wait, is your hearing really good?” You ask, pointing to your ear.
He chuffs. “You loud.” He makes a motion to his chest, demonstratively inhaling and exhaling in kind. “Like that.”
“Oh my god, you could hear me breathing across the ship?” You instinctively bring up your fancy space pen and journal, scribbling down messy notes as your mouth gets a few steps ahead of your brain. “Wait, but the ship is on. I can’t be louder than like– Is your engine not loud? Or the life support systems? You must breathe some sort of gas or–”
He huffs, tapping the glass with a subsequent growl. Much like yesterday, it’s not a warning but something entirely else. “Ship my design. No sound.”
“No sound? Your design?” You gawk, sitting down at the window. Sukuna follows suit opposite you behind the glass. His movements are heavier in nature and far more languid, one corded muscular arm keeping him upright as he takes a seat. In spite of his constant aloof expression, you note that he does still seem intrigued. “Wait– oh my god, are you an engineer?”
He shifts his jaw, eyes narrowing thoughtfully as he attempts to use context clues to put the word engineer into place in his mental dictionary. He says something in his own language, reaching for the device he used yesterday to show you a hologram of CRM-12. This time, he flicks it on into some sort of 2D image, a screen of sorts. In concise, easy strokes, he pulls up a blueprint of his ship. “Engineer?” He queries, confirming the term.
“Yeah,” you breathe in disbelief. “Yeah, you’re definitely an engineer. Holy shit,” you laugh, tone wrought with disbelief. “The photo you showed me with that yesterday, the uh– beetle species?”
His gaze narrows and he grunts, almost a low growl.
“Um–” you lower your gaze to your whiteboard, drawing a quick sketch of CRM-12 again, writing its name beside the image. “This guy.”
The confusion rife across his features dissolves as he chuffs. “Kerm.”
“Kerm?” You blink, unsure where this word has come from.
He points to ‘CRM-12’ like it’s the most obvious thing he’s ever pointed out, blatantly frowning. “Kerm one two.”
You laugh, airy and light, grinning. “Yeah, Kerm. Yeah, okay. Kerm. Um, you’re looking for them too, does that mean you’re a scientist too? Like, um–” setting the whiteboard aside, you tap your fingers listlessly along your thigh. “You study life and elements? And learn about creatures?”
That clicks with him and he chuffs again.
“Holy shit,” you practically bound to your feet, quickly sitting back down at the revelation with a multitude of further questions.
Sukuna’s brow tents as he watches, disdain dripping from his expression as though you’ve offended him in your bout of excitement when he shuffles back slightly. He leans back on one arm, the other three held as though you might present a threat to him. Still, he remains silent.
“Wait, so you’re the captain, engineer, and a scientist? Oh my god, that’s incredible. Human life is so short we could never even dream of studying all three things and exploring space.” You don’t even pause as your thoughts simply spill from your lips. “You must be able to live so much longer than us. Or maybe you’re just that much smarter. Wait–” Your hand presses to the glass. “Where are you from? What planet–”
“Human.”
“–are you from? How long are your years? How old are you?”
“Human.” Sukuna’s hand presses to the glass with a jarring bang as he leans over you in spite of the barrier, the size difference growing apparent. His voice booms, stopping your endless trail of words in their tracks. Once he has your silence, Sukuna proceeds to click and growl in a series you’ve heard once before, though you now recognize it as displeasure.
It doesn’t take an understanding of his language to put together that he’s calling you ‘too much’. He’s telling you you’re annoying.
Your cheeks heat up and you take the opportunity to sit back, sucking in a breath.
Sukuna’s hand peels from the glass, his prints remaining in the spot where it was. He sits back with a loud huff, rubbing at his temple with one hand as he leans back on another. “Planet is–” he states the name in his language first, then pauses to think before providing something you understand. Removing the noises between the syllables, he lands on a simple name. “Simuria,” he starts, choosing one of your questions and going with it. “Age–” he glances down at the hologram, waving his hand through it to erase the blueprint. He makes ten markings through it like a whiteboard, then clicks, his word for ‘ten’.
“Ten,” you nod your understanding.
He points at the markings. “Ten tens.”
“One hundred,” you nod your understanding.
“Ten one hundreds.”
Your lips part. “One thousand?”
He chuffs, staring blankly at you.
“You’re over one thousand years old?” Your disbelief is palpable as your jaw hangs slightly ajar, taking in the details of his face and overall physique. He looks to be in his late thirties or early forties, but if there’s one thing you’ve learned in your time interacting with aliens, it’s that you don’t know the first thing about them.
He chuffs again, like it’s plain to see and his age is obvious. “How old you?”
“Um, three tens,” you hold up three fingers. “And a five,” you demonstrate the next number. “But I, uh, spent the last ten years sleeping to get here,” you offer a tight-lipped smile. His eyes narrow as he attempts to decipher the emotion written across your face, but you train your expression back to neutral before he can. “We only live to be about nine tens, though.”
“Nine tens?” He recoils at the mere thought. “Weak.”
You let out an airy laugh. “Weak, yeah. Humans tend to be.”
“Three thousands. Or more.”
“You can live three thousand years?” Once again caught up in the sheer difference in time you’ve both experienced, you’re forced to sit back, leaning on your arms. “Holy shit.”
That’s not even beginning to touch on the fact that his planet’s years could also be longer than Earth’s.
Sukuna has come to recognize your exclamations as disbelief and puffs out his chest. You can’t be sure whether it’s pride or a sort of bragging right he holds over your head, but it’s heartwarming to bond with someone so similar, and yet so different.
“Where your crew?”
“Oh–” You push a hand over your neck, staring back into the ship. “No crew. Just me. Just a scientist. I’m an entomologist. I study bugs.”
His brow dips as he attempts to put together what he understands based on your statements. “No captain?”
“No. No captain,” you reply coolly, the most calm he notes you’ve been since arrival.
“Captain?” He points to the photo of you and Shoko as he peers closer.
“No, that’s my friend Shoko. Another human, on Earth. And these are my bugs. I’m a bug scientist.” You point to the beetle.
“You study bugs?”
“Yeah!” You grin, followed by the familiar feeling of information running through your brain as your most passionate subject arises. “There are thousands and thousands of them on earth. Like, a thousand thousands. More than that. We’ve barely scratched the surface of what we know about them!” You pridefully explain.
“Scratched the surface?”
“Like, we barely know anything about them. So I study them to learn more.”
Leaning back on one pair of arms, he crosses the other pair over his chest, fixing you with a perplexed expression as he clicks and chirps out a word, followed by ‘human’.
You smirk, lopsided but wholehearted. It’s yet another of those familiar moments where you recognize the word from context alone. Weird human, he called you.
“Do you not like bugs?”
“Bugs on Simuria big.”
“They’re big? How big?”
He tilts his head to either side, casting a quick glance off to the side as some sort of debris hits the hull of the ship. His gaze returns to you, unbothered otherwise by the noise. “Big like that,” he presses his finger to the glass separating you.
Following the direction in which he points, you whirl around to find he’s pointing to a duffel bag of sorts. “Oh, we have some like that. Most are smaller though,” you explain as you turn back. “These two are my friends, like Shoko. That’s Spike,” you point to the stag, “and Stipple,” you point to the spiny stick insect.
“Stipple like Simuria bugs.”
“Really?” Your eyes widen, filled with wonder, and Sukuna’s head tilts as he lets out a pleased chuff. The revelation only brings up more questions. “Simuria,” you breathe the word like something sacred. Were the circumstances of your trip to reach CRM-12 any different, you might even be racing to document this beyond messy scribbles in a journal. “Do you all have four arms and eyes?”
Sukuna follows your gaze before he growls, which you take as a no.
“Is it based on region? Or– oh, maybe modification or–”
Sukuna huffs loudly, staring intently at you. “Human weak and loud.”
Ah– insults. The default when you’re bothering him or going too fast. “Sorry Sukuna,” you laugh, still lighthearted and chirpy in spite of his grumpy demeanor.
“Simurians all different,” he explains, waving his hand through the hologram still sitting off to the side to erase it. He draws a stick figure of sorts with horns and an eye on its forehead, then another with a tail that seems prehensile from what you can tell, like a monkey.
“All different? So, it’s not based on regions?”
He growls, confirming your thoughts. “I need four arms for science and making ship,” he points broadly around him.
You blink in complete and utter disbelief, the buzzing of the bay lights audible even over the gears turning in your mind. “So you… grew two extra arms? Like, your body made them yourself?”
He chuffs, pleased once again by your disbelief with a hint of what you might call a smile. You’re coming to notice that he seems to like that. He enjoys praise, even if it’s of his species rather than himself. He enjoys being above you in any way he can. It’s probably one of the most human things about him, in a roundabout sort of way.
“That’s incredible,” you shake your head regardless, watching as he puffs his chest out again, his chin tilted up. You can’t help a smile at the sight of him, the boyish pride on his face is something of a marvel. “What other adaptations do you have?”
He considers this for a moment, before running a hand through his hair and presenting a second ear hidden under pink strands over his humanoid ear. It’s far less human than the first pair, you would consider it closer to an owl. Your lips purse as you near the glass, leaning with both hands splayed across it. He then lifts the hem of his shirt and you damn near choke.
You can’t even decide which part it is that actually chokes you. The fact that he’s sporting a six pack like no other and a second pair of pecks that sends heat to places you do not want to think about while trapped in a box in space, or the huge mouth plastered where a belly button would otherwise be. You cough to distract him from the way your throat seizes, then sit back in an effort to disguise how you’ve reacted to an alien you hardly know.
Sukuna tilts his chin up slightly as he regards you. You want to chalk it up to nothing more than a natural reaction to your cough, but there’s a gleam in his eyes that you recognize. You’re then unfortunately reminded that his hearing is like nothing you’ve ever experienced and he can likely hear your pounding heart. It puts an idea in your head that his sense of smell may… also… be better on that note, too. Breezing past the moment as quickly as you can, you cough once more. “What’s, uh– what’s that for?”
“Eating large food.”
The sensation is jarring, but it occurs to you that you’ve never once asked what he eats. “Like… what?”
To your surprise, he smiles. Actually smiles. “Noisy food. Good food.”
“Are you joking with me? Are you joking about eating me?” You sputter.
His toothy grin is replicated on his stomach mouth as he lets the hem of his shirt drop and for the first time you hear him rumble in laughter.
You don’t even have the instinct to wonder if he’s lying when you’re too intrigued by the whole ordeal and just shake your head. “Oh, so you have jokes now?”
“Always have jokes,” he grins, wide. “You not understand, weak human.”
You scoff. “I see how it is,” you tease, curious about his ability to pick up not just language but the deeper meaning behind it. With a sigh, you cast a glance back at the spot where he revealed the stomach mouth, focusing back on your mission. For as curious as you are, at the end of the day you’re trapped in a box in space with a limit on time and supplies. “How quickly can you evolve?”
He tilts his head from side to side, something he’s seen you do when you reply with ‘maybe’.
“Does it depend? Is it based on how your surroundings are?” You make a motion to everything around you.
“Yes,” he replies affirmatively for the first time in your language, rather than his usual Simurian response.
“How fast are we talking?”
His brow tents, head tilting like the question is stupid. “We talk at normal speed for you.”
You bark a laugh at the realization that he’s now completely misunderstood. “No, it’s a saying, sorry. How fast can you evolve? One planet rotation around the sun? Two?”
Clearly displeased with your laughter, he takes a moment to fix you with a glare before replying. “Not one planet rotation. Smaller time.”
“Less than one planet rotation around the sun or less than one planet rotation?”
“Less than one planet rotation.”
You swear you need to pick your jaw up off the floor. “Less than a DAY?” You shout in disbelief, hand raising to the glass in a slam that echoes over the metal bay.
Sukuna growls, recoiling away from your reaction. It’s not out of fear, but rather that you’re being noisy again. “Human. Weak human. Stop.”
Sitting back down, you offer another apology to the begrudging man sitting across from you. Pieces of the puzzle all suddenly begin to click into place. That’s why he picked up your language so quickly. He didn’t just learn, his throat adapted to the sound. His vocal chords changed in less than a day to work around the fact that humans can’t. His species is advanced in the kind of way you could only dream. Hell, you never even realized he lost the strange rasp to his vocalizations in your language. “Sukuna, I–” you pause, raising a finger as you become aware that you’re about to get ahead of yourself when you go dashing back to the lab.
You gather a space meal, several beakers, pipettes, gloves, and a sterile handling box. When you return and dump it all on the ground beside you in a cacophony of glass, Sukuna still seems displeased with the noise.
“Humans sent me here because of this,” you present a phial of liquid to him. Held within the small glass container is a dark red, almost black liquid with yellow separation. “These are Alveoli. Normal ones. They’re cells in our lungs,” you point to your chest. “And this,” you present another phial, but the color of the liquid is off, almost more of a brown. “Is Alveolarium. It appeared on Earth I guess ten years ago now and we can’t find a cure. Around the same time it showed up, I got called to an island in the middle of nowhere to research a new discovery,” you explain. “They sent a ship somewhere around here back then, and picked up a CRM– um– a Kerm.”
Sukuna doesn’t move, but you have his attention.
“I was sent to research behaviour since it looks like a bug, but they also discovered that Kerm have cells in their shell that are really similar to the pathogen causing Alveolarium which was spreading a lot, but Kerm cells seem to carry properties that might help or stop or kill the disease or something,” you explain, shutting your eyes tightly as you search for vocabulary he’d know. “Basically they have similar cells,” you explain.
Sukuna inhales, long and slow as he sits up. Interestingly, his gaze splits as he looks over both samples at once. His languid movement makes sense when you consider that he’s well over a thousand years old and still has two thousand to go, if not more. Of course life isn’t short for a creature like him.
“We had one Kerm,” you continue. “But it died.”
“Died. Gone?” Sukuna confirms the meaning of the word.
“Yeah.”
He grunts. There’s no real emotion behind it, it’s nothing but sheer acknowledgement.
“So I need to get more Kerm. It’s…” You stare down at the sealed contaminated cell sample. “It’s bad, Sukuna. A lot of humans died. Probably way more since I’ve been gone.”
He stares at you for a long moment, his jaw moving as he evaluates your expression and every little micromovement of your body. He has a way about the manner in which he moves like he’s above life itself, everything in his mannerisms is lazy and unbothered– that is, until you grate on his nerves, anyway. There’s something almost kingly in the way he carries himself. After a long pause, he sets a forearm on his leg, leaning forward. “You want cells. Mine.”
Your jaw hangs open as you attempt to explain yourself. “I mean– you might be able to save us, but obviously only if you’re okay with it! I just– We don’t actually know anything about the Kerm, and I can’t guarantee if it’ll make it back alive or even at all, and–”
“Human.” There’s less heat in his voice as he shuts you up with the low rumbling of his timbre. “I help. You get suit,” he speaks like he’s ordering you, pointing.
“Suit?”
His eyes narrow as he gets to his feet, offense dripping from the very click of his tongue he gives you. “You scientist. You help.”
Your jaw hangs open as you glance back between him and the ship. You seal your lips into a tight line, staring down at fidgeting hands. “Sukuna, I–” You shake your head.
“Your atmosphere weak, humans weak. Use your second heart, my ship pressure not crush you. Stop scared movement,” he points mildly at your twiddling thumbs.
Before you can explain the truth, you’re perplexed by his words. “Second…? I only have one heart.”
He huffs. “Then I help reinforce oxygen tank to survive pressure of sulfur gas atmosphere. Weak human. Foolish weak human.”
You’re left in utter disbelief and mild shock, frozen in place as he turns on his heel to, you suppose, make you a new tank fitting of the pressure of his ship. When the hell did he even pick up the word foolish? Did you say that? Shaking your head of the thought, you need to focus on what matters here.
“Sukuna!”
He stops a short distance away, his gaze thrown over his shoulder.
“Sukuna, I can’t– I can’t leave.”
He crosses his arms– all four of them– unimpressed. “Why?”
“This was always meant to be a one-way trip. I don’t get to go home. I’m sealed in here. I have no depressurization pod, no suit, no way to unseal the ship without losing the oxygen in here. No portable generators, nothing. When the ship loses power, that’s it.”
Slowly, he turns towards you, straightening as he regards you. He doesn’t just look displeased, he looks downright offended. His usual go-to doesn’t seem to cut it either as he spews out something more than just ‘weak’. “Wrong.”
It likely doesn’t convey what he wants, but you get the gist anyway. “Yeah. It’s stupid,” you agree.
“Your stupid.”
“Yeah,” you laugh half-heartedly. “My stupid.”
Clearly realizing you’re butchering your own language to appeal to his limited use of it, he turns on his heel again, muttering something under his breath. Your hand slips away from the glass keeping you safe and trapped in tandem as you watch Sukuna disappear. You find yourself staring at the photo of you and Shoko again. What you wouldn’t give to check in on her right now. Or ever again.
This will be it for you. Your food supply is limited to what it was deemed was a reasonable amount of time to– somehow– procure not just one but multiple specimens of Kerm or CRM-12, or whatever you’re meant to call them. Your power will fizzle out. Your oxygen supply will end. Your ship’s fuel is already near its limit. You’re sealed in a death trap as a final sentencing. You shut your eyes tightly, rubbing your hands over your face in an effort to reset.
When Sukuna doesn’t return in a couple of minutes, you move around the ship in an effort to clear your head and get some exercise. Anything that stops reminding you of just how trapped you are in a void of uncharted territory with an alien that far exceeds any of humanity’s feats.
You grab a bite to eat, rehydrating some macaroni and cheese in a flimsy bag. It’s unappealing as all hell but it’s better than starving. Eating straight out of the bag, you meander back towards the window, blinking when you find Sukuna setting up a mobile science lab of some sort just outside the bridge. You jog closer to the window, taking a seat to watch as he sets out largely similar and recognizable equipment, although the shape and build of much of his technology is infinitely more advanced. Bigger, too, given his size.
One set of eyes glides to your movement, an eerie feat of having an extra pair, while he continues to set up. Your mind goes into overdrive trying to figure out just how much that sets apart his biology from yours to have the energy production and sheer brainpower to manage so much at once.
His nose wrinkles when he watches you spoon food into your mouth. Chuckling, you approach the nook by the window, presenting the bag to him. “It’s macaroni and cheese.” You tilt the bag in his direction.
“It’s bad.”
“Hey!” You chide with a grin. “It’s better than it looks. You can’t call it bad until you try it.”
With an unusually pompous huff, he turns back to the mobile set-up and picks up a box-like device, connecting it to the window by suction. He runs his thumb along the edge like a dial and it comes to life, seeping a sort of caulk onto the glass before it begins drilling through the window. Your survival instinct recognizes the structural instability. Your curiosity chooses to ignore it as the device uses some sort of nanotech to recreate its shape on the inner glass, sealing itself.
You purse your lips, your spoon held in mid-air. “A mini pressurization chamber.”
He chuffs. “Give macaroni and cheese.”
“You need to learn manners,” you mutter more to yourself than to him as he literally holds his hand out to bluntly demand your lunch with that unnatural edge to his voice that never quite fits his genuine intrigue.
“Manners?” He queries, though his hand never moves.
Chuckling to yourself as you give in and offer the small bag and spoon of food to him, you watch as your door closes and the pressure within the device changes. “We say please when we ask for something and thank you when we’re given something if we want to be polite or nice to someone.” When his side opens, the bag and food as a whole are crushed under the pressure of his differing atmosphere, presenting him with a dripping mess of squished pasta.
Admittedly, it does look bad now. As it begins dripping melted cheese that’s entirely too watery out the other side straight onto his shoes, he stares at you with the kind of tight-lipped expression that transcends any language barrier.
He’s not thanking you for this.
“Sorry,” you wince, offering an apologetic grin.
He growls, trudging back across the large expanse of hangar bay to get something to clean up the mess. By the time he returns and cleans up the cheese, he finally opts to take a bite of the crushed food, fixing you with a glare.
“Bad. Bad food for weak human.”
You can only smile, because it figures that he would hate it. “Fair enough,” you laugh, watching as he sets it along with the dirty rag he used to clean the cheese. Your eyes widen a fraction at the thought. “Wait, what do you–”
Rolling his shoulders, he points to the small chamber that connects you. “Give Alveolarium.”
Your thoughts are already long forgotten as you pick up one of the cultures, chewing on your lower lip as you examine the glass. “I think your ship’s atmospheric pressure might crush the vial.” You hold it up to him. “It’s pretty thin.”
With a hum, Sukuna offers a box through the exchange to put the phial in. As you exchange materials and Sukuna begins separating the infected cells into smaller cultures within an oxygen-controlled box with barometric pressure equal to your ship’s, it occurs to you that in spite of your life being cut short, some part of you is happy for this experience. Even if your notes and findings get stranded out here, you can say you found companionship in a grumpy ten-foot-tall genius alien, and that’s pretty cool.
With your plights long forgotten as you watch Sukuna work with your face practically plastered to the glass, the technology and rate at which he’s able to work grabs your attention. Your chest practically rattles in excitement as he moves through practiced motions like he already knows what to do.
“What’s that?” You query, watching eagerly as he injects something into a lower arm.
One pair of eyes flicks to you. “For cells.”
“For stem cells? Like from your bones?”
He chuffs, pulling out a rubber band as he restricts his blood flow to take a sample.
“It’s that fast?” You gawk as he already begins drawing a sample.
His brow twitches as you break his concentration, but he chuffs to give you a reply regardless.
“Oh my god. We have a drug that does that too, but it takes a while before it produces any neutrophils– um– stem cells. You’re so much more advanced than us, I never imagined how much different life could be!” You watch as blue blood is extracted from his arm, and he begins separating the sample in order to work with it. “Your blood is blue? Is that because of the differing atmosphere? Or maybe it’s an adaptation somehow–”
“Human,” Sukuna groans, disenchanted with your rambles. He fixes you with a tired expression, pointing to the experiment in an effort to get you to focus. “Stop. Noisy.”
“Right, sorry!” You apologize with a wide grin.
A series of clicks, syllables, and growls escape the brutish man as he mutters something to himself, undoing the band from his arm and flexing his fingers a couple of times before pulling a sleeve back down. As he introduces his cells to the Alveolar cells that are infected in the controlled environment, he moves a small device over the culture slide, projecting hologram of the microscopic cells. His cells are so different from anything you’ve observed on Earth that you have no issue telling which belong to him in spite of your differing major.
The cells collide once, the Alveolarium attempts to attack Sukuna’s cells, then simply… backs off. “They’re incompatible,” you state dryly, your shoulders dropping.
Sukuna grunts. “Alveolar cells still functional. My cells not see issue.”
“That could be it.” You shrug.
He hums, tapping a finger twice along the table. “Then we change environment.”
“Create artificial stress until your cells react,” you breathe, your hand snapping down to the ground beside you with a metallic clang that has Sukuna flashing you another glare.
“Loud. Loud human.”
“Sorry, I just– I’m a bit overexcited,” you offer with a smile.
Sukuna continues to stare for a moment, then adjusts the pressure within the glass box where the experiment is taking place to something more dense. He attempts to alter the environment enough that his cells recognize a threat, while not outright killing yours. Striking a balance between them proves to be a multi-day endeavor. In the moments where you can only wait, you slowly begin to unravel the enigma that is Sukuna.
You can’t count how many times Sukuna huffs or makes his disdain known with a very dramatic look in your direction when you suggest something altogether dumb, but you also note that he tells you you’re noisy less often. He picks up on more scientific terms, and even begins to pick up on prepositions purely from your use of them. He teaches you about Simuria, how the Simurians all have extra eyes, two hearts, and are fairly large compared to humanity, though they largely don’t resemble one another. He teaches you about one with horns, who you assume is a friend. He, on the other hand, refers to the horned Simurian as a neighbor.
You get the feeling Sukuna isn’t the friendly type.
“You’re invasive,” he gruffs out in reply to your question.
Your head falls back as you stare at the ceiling with a groan. “I literally just asked if you choose to be alone!” You retort lightheartedly. “You don’t even have to give me a reason!”
“You’re invasive. Like Kerm.”
“Like–” You gawk at him, watching a slow smile curl at his lips. “Like Kerm?”
“Loud like them too.”
“Hey!”
His head tilts as you exclaim your displeasure with that statement, but it’s one of the rare moments where he does seem pleased, which brings a smile to your face regardless. For whatever reason, nothing seems to get him boastful quite like belittling humanity. And since his only knowledge of humanity is you, that puts you at the center of his jokes.
“You know,” you meander back to the topic of Kerm, pulling the smile straight from his lips when you change the subject. “You never did tell me why you’re here. You know the Kerm too, so is it for them?”
He chuffs. “I did tell you. The Kerm are invasive.”
“That’s not really a reason. That’s just like– a statement.”
Seated on the floor with his back against the glass that separates you, he rolls his head along the rigid surface, his gaze finding you. “Kerm are smarter than you humans think,” he grumbles out a baseline explanation. He utters something in his language, then puts together a few sounds until he has a new word for you. “Methalonian weapons. They aren’t natural. They’re–” he taps his fingers on the bay’s floor briefly in thought. “Created by another species.”
“Methalonian,” you test the word. “Are they artificial? Or are they mutated? Like, completely not real or mutated from something that already existed?”
He taps his finger decidedly. “Mutated. Another species mutated them. I’ve been circling this planet for a while now to find where they come from,” he explains. “There are no other species here. They ate all of their resources. Now they invade.”
“How do they even leave? Are they that smart?”
He growls. “They attach themselves to ships and invade.”
“Oh. What are you planning on doing to them, then?”
He sucks in a breath. “Killing them.”
You freeze, staring at him as he examines your expression. You’ve never been much good at training your emotions, your pupils narrowing to mere pinpricks. You swallow, gaze averting to the photo of Shoko. “You were never gonna let me take any.”
“... No.”
“That’s why you trapped me. You knew I was here for them.”
“Made a guess,” he agrees with a hand motion that you’d equate to a shrug.
Slumping back against the bridge’s floor, you stare at the ceiling. Your alien counterpart watches in silence as you process what you know of the Kerm, your current situation, and your species’ survival. You consider Shoko back home, and the rest of your family and friends. You consider your nights out together ten years ago and what that might look like now if you ever make it back. You consider the failing government, and how it’s possible everything has completely fallen apart since your launch. But what really gets to you is that if this doesn’t work, there’s no world where Sukuna lets you send a Kerm back.
Maybe you shouldn’t care. You’re physically welded into a ship in the middle of nowhere. Yet here you are, even after everything, still being hopeful. It’s the most human thing you could possibly do. “What did The Kerm do to you?” You quietly murmur, still staring at the ceiling.
He inhales once, long. His eyes shut. “They’re mutated to kill,” he grunts. “The cells your scientists found in their shells…” his jaw ticks as he clicks, something you can’t decipher as syllables follow it. “It is not your cure.”
You lift your head, leaning on two elbows to look at him.
“It is your cause.”
Your lips part, brow furrowing. “But– I– That’s not–” Your chest tightens, emotions betraying you as you feel your waterline wet. Quickly wiping away the evidence, your fingers curl against the metal floor beneath you.
Sukuna doesn’t budge, his fiery gaze pinning you to place.
“But Alveolarium has been around longer than the Kerm was on Earth.”
He moves a knee, tilting his head. “Has it?”
“I… Don’t know, actually.” At last, you admit it, but things don’t fully add up from what you know. You let yourself fall onto your back again. “The company that sent me here, we had a bit of a disagreement. I guess… Maybe they were right, but still.”
Sukuna’s eyes narrow, minute, as he attempts to decipher the vagueness of your statement, but by nature of a language barrier, he can’t make out what emotion it is that you’re so graciously dancing around.
You swallow hard. “Did… Did they kill a lot of Simurians?”
“Yes. Humans?”
“If it’s them then… yeah, I guess. Millions. Like, thousands upon thousands.”
Morbidly intrigued, Sukuna shuffles to get a better look at you, his face closer to the glass than ever. “How many humans are on Earth?”
“Um–” You quickly pull up the whiteboard, demonstrating a number for ten, then a thousand, then a million, then a billion. “There were eight billion.”
This is the most baffled you’ve ever seen Sukuna, who physically recoils at the mere thought. “How do you keep distance? How do you celebrate the union of humans?”
“Union of humans?” You laugh. “Weddings? I don’t know, you invite a hundred people and call it a day.” But the question sparks something in you as you sit up to face your baffled friend. “How many Simurians are there?”
“Seventy nine.”
“WHAT?” You gape, noting that he doesn’t complain about your noise in spite of his narrowing eyes and defensive posture. “Are you guys close to going extinct? Like, being gone? Are you not worried?”
He simply growls in reply. “No, human. Things are…” He hesitates, his gaze averting. “We all have space and resources, it isn’t cramped.” He rolls his shoulders back. “We celebrate all weddings every year. Then stay alone with our partners.”
There’s a pit of jealousy in your stomach that you cover with a smile. “So you have someone you’ll be going back to, hey?” You grin, prodding at him through the window. You equate the unsettling feeling to a yearning for having someone like that back home, or even the option to return, but it would be ignoring the bigger picture that you’ve both been sitting in this bay for several days together and you’ve grown fond of him. You may not have a choice in being here, but he does. And he chooses to help in spite of his own goals. Your heart likes that he chooses you a bit too much.
To your surprise, your question irks him and his eyes narrow. A harsh hiss erupts from his throat as he suddenly turns back towards the pressurized box where your experimentation is taking place.
Your shoulders fall, watching the muscles over his back pull taut as he busies himself with little more than prep work for a next experiment as you continue to wait.
It doesn’t take a rocket scientist (hah) to realize that Sukuna has no partner. The thought trickles through the pockets of your mind. Seventy nine people on a planet total… You can only imagine how lonely that gets. Even you, who chooses to be with bugs a majority of your life, always returns home to Shoko and your bugs at the end of a trip.
Seventy nine. That’s thirty nine weddings. Is he the only Simurian with no partner? “Sukuna…” You watch him work, his movements unbothered as he dilutes samples and ups heat to push his cells to react. “Are you lonely?”
He freezes. A muscle in his cheek twitches as he flexes his jaw, choosing not to reply when he continues in his motions.
Your shoulders fall as you watch him silently work, pulling the rug out from under you on the reality of your relationship. A working relationship, really. He’s always chided you for being invasive, and you suppose this is why.
“I’m lonely,” you offer, quietly. His movements don’t freeze altogether, but they slow. He moves as though any noise might distract him from what you’re saying, in spite of the fact that there’s no keeping secrets from a man with ears like him. “I wish I could go back to Earth. Or maybe meet the Simurians, or see more of the universe. I wish I could study bugs again.”
When he still doesn’t reply, but his movements slow to a crawl, you pick up the photo of you and Shoko, presenting it to him again. “I’d love to tell my friend what we’re up to.”
After an extended moment’s silence, he removes his hands from the box, resting them on the table he rolled in. The dense metal protests his weight, even though it was designed for him. Likely designed by him, too. He still doesn’t face you, choosing to protect himself from your prying eyes by continuing to face somewhat away from you.
“It’s not so bad up here though, you know. I mean, I met you. That’s pretty cool.” You scoot closer to the glass, hoping to find common ground through friendship, if you can call this such a thing.
Your movement grabs his attention. His gaze flickers towards you, the only sign he’s heard you at all. He continues to face forward, his shoulders hunched over the cool metal table.
“Why are you alone?” He finally speaks up, unmoving otherwise.
“I’m uh– pretty noisy,” you offer with a grin in terms he knows well, deflecting the question. “So I guess it just never worked out with other people.”
Sukuna straightens, turning to face you. “Not what I meant.”
You smile, half-hearted. “I’m a criminal, Sukuna.”
“Criminal?”
You nod, pulling your knees into your chest as he slowly nears the glass again. He takes a seat, cross-legged as he leans over his forearms to give you his full attention. “I did a really bad thing. Other humans got hurt and I’m here as a punishment. Our technology isn’t as good as yours and the crew that signed up for this mission knew they wouldn’t get to go back to Earth. The choices I made landed me here instead of them.”
“What did you do?”
Your arms tighten around your legs as you settle your chin along your knees. “The Kerm, you know how I told you we had one?”
He chuffs.
“We put it in a cell, a big cage or room,” you explain to the best of your ability. “I was told they just caught it and I was brought in to study it, because it looks similar to our bugs so people in charge made assumptions,” you haphazardly point at the photo where your bug pets are crawling on your clothes. Their features are close enough to the Kerm that you can see the train of thought that led to you. “In my time studying it, I realized it was smart. Like, way smarter than any bug on Earth. Maybe even smarter than any animal. It was listening. It was learning.”
“You opened its cell.”
With a drawn out sigh, you bury your face in your folded arms, muffling your words. “I opened its cell.”
“It ate them all.”
“It ate the crew for this mission. Every last one of them. And then the people in charge killed it, too.”
With two arms relaxed in his lap and two holding him up, Sukuna watches in relative silence as emotions swim through your eyes. He doesn’t have a name for most of them, but he’s seen them in himself. Over a thousand years of life will do that to you.
Your voice is a mere whisper. “It was so smart, Sukuna. I just couldn’t watch it live out its life in a cell.”
“Now you live your life in a cell.”
You lift your head, gaze flickering across the buttons you never bothered to figure out and the white walls you never quite grew accustomed to when all you ever see is Sukuna. “Yeah, I guess so. Funny how that works, huh?”
“It’s not funny,” he hisses, his brow furrowing in such a way that actually has you curious.
It’s not as though you didn’t consider yourself acquaintances at least with him by this point. You've spent several days together and he chooses every day to return when he could have dropped you off at any point and cleaned up his scuffed hangar, but he doesn’t. Every day, he pushes his own goals and mission back another day into the future and chooses to help the trapped little entomologist residing in the back corner of his ship. The whole thing is funny if you’re grim enough about it.
In spite of his frustration, you shuffle forward, pressing a hand to the glass. “It’s okay. I’m glad we met before I’m gone.”
His brow twitches not once but twice as he stares at your hand like it’s a personal affront. “My ship can get you home.”
Your fingers curl just slightly against the glass. Your body inadvertently winces at the thought. “Maybe. But if I go home, I’ll still be arrested and live life in a cell down there. That’s… worse.”
“Even if you bring back a cure?”
“Humans are… complicated.”
“Stupid.”
A puff of air leaves your nose. “Yeah. Humans are stupid.” You do what you can to mask your underlying sadness as your lips curl up into a smile.
You can’t read Sukuna’s expression as his intense crimson stare burns into you. You know there’s a level of disbelief and maybe even frustration at your self-sacrifice in his eyes. Whether you want to admit that an alien could feel something like that for you is another story.
You can see the internal battle raging within him, although you can’t identify what battle it is that he fights. In spite of his troubled scowl, you’re shocked when an arm slowly lifts from where his elbow rested on his thigh. He brings it to the glass, his fingers pressing first over each digit, before his palm splays over yours. The heat he radiates is warm enough that you feel it through the glass, befitting of a ten foot alien that expends far more energy than you. As if you weren’t already aware, it makes it apparent just how much he dwarfs you.
You peel your gaze from his hand, examining the way he refuses to look at you. Softly, you pose a question that might answer some of your own. “How many Simurians were there before the Kerm?”
His frown deepens, his head falling. “Over one thousand. I evolved. Most… did not.”
Something briefly occurs to you of the whole ordeal. You wonder if maybe there was someone that even he– a scientist and engineer clearly capable of incredible feats– could not save. “Your family?” You query, your voice a near-whisper that you know he picks up on.
His eyes slowly drag across the glass, staring straight through you as his reflection startlingly pins him in place. He swallows hard, refusing to confirm when it’s not you staring him down, but his own misplaced guilt that reflects back at him.
His jaw locks, teeth grinding as he pulls back suddenly, on his feet in an instant with an expression you can’t place. He’s scowling with wide eyes, turning on his heel as he excuses himself with nothing more than an “I’m tired,” trudging away with footsteps that echo throughout the bay.
Sitting back, you let out a sigh as you’re left alone once again.
–
The somber tone of that day never fully recuperates itself into something easier. There’s a constant pressure looming overhead that unfortunately isn’t barometric. It’s that of a ship set to fail and a man who treats revenge like a cure for loss. But on the other hand, one thing does change. Sukuna opens up.
He shows you a hologram with images of Simuria that leave you wistful for the greater universe. Space was never your forte, but the dense petrified wood forests and gaseous craters and mountains have your brain tripping over itself in curiosity of what insects could exist in those biomes, much to Sukuna’s dismay as he brushes you off as noisy.
As the days pass and your food supply begins to run short, you’re left with no option but to eat less as you quietly enter survival mode upon realizing Sukuna eats… well, rocks. So you’re left only with what was packed for you.
You were intended to have sent Kerm back by now. You weren’t intended to find life like Sukuna. You weren’t intended to bond. You weren’t intended to be left with a yearning to explore the universe and see the things he’s seen. You weren’t intended to slowly begin to wither. There was an out for you, as morbid as it is. A single dose ready to take once your mission was complete.
And yet, every day, Sukuna brings something new for you to see or experience. It’s small, but it’s surprisingly meaningful. He shows you the vast cliff faces of a Simurian coast that’s a famous vacation spot. He tells you stories of the gaseous craters within the planet that make much of it uninhabitable, hence the far smaller population across it, even before the Kerm. He demonstrates the use of four arms to their full extent and how his brain adapted. He shows you his tattoos. God, the tattoos.
He tells you all about how they each have meaning. How in Simuria, they’re a mark of life events. His wrists were banded when he finished an equivalent of elementary school at twenty-eight. His upper arms were an equivalent of high school at thirty-six, and something akin to university marked his shoulders at sixty-two. It’s a wonder to hear someone graduating university at sixty-two with their life still ahead of them.
He lifts his shirt and points to stripes along his shoulder and back. You swear you’re paying attention. You swear. He smirks, but he tells you nonetheless that they were from what you might consider a bachelor’s degree equivalent.
“What about your face?” You ask, tracing the ink on his jaw along the glass as you leave behind a smear.
“That,” he states, “was my choice. We all choose what our face will look like.”
“No special event?”
“Just me,” he breathes.
It makes you smile.
He hates how much that very action sits under his ribs. It pokes at him, prods at him like it belongs there, reminding him that this won’t last forever.
One morning, he arrives with dark circles under his eyes. He notes that you both look tired. He knows his reasoning, but he can’t place yours. Your energy is largely spent, yet you just awoke. You’re not noisy anymore. He places a circular device on the ground. A holographic device, you recognize it right away, but it’s far larger than the usual one.
“You wanted to see the mountains,” he states simply, ignoring the failed experiment to his left, in spite of the fact that he needs to start a new one with time of the essence. “You will.”
Awaiting him in your usual nook by the window, you’re wrapped up in a blanket, smiling in spite of yourself. For the first time since you met, weak feels as though it properly describes your appearance, but you refuse to give up despite your body’s shortcomings as your stomach rumbles. Sukuna never points it out.
He runs his finger along the outer dial that his machinery tends to run on and it springs to life. You bring a hand up to block the light protruding from a high-lumen-count projector, squinting as the hologram doesn’t just project something in a controlled, small environment, it extends to every wall as though you’re there. The bulb remains bright as Sukuna steps away from it, allowing you to see a mountain as though you’re there.
It’s not a rebuilt landscape either, you realize as you press your hands to the glass to get a better view. It’s a video. It’s a bit shaky, and you’re certain that if it played audio, you might hear the camera operator panting. Every time it shakes and the hologram can’t make sense of what it’s projecting, you squint, but it comes back in a moment. When it flashes suddenly, you catch a glimpse of Sukuna, following along behind the camera operator. He looks young. In human years, you would guess his twenties. Maybe three hundred for him. You can’t help a smile as you note that he doesn’t seem to have four arms. You wonder if they came later.
The camera flashes again as the operator moves it, revealing his own face along with Sukuna and four laughing Simurians. Sukuna still bears his usual aloof expression, but the joy in his eyes is palpable as they all pose for a photo. The camera operator looks largely like Sukuna, though he bears no facial tattoos and only a simple set of extra eyes. A twin, perhaps.
To Sukuna’s left is a Simurian with shoulder-length white hair who’s much shorter than the rest of them with an eye in the center of their forehead, a tall and slender Simurian with horns and the same third eye, one with shaggy white hair and six striking blue eyes, and one with silky-looking black hair and four eyes, purple beyond your wildest beliefs.
“Are those your friends?” You query, covering a cough in your elbow.
Sukuna intently watches the action, chuffing when the camera turns away. “We went on a trip after my fourth tattoo.”
“You look young.”
He steps around the projector, moving closer to your window. “I was.” He’s never been the most talkative, but he does ask more questions. You chalk it up to scientific curiosity. “Are Earth mountains like this?” Were you more keen, you might realize he’s deflecting you from the subject of the friends of which he’s mostly lost.
You stare around at the landscape. Simuria is largely rocky with giant craters. It’s covered in iridescent minerals that seem to form under the far more gaseous and toxic-leaning environment. “Some,” you decide. “The more harsh environments get colorful like this. Mostly, they’re gray with trees. Kinda spiky green ones with pointed tops. We get snow, too, at the tops where it’s colder.”
Simuria is warm, from what you’ve gathered, and his head tilts curiously at the thought of snow.
“You know when you bring a liquid to a cold temperature and it freezes?”
He chuffs.
“Like that, but tiny shavings of it. It’s white and cold. It falls from the clouds.”
“Fascinating.” And he means it, too. It’s the most intriguing part of all of your interactions with him. You don’t learn through questioning as scientists anymore, you learn through sharing as friends.
“It’s beautiful,” you murmur to yourself, watching the video clip play out. It cuts off without so much as a sound of warning, the room returning to the usual bright and barren metal appearance you’ve grown accustomed to. “Snow doesn’t have much friction, so humans would go to the top of mountains and slide down.”
“You have no cliffs?”
“Not really on the snowy mountains.” You scoot forward, leaning your shoulder against the window as you pull yourself into a tight ball with a blanket draped over your shoulders. “Mostly in deserts. Desert mountains look more like Simurian ones, but mostly one color. They’re warmer, too. Most of the time.”
Subconsciously, Sukuna leans against the glass, his shoulder warming you enough that your eyes flutter shut. “What color?”
You yawn. “Orange. It’s kinda like a darker version of your hair. If you squint.”
Absently running a hand through said locks, he stares out at the hangar’s walls, where the hologram projected mountains mere moments ago. “I think I know the color,” he murmurs mostly to himself. Rising from where he leans against the glass, his lips part to speak when he finds you sound asleep slumped against the glass.
His jaw tightens, a sharp pain rising behind his teeth at the sight of the tiny Human he’s grown fond of curled into a little ball aboard her ship. His friend. Slowly, a hand rises to the glass as something in his chest twists painfully. He recognizes the feeling, he’s no fool. He’s spent over a thousand years alive and isn’t a stranger to the pang gnawing at him as the noisy stowaway he picked up passes out in his presence.
To you, he’s safety. To him, you're more than just company.
And you’re wasting away in his hangar bay because some species he’s never come across decided that would be the case simply for having compassion. It brought about a mistake, sure, but you had compassion nonetheless where they did not.
He sucks in a breath, taking long strides over the metal floor to continue experimenting until you rise again. He works quietly, although he knows your hearing doesn’t compare to his. He moves with silent ease in spite of his lumbering form and watches with a frown as every environmental change he puts either of the cells through doesn’t bring out the result he wants. His cells adapt to the environment, but never recognize the Alveolarium as a threat.
Stepping back as he attempts to re-evaluate, he casts a glance back at you. Even if your energy wanes, your heart still beats steadily in his keen ears. He can get you back to Earth so long as he can figure out a solution to get energy back into your system somehow given that his food doesn’t fit within your diet.
You stir with a yawn, seemingly roused by his glance. You press against the glass, sitting up and blinking a number of times. When you meet his gaze, a spark of energy ignites that has Sukuna wincing. You clamber against the metal, some sort of button or zipper on your clothes clanging hard against the metal. “Sorry, Sukuna! I didn’t realize I fell asleep.”
He growls, rubbing absently at his second ear tucked within salmon locks. “It’s fine,” he grumbles, although your company is more welcome than he gives off as you sit upright to watch his experimentation once more.
You offer suggestions that get you deadpan expressions and a dramatic roll of the eyes given your lack of knowledge on the subject of medicinal chemistry is lacking. You figure you’re better at telling stories anyway, and even if you lose your place here and there when your tiredness catches up with you, Sukuna always offers a guiding suggestion when you falter.
The following day is when he starts to notice a trend that doesn’t greet either of you with warmth.
You drag yourself to the bridge later than usual without your morning granola bar. Sukuna offers you a mineral, but he knows it would break your teeth. He also offers meat, but you both already know your system rejects it. The blanket you’ve been dragging around with you for the past few days is bundled so tightly around you that Sukuna would wager a guess that you’re colder than usual, too.
When you make a motion to point at something on the table, his gaze lingers on your trembling finger. He can hear your stomach. He knows you’re starving. He’s watching your spirit fade, completely helplessly.
Sukuna, a man who’s spent over two hundred years coming to terms with the past and adapting to being alone, finds himself completely at a loss and frustrated beyond his means when he finds you the following morning. Or– more accurately– when he doesn’t find you.
His footsteps are even as he makes his way across the hangar. Your belongings remain at the glass, but you aren’t there yet. He tilts his head, catching your heartbeat as a slow, steady thump that keeps him at bay, and moves to check on his most recent experiment. He frowns as he finds after the allotted time, his cells remain by their lonesome, still unable to identify your Human disease as a threat.
Truthfully, it perplexes him. You determined early on that you share enough DNA to potentially be susceptible to the same diseases. Hell, by all means this is something Simurians have already overcome. It came from the same source, so he can’t figure out why his stem cells have yet to take to yours.
Carding his finger through his hair, he lets out a forlorn sigh, eyes shut for a long moment. Your heart is a steady drum in his ear, a reminder of what it is that he’s working towards. Had someone told him two weeks ago that he’d be helping such a pitiful little species overcome a disease of their own doing, he might not have believed them. But there’s more to you than your brittle bone structure and weak muscle mass. You’re smart. Perhaps not as advanced as he is, but you’re smart far beyond your thirty five years.
You’re smart in the kind of way Sukuna can only dream. He’s seen the way your mind works, how thoughts pour out before you even have time to put them together. He’s seen how resilient you are in the face of certain death. But what really gets him is your attitude. You grin through every shortcoming. You ensure him that if you keep trying, eventually your minds will come together and you’ll figure it out. You never acknowledge that breakthroughs like this take centuries. You didn’t even blink when he revealed that he’s been searching for the source of the Kerm for over a hundred years.
You’re unlike anything Sukuna’s ever known. And something dark crawls beneath his skin when you don’t rouse by the time you’re usually eating. Noon, you called it once.
With his experimental cells set in an extremely cold environment, he leaves the workspace to round your ship. His head tilts as he listens for your heartbeat as though it ever left his periphery, but it’s as sound as it’s ever been. Slowed by sleep perhaps, but sound. He comes to a halt when it grows louder as he nears your sleeping bay. His hand drifts across the scraped metal where your ship tilted on its axis when it scraped the ground as he scooped you up, resting along the damaged hull.
He hones in on you, and finds you’re still breathing. Still there. Still alive. But shallow. There’s no wheeze, no sharp inhales. It’s simple and shallow.
His brow furrows as he turns to fully face the ship. You aren’t just malnourished anymore. Something is wrong. His gaze lifts, traveling along the mechanics that keep your ship in one piece, far more primitive than the smooth and compact design of his. He doesn’t know what he expects to find, but when what he’s faced with isn’t an easy explanation, he turns on his heel.
He moves with more severity than he has in a century, no longer silent as he pads over extended corridors of metal that leave him questioning ever having a ship of this size. When he reaches his lab, he reaches for a scanner and jogs back to your ship.
It only takes a moment to calibrate its sensor to search only for organic matter. He lifts it to your ship. Alveolarium, as expected. Blood, and healthy stem Alveolar cells, as expected. All in small quantities.
Until everything lights up red. Immense amounts of blood, of musculature and tissue, along with a high volume of water. He’s found you. And along with everything he expects of an organic creature, a revelation that makes his blood run cold.
An uncontrolled quantity of Alveolarium. You’re infected.
Somehow, between the multitude of items you’ve exchanged and the experiments you’ve run by your lonesome, you must have been exposed. Your energy is being sapped because your body is fighting a disease engineered to kill.
He harshly clicks and growls to himself in a series of muttered curses, as he stares at the reading. For the first time since the bioweapon you call Kerm was found on Simuria over two hundred years ago, he finds himself completely and utterly helpless yet again. Control slips through his fingers like the sands of time as he raises the scanner once more as though it might reveal a different fate, but it never does.
His chest rises and falls heavily, his arms falling to his sides as he stares blankly. His mind takes a moment to wrap around the reality that you’re not Simurian. You’re human. You’re noisy and weak, your mind can’t keep up with your thoughts, and you’re invasive as hell– you won’t adapt to the illness. And god, is it quiet without you.
Urgency kicks in like a long-dormant volcano coming to life as he moves back to the table, evaluating how many samples he has left. He draws more of his cells, ignoring the tingling feeling in his arm as he injects himself with a drug to draw stem cells from his marrow. He drags more of his lab to the hangar, setting out tables and creating extra boxes able to pressurize to the same barometric pressure as that of an oxygenated atmosphere.
He lowers incubation times to do more tests, changing the parameters so often that his notes become a mess.
You don’t move. He hears you shuffle once on the first day. On the second, he grits his teeth as he listens to your harsh breaths. Your moans, your groans. You move at one point in what sounds like a drag of your feet and he hears water, but he’s not even positive if you make it back to your quarters.
As he watches one of his cells back off from Humanity’s infected lung cells, he leans over the table on two arms, sucking in a long breath. He doesn’t know how long he has. He doesn’t know how long you can survive without food. He doesn’t know if you have more water.
His second pair of hands ball into fists at his sides as he shuts all four eyes tightly. He didn’t know what to do two hundred years ago watching something so similar take out his entire species. He doesn’t know what to do now, stuck in the same situation. His knowledge is far more advanced than everything he knew back then. His technology and abilities exceed everything from back then. So why the fuck can’t he figure it out?
Is it that your suggestions were more useful than he gave you credit for? No, is it that he simply misses them? That they kept his mind from running off-rails into mania?
He works himself to the bone until he’s leaning with his back to your window. With one knee pulled up, he rests his elbow atop it, using his hand to block the light from his pounding head. He absently rubs at the bridge of his nose, eyes shut as he runs through formulas in his head until his mind begins to give in. The only thing he can bring his mind to hone in on is the sound of your heart. The steady reminder of the noisy human he’s doing this for in the first place.
Just as he begins to drift off, the gentle buzz of lights in your ship comes to a halt, a mechanical voice brought to life by necessity.
“Backup power activated. Life support systems online.”
The alien jolts, his slumber interrupted as he stares up at your ship with wild eyes. They flick all around the bridge as he takes in the red light and the way the buttons along the navigation board have dimmed, many shutting off altogether.
“Backup?” He states the word as though the program might respond to him. “Online?” Neither word is in his vocabulary, and as he gets to his feet, all four hands pressed to the glass, he searches desperately for meaning. “Human? Human?” His mind is too worn out to fill in the gaps with context as panic coats his movements like a snake slowly seeping its venom into its prey.
With a final call of your name, his fingers squeak as they drag along the glass. He turns back to his work station, dragging his hands violently over his scalp. He clicks and growls to himself, slamming a lower hand down over one of the sealed pressurized boxes. It cracks easily from his strength, putting his experiments immediately at risk. His eyes widen, two hands raising as though he might be able to stop it with his bare hands. He rushes back through his ship, racing through corridors to find something capable of stopping the crack before it shatters altogether.
Returning with a handful of options, he opts to melt a stone element from his planet into the crack. It’s the safest option he can think of. Sitting back from the soldering gun, he collapses onto the floor in a flurry of exhausted limbs. His stomach mouth parts as his body expends much of his energy on his mental state, only furthering his trouble.
In an effort to gather his thoughts, he leans over his knees, dragging his hands down his face. Backup. Red lights came on, some systems shut down. Using context clues, he can put that together. He pushes down his panic as he works on the second word. Online. He can still hear your ship whirring. He can hear your breathing. Life support must be working.
Okay. One problem down.
No matter how he changes the co-culture or adjusts the selective pressure, no matter how he adjusts his hypothesis or the duress he puts his cells under, the results remain the same. His cells adapt. But never to the disease. They co-exist in separate worlds.
Two eyes flick towards your ship, reminded of you, stuck on your own in a cell of your own doing. His fingers curl into his palm as he drives his focus back to his makeshift lab.
He can’t figure out why his cells won’t recognize yours. You may be different species, but his cells should recognize the pathogen in the Alveolarium as similar to the same illness that took out a majority of Simuria. He’s already adapted past it, and the cell structure isn’t that different.
He drags his nails over his scalp while his lower arms remain in fists. How much power do you have left? How much longer can you survive without water? You’re largely compounded of it based on his scan, can you survive without intake?
With a harsh growl, he pushes to his feet, ignoring the way his muscles protest. Pain simmers as he pushes them, keeping the reins on his control over this situation with an iron grasp. He pushes through the burn, pushes his mind to its limits as he works out chemical compounds with what brain power he has left, all the while continuing to alter the cells’ environment until he has nothing left to give.
–
Your ship doesn’t do its usual chime come morning. What’s worse is that your coughing startles him awake. Your heart stutters, a deadly sound for any species.
Hunched over in an odd position on the floor, Sukuna cracks his neck, rubbing at it as adrenaline pumps through his veins.
You’re dying. For all the tireless work he’s doing, you’re still dying.
He reaches out for the window where you once sat, dragging his fingers over it like your very ship might fall from his grasp at any moment. His breathing accelerates, his chest leaden with the gravity of the situation. Resting his entire body against the glass, all four arms settle along the panel. His head rests unevenly on the panel, off-kilter at the whim of the plate that resides over the right side of his face. A low rumble starts from deep within his chest, erupting in a full-blown furious fit of hisses, clicks, Simurian syllables and roars.
He curses in his mother tongue like he did over a hundred years ago. He’s spent over a century learning, advancing, and searching the damn stars for a bioweapon only for the very same thing to be his demise once again.
Peeling himself off of your ship, he reaches back to rub at a kink in his neck. His first issue was a lack of understanding of your ship system. He fixed that. His second issue is the cells. He can’t fix that without trial and error. His third issue is you dying, which is made up of two issues. The pressure of his ship would crush you, but your own life support systems are failing. When your ship depressurizes, the hull will be crushed, your oxygen will flow out into the sulfuric compounds that make up his air, and you’ll suffocate.
And then there’s the dehydration. And he doesn’t know which one is a more immediate threat. Regardless, his immediate problem is your ship. He stares at it in an effort to figure out how to remove it from the equation.
He could create a new box for you, something smaller than your ship, create his own life support systems for you and pressurize the box by pumping in oxygen and out carbon dioxide, similar to the box he uses for experiments. It’s not impossible in theory, but he doesn’t have the materials on-board to build a box of that size, nor does he have an extra generator capable of creating oxygen at that scale.
The only materials aboard are from your ship, the very thing he can’t tear apart right now.
He drags his hand back through his hair, tearing it straight from the scalp as he fails to find a way to guarantee containment while also pressurizing whatever he can work out. On a small scale, he can manage with what’s in his lab. On a large scale, all he can truly manage is his ship itself. His shoulders fall slowly. His ship.
The pressure of your atmosphere wouldn’t be a big deal on a creature like him. His ship could handle that without question. His muscles would survive. He could wear a suit, pump the sulfuric components through it. He could save you from the immediate threat. For a moment, the thought sits with him. It slips into his chest along his ribs, curling around his pounding hearts. It almost doesn’t feel real.
But when the dust settles and he’s left simply staring at your window, it becomes suddenly, startlingly, real. He turns on his heel like a man on a mission, moving through the ship as he heads for the mechanical room. He wrenches the small metal door with too much force, causing it to bend as he slips down into the tight space.
Machinery hums and breathes around him, worn pipes humming on every side as he shimmies through the space you might think was built by someone else given how much Sukuna is forced to squeeze through it. A whirring tank brushes his skin– hot– burning him in the process, but it’s barely a distraction when he’s aiming for the back of the room.
Sure enough, the sulfuric gas generator residing at the back comes into view quickly. The generator currently keeping his ship pressurized could be repurposed for oxygen through chemical reactions similar to what’s currently generating his sulfuric gasses. He can suit up, and–
His hands come to a halt as he finds himself scanning his surroundings like it might change his fate.
]He only has one generator. He can only create sulfuric compounds for his own atmosphere on a small scale with what he has onboard his ship, but not enough to support him long-term, and what’s currently stored won’t last forever. And that’s only the tip of the iceberg, when he considers that he still has to kill the Kerm, on a planet whose atmosphere he knows nothing about, with creatures built to kill whether through sheer violence or illness. He can’t risk using what sulfuric compounds he has stored while aboard his own ship.
In the cramped space with the generator’s hatch open, he presses the ball of his palm against his temple. There’s an answer. One that he’s already considering. But the cost could be his life. He could make the change to oxygen and pray his body is forced to adapt and maybe save you, should he survive. It’s either that or sit here and listen to your heart and breathing weaken until you’re nothing but a shadow in his hangar bay.
On the flip side, if he doesn’t adapt, then you’re both dead.
Sukuna has always been a man of certainties. He chose science because it makes sense. He chose science, because variables don’t react without reason. He chose science because it gives him control of his outcomes through error and studious attention. But this decision isn’t about science or reason.
This decision is about the hundreds of Simurians he feels responsible for losing. It’s about his revenge against the Kerm. It’s about the noisy human wheezing in his hangar bay who told him she wanted to see Simuria. It’s about the stupid girl whose heart stuttered as she solemnly lied to him about being okay with her fate. It’s about how cold your hand felt, even through the glass.
He barks out a Simurian curse, reaching for the tools necessary to begin generating a different gas.
He wrenches on a cable, giving it a harsh twist to unlock it from its position. The ship comes alight with warnings that he opts to block out as the pressure of the hull begins to shift. It’s not painful to begin, even as the ship’s very structure complains with harsh moans and groans. He floods the chamber with sodium chloride and ups the heat until it begins producing oxygen. As the remaining sulfuric gas runs into a reserve chamber, he shuts the generator and continues to ignore the creaking and warnings his ship spews.
Getting to his feet again, he slides through the tight space, sucking in every last breath he can of sulfuric gasses as they begin to dissipate.
Oxygen hurts. He pushes through the pain, trudging through the halls as he fails to catch his breath, certain that the generator is working when his muscles feel loose as the pressure of the ship adjusts to the new gas flowing through its chambers. He turns down a long hall, ignoring the flashing lights along every wall while the hull groans. When he finally reaches the hangar, his chest doesn’t ache or burn, it sears like something is clawing at him from within, begging to be let out. It’s not his first brush with pain like this, but there’s something different when it’s his lungs. Tears form along his lash line as he lacks sulfuric gasses to his brain, the compounds unable to pump blood to his most important organs.
When he reaches your ship, he stumbles into it, still upright through sheer willpower alone. He slams his fist into the panel nearest where he last knew you were, loosening the edge. His fingers curl around the newly revealed edge and with all the might left in his body, he tears it off. Along with it comes a series of mechanics as your ship begins to beep and protest in tandem with his. Only once he tears through some wiring with a series of flashing lights does your ship finally shut off.
This is it– the test of his own scientific capabilities. Whether or not you survive in the environment he’s artificially created within his own ship.
The blaring alarms mitigate his ability to find you, his head whipping one way or the other. He drags himself through the pain, through the mind-numbing brain fog, picking up a half-finished bottle of water he spots on a counter along the way, until he finds you.
You’re sitting awkwardly in a corner, shivering, but conscious. Alive.
Your eyes are harshly lidded when you stare up at him, clinging to your blanket like it’s a lifeline. Your dry lips part, a look of sheer confusion falling over your expression like you doubt what you’re seeing in the dark corridor of your ship whose systems have completely failed.
Sukuna’s chest struggles to rise and fall evenly, every breath furthering the pain behind his eyes as his lungs fail to pump sulfuric compounds into his bloodstream and his brain function falters. He doesn’t let his knees give out until he’s able to hand you the water bottle.
“S’kuna?” Your voice sounds as though it’s been scraped against the very compounds that make up Simurian mountains. You sound as though you don’t trust your voice, let alone your mind.
Close enough to leave the water within your reach, the giant alien’s body finally gives out. The water hits the floor beside you just within reach as one arm attempts to grab the counter that you lean against. His palm brushes the surface, but his body drops like a stone to the floor beside you, scraping his palm. His vision is narrow as he uses what little strength he has left to envelop you in his arms, acting as a blanket for your shivering form.
The moment he touches you, clarity shoots through your mind like lightning. This is no fever dream, you’re not waking up out of sheer necessity of needing water or a way to warm up. It’s a shock to your system in more ways than one. He’s not just warm– his body runs like a furnace in comparison to yours. He’s so warm that curling into him isn’t a choice, it’s survival and he knows it.
The very thing that kept you apart for so long hits you harder than the shock that Sukuna is beside you. “Wait–” the word comes weakly as you give his arm a shove. It barely affects him. “You can’t–” A cough settles at the back of your throat, interrupting your thoughts. “What did you do?” You rasp out between the kind of coughs that wrack your body and send spikes of pain to every receptor that will listen.
But he doesn’t respond, any semblance of consciousness long gone as his arms go limp. You can’t move him. You can barely move yourself. The most you can do is hope that his body takes to oxygen like it did to science, or whatever it was that truly gave him an extra pair of arms. You assume that’s his hope too.
The flashing lights and warning buzzers continue to blare outside the hull. Your ship offers very little cover from the noise, but enough that your already-foggy mind is able to drown out the noise with the static of illness. Unable to fight the heaviness held over you, you shakily grab the water. You may be too delirious to grasp the true gravity of the situation and what Sukuna’s done, but you know better than to overlook the gift of water.
The massive alien wrapped around you on the ground makes it easy to lean into him, basking in his warmth as it quells a modicum of your shivers. The longer you sit there in the flashing lights and blaring sirens, the more your body gives in to the grasps of the sandman. Subconsciously, you lean into Sukuna– passed out beside you– until your head leans against his shoulder. It doesn’t rise and fall, but you find comfort in the fact that when you press a hand to his chest in search of something, anything, that might give you hope, his heart pushes a single beat through. One after another, each of his two hearts continues to push through the unlikely situation.
That reassurance makes it easier to give in to the forces pushing you to unconsciousness. Because you recognize Sukuna’s actions as more than just kindness in the face of danger.
This is a species you’ve never witnessed whose primary goal was revenge, brought to his knees by the very stowaway he huffed and puffed over being noisy. Not by manipulation or force either, but by choice. Sukuna didn’t just choose to save you. He chose pain, he chose to bet on low odds. He chose to put off his mission, and he chose to endanger and expose himself to disease, all for you.
He isn’t just asking you to live. He’s commanding it.
–
Sukuna doesn’t stir for forty eight hours. You aren’t much better, but at least your body faces wakefulness in the face of dehydration. You don’t know how long Sukuna can survive without food or water, but you have no other option but to hope it’s longer than you.
Midway through the third day is when he finally stirs. It comes in twitches at first. It’s not dramatic, but in the few moments where you’re awake and delirious and you spot any semblance of movement, you cling to him like your life depends on it. Because it does.
Next come the wheezing breaths. Then groans, and sharp inhales that sound unnatural. You feel his pain deep in your ribs like a stabbing sensation. His fingers drag so harshly against the metal floor that his fingers break through it, the metal proving to be little more than an ant to his elephant strength.
Consciousness is dramatic for him.
Like a switch being flicked, his body comes to life and with it, his pain and confusion. He flies back, head ramming harshly into the cabinets you had been leaning against. He huffs out his displeasure, but the sensation is harsh in his chest. His lungs may have adapted, but oxygen is a harsh forced change to sulfur. The compounds shred within his chest, something that has one of his many hands flying up to grip at his chest.
He mutters a harsh curse under his breath in his mother tongue that sends pain back through his throat like a ricocheting bullet. In the cramped confines of your torn-open ship’s hull, he rests his head back against the door to the lab. Every breath is fire in the large expanse of his chest, his lungs accepting the oxygen not out of desire, but need.
He mutters a curse again, recoiling far less as he pushes through the pain. Ignoring the deliriousness of pain and the cramping in his gut, he cards a hand through mildly oily locks, pushing them away from his forehead. When his gaze glues itself to you, blearily watching him from the floor in a state of suspended wakefulness, he freezes altogether.
You’re alive.
His chest finds a new way to deliver pain as he hunches forward, sliding back to the spot where he had clearly been your pillow if your odd position is anything to go off of. He glides over the floor, taking a seat where he had been in an effort to provide a pillow.
The sensation of his returned warmth has your lashes fluttering as you stare up at him. He can see the gears physically turning in your mind as you make sense of him being there, awake, and alive as well.
For a moment, his brain betrays him. He moves on instinct, brushing his thumb over your collar. Only to be met with a weak smack to the chest. He blinks, staring down at you with confusion woven within his fondness.
“You could–” you cough, “have died.”
A series of growls and clicks between syllables you don’t recognize fall from his lips like he’s giving you a full scolding in a foreign language. It almost brings a smile to your dry lips as you recognize only two words.
“Noisy human.” His muscles are fraught from disuse as he hoists you into his lap.
The alarms may have stopped blaring, but the lights around him continue to flash in warning, reminding him of the reason he underwent this in the first place. Under the duress of having very little energy after evolution and his chest protesting his every movement, he groans as he pushes to his feet with you cradled close. He pulls you into his chest, casting a glance down at you as even in sickness, your eyes seem to shine as you watch your environment change. You never fail to bring wonder along with you, no matter the circumstances.
He treats you with the fragility of a flower as he brings you to his lab, moving over a panel that has no identifiable buttons, yet as Sukuna moves his hand over it, you hear the shift behind you. A bed reveals itself from the wall, not entirely unlike that of a human, though it’s a far harder material that he makes adjustments to in order to conform to your body as he lays you down.
His medical equipment isn’t unlike yours. He gets you started on an IV without hesitation, preventing the first of his major worries, and watches as your body shuts down, grateful for the new fluid intake. Every time you fall asleep is no easier than the last. One of his hearts skips, then the second one, but he takes the opportunity to continue his work. He moves the samples back to the lab, no longer bothering with the oxygenated box as he’s able to work faster now.
Waiting is the hardest part. It leaves him feeling powerless, pushing himself to his limits to distract himself from the fact that you look weaker every time his eyes glue themselves to you.
“Dabura’s anniversary was yesterday,” he mutters one morning, standing between you and his experiments where he can monitor both.
His lower hands rest on his waist, the upper arms crossed over his chest like twisting wrong doesn’t still send a shock to his system as his lungs continue to mold themselves to their new dual-purpose. He pushes through, idly taking a step towards you and the pile of blankets he stole from your ship that keep you from shivering.
“You would like the celebration,” he remarks, meandering to the side of your bed. He lowers himself to take a closer look at you, before sinking to his knees. His upper arms rest along the edge of the bed, chin seated atop them. “We have a–” he pauses, glancing aside at the realization that he frustratingly can’t even tell you about the celebration because he lacks the words. He growls, his expression pushing into a scowl as he utters the Simurian word for ‘fire’. “A heat light. It’s big,” he presses on. “We use chemicals to create oxygen vacuums,” he continues. “Everyone comes from across the planet. We eat a lot. Drink.”
You don’t stir.
“You would have liked Satoru. He was noisy, too.” His gaze rises from where he sits to sweep your face. You don’t have the gentle look he’s grown accustomed to anymore, your features sunken and permanently pulled into a pained expression. It wrenches at his chest more than the pain of evolution somehow. “He studied the Kaliyans. Some Simurians have deep ties to them. Neither him or I did, so he chose to study them. We never did find answers before…” He huffs, muttering a curse of clicks and growls. He lets his cheek fall to his arms, at a loss. He shuts all four eyes at the sound of a timer going off, sucking in a breath as he wearily pushes to his feet.
He stares at the hologram emptily. It irks him to see the Alveolarium still rampant, but he expects no less at this point. He doesn’t know what exactly he’s expecting to get out of these at this point when experiments like this don’t just take days. They take years. They take materials and vigorous testing and… He throws his gaze over his shoulder, noting how shallow your breaths are now.
He doesn’t have years. He might not even have days, yet again. He bought himself more time, but he’s back to square one with control slipping through his fingers yet again. He grits his teeth so harshly it sends a sharp pain straight to his brain. One would only catch his wince if they were paying attention, as his bottom left eye twitches from the sensation.
Padding out from the room to give himself a break to eat as he overthinks every equation until there’s no semblance of hope left, he sits casually at the bridge, staring out at the planet below. Green clouds and space debris make up the remnants of the species that created the Kerm, long extinct by the hands of their own bioweapon. Below those clouds are the pinks and blues that make up the largely crystalline surface where the beetle-adjacent species now resides, hungry and in search of new prey.
Kerm. The thought settles between his ribs alongside the pain of his evolution. He always envisioned his arrival at their planet to be more triumphant. He envisioned traveling to its surface to ensure that his hypothesis was correct and they’ve eaten beyond their means, invasive to their own planet and destroying its very ecosystem until all that remains are themselves. Then leaving without a trace of the Kerm, the planet, or his own actions.
Yet all this trip has done is resurface every scar he buried a century ago. He scratches at them until what remains are no longer just scars, but open wounds. Forcing down what food he can manage, he drags a hand down his jaw, staring out at the planet, Methalon. It’s silent for a long moment as he inhales and holds the breath.
In Simurian, he finds himself muttering to himself. “What if you’re right, human?” Another extended silence as the thought lingers. “What if… Kerm are more than your cause? What if they’re your cure, too?”
He taps his finger along the panel in which controls reside as he mulls the thought over, before springing into action. He doesn’t have the luxury to consider the consequences, pressing a palm to the controls as they react to electromagnetic pulses emitted from his brain and read through his fingers as he brings the ship to life for the first time in a couple of weeks, disturbing the spacerock that’s settled around the ship.
With a groan, the ship’s nose shifts as he points it towards the planet’s surface. The pressure surrounding the ship shifts as he nears the atmosphere, far more dense than what you would be accustomed to, so he thanks the stars that it’s him going in place of you. He stops the ship a short distance from the planet’s surface, setting it to hover within the densely gaseous atmosphere. It’ll keep you out of reach of the Kerm, which he hypothesizes shouldn’t be able to reach you with their stubby wings.
Should he be wrong, he supposes you’ll both succumb to his stupidity. He almost cracks a morbid smile at the thought. Not that you both might be a lost cause because of his decisions, but because he so often chides you for being stupid, when he’s recklessly allowing himself to be stupid now, too.
But he’s certainly not noisy. No, he talks to you because you like it. Not because he does. He’s quiet.
Suiting up, he drops to the planet’s surface with his limited sulfuric compound supply, his tank unsuited for oxygen. Gravity pulls him down like nothing he’s ever experienced as he drops heavily to the surface. He expected the dense atmosphere, but it still presses down on him like a weight.
Crystallic compounds crunch underfoot, and he shouldn’t consider himself shocked when he comes across the first series of Kerm, or as he knows them, Methalonians. He supposes the name isn’t very fitting, however, given that they’re unnatural. They killed whatever species was more befitting of the name.
The first one turns towards him, its head swiveling as its iridescent shell reflects the gorgeous light of the crystalline environment aiding it to blend in. It regards Sukuna with an entirely animal head tilt that might fool someone who doesn’t know their methods, but Sukuna isn’t fooled. He grips his EMP gun tighter, preparing himself for the inevitable. While the Kerm believe he’s fooled, he sets down a heavy containment pod, opening it with a hiss.
When he faces the group again, all fifteen or so creatures are facing him. Their wings buzz and hiss as they communicate, their antennae twitching through the air as they coordinate what Sukuna already knows to be an attack.
This time, however, he’s prepared. The first one approaches him slowly and curious, feigning a kindness they don’t possess. The brutish alien keeps up the facade in an effort to keep himself from being buried by a sea of Kerm.
He reaches a suited-up and reinforced hand out to the creature, watching its mandibles click together. It approaches slowly, peering up at Sukuna’s outwardly non-threatening demeanor. Its head tilts as it nears, nudging his fingers like it might provoke him.
But it’s not Sukuna that breaks the facade first. The creature zips forward, smashing its mandibles together where Sukuna’s hand just was, giving him enough time to lunge back. As the rest of the group moves in a coordinated hive towards him, he unleashes a small EMP attack that temporarily disorients the Kerm, sending them in more varied directions.
One that approaches him meets the fate of a heated vibrating dagger to its thorax, while another leaps at Sukuna’s shoulder. He spins, wrenching his shoulder in an effort to dislodge it from his suit, but its mandibles dig into the material. The material is impenetrable by their mandibles, but fuck if it doesn’t hurt anyway.
Hissing, Sukuna throws an arm around the Kerm to prevent it from leaving as he pulls the gut-ridden blade from the previous Kerm to lodge it into the next one. He remains largely in control, throwing one off to tear another from its own thorax with the blade the following moment until the smaller crowd re-coordinates itself. Sukuna launches another small EMP attack, throwing two of the group off, while the remaining four all leap at him at once. Mandibles clamp down on one shoulder, while another clings to his abdomen, choosing to methodically jab at the spots where his organs are.
Smart little asshole.
Sukuna recoils, hissing as pain rips through his stomach just beyond where his second mouth can reach. It momentarily disorients him, knocking him to the ground long enough that the remaining two Kerm are able to pile themselves onto him as well. They separate him from both the EMP and dagger, the sound of the vibrating tool over the crystalline earth grating on his nerves.
He shuts his eyes tightly, attempting to reset himself as he evaluates how much he’s been stamped down. He grits his teeth, grunting as he manages to lift an arm and throw one creature off with enough force to disorient it. The freed hand allows him to get enough leverage to flip himself over, slamming one hand straight through the creature’s shell. With one fierce glare, he flips the fight back in his favor, grabbing an incoming Kerm by the head and crushing it in one hand.
With a majority of his movement freed, he picks up the EMP again, blasting the remaining three insects and smashing them too, leaving only the one he tossed aside earlier. He grabs it by the thorax, wrangling it between two arms as he shoves it into the containment box with his spare set of hands. Once it’s inside, he lets out a huff, staring down at his gut-covered suit. He’ll need to be sure he carefully washes himself and his suit after this, given that he doesn’t want to expose you to more diseases that the bioweapon could have hidden beneath its shell.
Getting back to his feet, he better evaluates the surrounding environment. There’s evidence of trees, of civilization and buildings in the distance now turned to rubble and ash. He doesn’t have much sulfuric compounds left to breathe, so he figures he’ll do a once-over of the planet from within the ship, focusing his efforts back on a cure for you as he returns to the safety of his ship.
–
Splaying the Kerm’s insides across his workbench proves to be a disgusting feat. Even within a containment box, the smell permeates the damn room. He ends up moving it into the hangar, which by some grace has better filtration, but Sukuna finds himself further beaten down by the smell. As if his failures weren’t enough.
Unlike his cells, the Kerm’s stem cells do attack the Alveolarium… Unfortunately, no matter how he attempts to alter them, they only ever seem to act as aggressors.
For as smart as Sukuna is, he finds himself missing your curiosity. Your stupid questions. You challenge him. Not just because you’re noisy, but because you’re far more willing to approach the unlikely with an open mind. You lack the knowledge he has, specializing in natural biology where Sukuna excels in chemistry, cytology, geology, archeology, and engineering, but he’s also had a few extra years. Your lack of specific knowledge allows you to excel in general knowledge that Sukuna found himself praising you for.
Mentally. It’s easier to show fondness through actions than words, after all.
Bringing a hand up to his eyes, he presses a thumb and forefinger into them, yawning as every continued failure sets him back not just physically, but mentally too.
He collapses at the base of your bed, your breathing setting his nervous system into a furious rage of emotion as he realizes for the first time how close he truly is to losing you, with no cure in sight. Your species is weak in every sense of the word. Your muscles lack the build that Simurians have, your brain’s capacity is low, your immune system could be knocked over by a harsh wind, and yet Sukuna can’t help but find you endearing. Your lifespan is barely a smear in the grand scheme of his life, and yet the brutish alien, a species who mates for life, finds himself wondering how many ways you might be able to throw his life into disarray.
He wants your annoying quips. He wants your too-loud rambles. He wants to feel you warm in his arms, your eyes bright and wide as he shows you a Simurian mountaintop in some dumb-looking suit of his creation.
He slams his head back against your bed with enough force to rattle the very stone that makes it up. Dragging his hands down his face, the most he can do is stare at the experiments as one by one the timers go off and he’s left with one failure after another. His gaze splits as he looks between not just one, but four separate failures. Pushing his hands back through his hair, he balls his fists within the strands, eyes shut tight. Sitting so close to you, he still feels far. He finds himself mourning something he has yet to lose.
You haven’t awoken in several days, and as much as he wishes he could equate it to illness, the fact is that you’re dying. He can pump as many nutrients as he wants straight into your body without allowing your stomach the opportunity to reject his food, it’ll only do so much when it’s not your stomach fighting you anymore. It’s your lungs.
Every round of failed experiments is another scathing tear at his wounds as he leans against your bed on the floor. His gut aches where the Kerm attempted to strategically puncture his suit and beneath his performance longsleeve are several mild puncture wounds that only serve as annoyances in the grand scheme of things.
“I’m the foolish one,” he states simply out of the blue. “Not you.” He doesn’t follow it up with a long-winded explanation or flourish, it’s as simple as he makes it. You only ever did what you thought was right, giving every living creature the benefit of the doubt. It landed you in a cell, parked in his garage, but god damn it. You gave life your all. You lived without regrets. Sukuna’s lifespan trumps yours, and yet he lives with every weight he’s ever conjured still boiling under his skin.
He’s spent over a hundred years building himself into an impenetrable wall. The kind of man that doesn’t let his past haunt him. Yet here you are, under his skin like a leech and wrapped around his mind with roots that dig straight for his hearts.
He’s so wrapped up in his thoughts that he doesn’t feel your hand at first, as it slips into his hair. He jolts when at last he feels movement against his head, whipping up to face you. He meets your eyes from barely over the bed, heavily hooded as you regard him with a small smile in spite of yourself.
His shoulders fall as he approaches the side of the bed again, resting his head atop his arms. His lips press into a thin line as he doesn’t just let you reach back out, but leans into your touch against his cheek.
“You know,” you rasp, unsurprisingly coughing. “I was wrong about Kerm, but I wasn’t–” another cough, “wrong about you.”
His brow furrows, a deep scowl overtaking his features. Your words sound startlingly like the kind of thing that one might say when they’re coming to terms with the decisions they made in life, further wrenching his hearts.
“Thanks for trying to help Earth.”
He growls and clicks his displeasure with your words, earning a laugh that feels warm even in sickness. When you quiet down, his muttering is nearly unintelligible. “I don’t care about Earth.”
“I know,” you smile, your thumb trailing down his cheek as one lower eye flutters shut. “I like you too, Sukuna.”
He allows himself the peace of shutting his eyes, kneeling beside your bed with his cheek in your hand until his legs go numb and you pass out again. Pain spikes through his knees when he finally rises and straightens them, sighing as he wearily looks over his experiments again. His gaze passes over a hologram displaying one of his cells idly standing by as he considers what the hell he could possibly be doing wrong when something finally hits him like the full force of a jet engine as something dangerous surges into his chest– hope.
His cells are part of a system. A system capable of sending electromagnetic pulses like thoughts to his cells in order to trigger mutation. Sure, the cells will mutate on their own no matter what you put them through, but could the reason they aren’t accepting your cells be because there’s no system to indicate to his cells that there’s an issue?
He’s been approaching the whole situation under the lens of his cells being anti-pathogens, when in fact they’re closer to mutagens. They aren’t a cure, they would never be accepted as a cure. In fact, he’s willing to wager a bet that you’re right and there is a cure that could be pulled from the Kerm, but he doesn’t have the time to figure that out.
His cells could very well re-write your DNA. They could overwrite important information, they could make you more sick. He doesn’t know. His experiments will never work without a live test subject. But on the flip side, they could save you. They could mutate your cells into something capable of handling Alveolarium. Quite frankly, when both alternatives are death, he’s willing to give it a shot.
He moves across the room quickly, hitting a dial that brings to life a hologram in order to act as a whiteboard. He takes your weight and general body size, measuring the exact quantity of his cells that would need to be injected in order to fight a full system infection without the dose being lethal, or possibly mutating beyond control. Gene therapy is a risky move by all means, but he doesn’t have any other options.
He moves through the lab with ease as he extracts a new sample from his lower arm, moving it in a box to ensure his cells aren’t contaminated. He isolates the cells necessary at a dosage he prays is non-lethal and injects them into a sample of healthy stem cells you provided before you got sick to act as carriers.
With a final check of his calculations, he moves to your bedside, praying the healthy cells trick your body into accepting his cells. Sucking in a breath, he injects the gene therapy, and pulls up a chair to wait.
There’s nothing ceremonious about the wait. Sukuna busies himself by continuing to search for a cure, something you can send to Earth assuming he didn’t rip through the return vessels in his effort to get to you. After every pair of gloves he tosses aside, he always returns to the same chair to wait, resting his head on the edge of your bed.
On the second day when he wakes up with his hair glued to his forehead by sweat and drool dripping down his cheek, he moves to wipe it when he finds his head weighed down. He blinks, unable to see past the arms crossed under his cheek, but when he lifts his gaze just slightly, he finds you’ve shifted for the first time in days. Your hand is settled on the back of his head, fingers curled into his hair.
When he tries to tilt his head, your hand falls away again. You’re still asleep, but the hope in his chest surges.
Your face fills out properly over the next couple of days. He seems to miss your waking hours whenever they do happen on his horribly varied sleep schedule, but your coughing fits begin to die down and your breathing evens out.
It’s almost a week later when you wake up with an ache in your muscles like no other, but relief in your chest. The ceiling should be unfamiliar, but even within your fever dreams, you knew glimpses of him were real. Your head lolls to the side, the bedding beneath you rough in spite of its conformity to your body. Across the room, Sukuna moves around the ship in a frantic bout of quick movements. There’s a crudeness to his movements that doesn’t fit the put-together Simurian you’ve come to know. You catch a glance of the side of his face, noting the dark circles under two eyes that rest in a familiar fashion on his face, while those that sit angled along flesh are simply squinting more than usual.
He yawns, betraying the obvious. There’s a slight tremor to his hand as he uses a pipette to transfer cells. He sets a phial down, his lower arms heavily leaning over his work table. It’s obvious weariness plagues him to his marrow, but he doesn’t stop for a second.
“Sukuna?”
Crash!
In the flurry of his limbs leaving the table as he whips around, he sends an empty flask to the floor. Not a single one of his eyes shifts to follow the mess, frantically flickering around your face as he searches for signs of illness. Rather than the dull look he’s faced for the past week, he finds a gleam that he mentally pockets for later. He moves towards you in slow, lumbering steps like he doesn’t quite believe what he’s seeing, before lowering down to a kneel. His skin is deeply calloused, far denser than human skin, as his hands come to rest on your cheeks.
You find yourself biting back a smile as the stoic alien you’ve come to know keeps his intense gaze on you as he nuzzles his nose against you. You may not know Simurian, but you know animals. In some species, that’s a kiss.
“Sukuna?”
He hums.
“Was that a kiss?”
His lips press into a line, nudging his nose slightly against yours again like action is easier than a reply.
“Humans kiss with their lips,” you explain softly.
He doesn’t move immediately, his face a breadth from yours. Something cocky and knowing gleams within his gaze. A laugh bubbles from within your chest but it comes out as a cough, which you attempt to stifle, pulling back momentarily. Sukuna drags you back like he can’t stand the mere thought of distance.
Your laughter subsides quickly as you try hard not to grin.
The stoic Simurian’s breath comes out in an eager puff against your face. “Lips are usually for other things,” he offers with a suggestive tone. But he doesn’t know how to deny you anymore. The corner of his lips quirk up as he surges forward, engulfing you in a claiming kiss. You don’t know what exactly a kiss means for a thousand-year-old being that spends their life with one person when you only live a fraction of his lifespan, but in spite of that you don’t think you mind finding out.
Everything about the kiss is all-encompassing. His smell floods your senses first, the sort of sterile musk that comes with a man working himself to the bone in a lab. His taste doesn’t match it, though. There’s a spice to his taste that isn’t Earthly in nature, but it’s pleasant like a warm herbal tea. It’s intoxicating and addicting all the same, the kind of taste you could get drunk on, should he let you.
His grip doesn’t let up, hands sliding up the base of your scalp as he tips your head back to deepen the kiss. Your hands fly up to his collar, curling into the thick material of his muscle-tight shirt for purchase. It’s dizzying, and not just because your head is spinning with the sheer amount of thoughts bouncing around your overactive mind like ping pong balls. His lips move against yours in the kind of rhythm that doesn’t just insinuate passion, but something far deeper. A desperation that can only be conveyed through actions.
You can sense his resistance as you pull back, but you find yourself laughing as your hands splay across his broad chest. “Sukuna,” you tease. “I’m feeling better, but you still need to give my lungs a break.” You laugh airily, chest rising and falling heavily as he refuses to break contact.
The lumbering giant’s shoulders tense for a moment, then relax, his hands gliding down the column of your neck to rest on your shoulders. He takes the opportunity to envelop you in all four arms, grateful to find you’re no longer shivering. You don’t hesitate for even a moment, arms snaking around his neck as you bury your face into his neck.
“How’d you do it?”
He inhales, letting out a breath of relief as he relaxes into your grip in spite of his awkward hunched position over your bedside. “My cells aren’t like yours. They react to neural oscillations and signals sent through electromagnetism. We were trying to use them like anti-pathogens, but they aren’t.”
“They’re mutagens,” you finish the thought in an excited burst, pulling back to face him with those wonder-filled wide eyes he’s come to adore. “You did gene therapy.”
He chuffs proudly, puffing out his chest under your hands. It’s somehow far more endearing up close.
“Wait, oh my god–” You proclaim suddenly like you’ve come to the greatest realization on earth. “Do you think that means I can breathe sulfur? Or– Or maybe I can grow extra arms,” you murmur, wiggling your fingers over his chest.
His expression deadpans. “No.”
“But if you changed my DNA with alien DNA–”
“That’s–” He breathes out a sigh, amused with your overactive imagination and how fast your mouth moves before your mind can catch up. “That’s not how gene therapy works.”
“Bummer,” you pout. It’s clear the word perplexes him as he narrows his eyes, but he cracks a hint of a smile. He gets it regardless.
You let the moment hang, laughing airily as the reality of your last two weeks truly hits you. Sukuna doesn’t handle the situation with the same lightness as you do, pulling you back into his chest and muffling your laughter altogether. You wrap your arms around his torso once more in reassurance. “I’m still here,” you promise.
“Stupid human,” he mutters, his chin dipping over your shoulder as he locks you tightly against him with a squeeze. When you bury your face into his broad chest, he winces, hiding it behind another squeeze as he attempts to ignore the meager injuries left behind by the Kerm. “Stupid, weak human.”
“I know,” you murmur into his chest. “I know. But I’m here now.”
–
The difference between Human and Simurian traditions turns out to be greater than you think. Not in the sort of grand way you might expect, but in the sense that Sukuna doesn’t quite seem to know what to make of being close. Of course, Humanity aims to choose a person for life, but not without trial and error. For Simurians, there’s some sort of instinct. Something Humans don’t possess that has Sukuna uncertain how to navigate the idea of courting you. In particular, while you’re still recovering.
Your pulse increases to a steady waking beat as your lashes flutter open. You’ve gotten accustomed to the strange way the stone bed conforms to your shape, but you have yet to grow accustomed to the way you’re greeted every morning, even a week into your recovery where– by and large– you just have a cough.
You’ve barely roused when Sukuna’s hand is firmly planted on your jaw, tilting your head left and right. “Nngh, Sukuna,” you sigh, fingers wrapping around his wrist. He doesn’t budge, not satisfied until he’s determined that you’re still on a steady road to recovery. His fingers loosen once he lets out a steady breath, his palm sliding down to your cheek. He doesn’t hesitate for so much as a moment to lower himself to his knees and brush his nose against yours. The Simurian nuzzle is something you’ve grown fond to waking up to and even in your half-asleep state, you find yourself unable to hold back a grin.
“You haven’t coughed yet.”
“I just woke up,” you reply groggily, amused.
“You’re better.”
“Getting there,” you chide, staring down at the mountain of a man on his knees for you. Every morning gets easier, and every morning you have a menacing-looking puppy greeting you at your bedside. It makes recovery easier, especially when you’re forced to eat some sort of alien vegetables he cultivated for you upon converting his compost room to a garden as the only food your body won’t reject, alongside nutrients he continues to inject into your bloodstream.
Slowly pushing up to a sitting position, you suppress a cough that comes across as a personal affront to the bulky alien, who stands upright with you. “How did the experiment from last night go?” You query, your vision still mildly blurry from sleep as you look over the holograms opposite you.
“We’re close,” he murmurs, long strides taking him across the room. “Your hypothesis was right. The Kerm cells react to heat, but not too much heat. I was killing them before.”
Rubbing your eyes, you smile. “So we’re close to a cure that we can send back?”
He pauses, facing you. He’d been unwilling to send his own cells back to the very people who sent you to your death, but at your request, he’d continued experimentation for a cure that didn’t require gene therapy. “I don’t understand why you care.”
“There were eight billion Humans, Sukuna.” Your head tilts in sympathy for the fact that he resents a whole species for their treatment of you. “The hundred or so involved in sending me here shouldn’t be responsible for punishing the rest of the species.”
“Punishing,” he repeats the word, though he doesn’t need an explanation when he can use context clues.
Pushing to your feet, you walk on weakened feet to join him, sidling up to his warmth. “You know, I never got the chance to thank you.”
Two eyes flicker down to you, questioning, while the other two evaluate the weakened state of your muscles.
“You’re breathing oxygen.”
“I am.”
“And you risked getting Alveolarium from me.”
He stubbornly looks up. “I did.”
If there’s one thing that remains the same between your species, it would seem it’s embarrassment. Sukuna is over one thousand years old with no partner. You can only assume he never found someone, or prefers solitude. Or, more aptly, preferred. It’s safe to say he doesn’t know how to navigate your healthy return to his life.
As you jovially grin at his side, Sukuna adjusts the temperatures of his experimentations, each by a fraction of a degree, before he turns to face you. The tension in his shoulders has released upon seeing you eagerly facing him with clasped hands. “Yes, human?”
“Can I see the rest of your ship?”
“Not until you’re well.”
“I’m literally fine!”
He crosses both pairs of arms over his built chest. “You coughed.”
“There was something in my throat,” you counter.
His lip curls in haughty frustration. He clicks with intermittent syllables that you’re unable to put together. Missing the word, he goes with the simplest train of thought. “No.”
Stepping towards him, your palms settle over his lower veiny forearms. Your thumbs rub small circles into his tough skin, the hair on his arms noticeably standing on-end. “Please? I promise I’m okay.” His eyes narrow a fraction. “I wanna see how you keep your food, and where you’re growing those turnip things. Oh–! And the bridge, and– Wait, your ship is so big, what else do you even have here? Do you–”
He huffs loudly, but you note that in spite of the scowl pulling his brow down, relief floods his gaze and his lips fluctuate wildly between a frown and smile. It doesn’t take much for him to give in, loosening an arm as he wraps it around your shoulders in an effort to steady you as he leads the way through the ship.
It’s massive beyond anything you could ever comprehend. Metals you’re not even positive exist on Earth line the walls and natural bioluminescent amoebas are used to light long stretches of hall where wasting energy is unnecessary. Light only exists where needed, like bathing a large medical bay with a missing bed and several bottles and boxes thrown astray as though the room was flipped upside down in search of supplies. Your heart surges with something dangerous at the sight, as you know the stoic creature beside you– who doesn’t so much as bat an eye at the mess– did this for you. He tossed aside equipment and tore through supplies in order to keep you alive, who barely lives a fraction of his lifespan.
Hell, he’s almost twice your height and keeps walking at your unsteady and slow pace without so much as a peep. His hand shuffles from your shoulder to your back as he briefly points out a food hall complete with a garden and a large freezer for overgrowth and cured meats. There’s a pungent smell to the room befitting of what was once a compost bay.
“Is this what I’ve been eating?”
He chuffs, lifting a heavy arm to point at what you would otherwise describe as a radish. He states its name in his mother tongue, not bothering to translate given that the syllables thrown in between each click sound painfully like ‘engine’ and he’s heard you use that word before, so it simply doesn’t translate into a word you can both use. You nod your approval as he continues his tour with little fanfare, his hand gliding from your back to your elbow.
“I’m lucky,” he states, “they’re the only plant that will grow in oxygen from what I tried.”
Next, he leads the way through an exercise hall, a gravity converter, and a communications bay. His ship dwarfs yours in every possible way and it’s all intended for just one person. The real enigma, however, is the way his hand keeps shifting on you, like he isn’t quite sure what to do with himself now that he has you back and you’ve kissed.
“I didn’t think you’d be so awkward,” you blurt out without a care in the world, pleased as you tilt your head to find his expression narrowing just slightly.
“Awkward?” He searches for confirmation despite being able to put the context clues together.
“You keep moving your hand. Seven times now, Sukuna,” you tease, your grin widening.
“I’m guiding you,” he grumbles dismissively.
“I don’t need a hand to guide me through a ship. I’m a good follower.”
His gaze glides to the side, teeth gritting as he clicks his disapproval. “Noisy.”
Laughing, you give him a nudge that pulls his attention back. His usual aloof gaze briefly flickers across your face like he expects signs of sickness before fixing on your chiding grin. “You’re allowed to be nervous, Sukuna.”
“I’m not.” He growls out some sort of curse word in Simurian, continuing on the walk through the ship as he finds the explanation he needs. “I don’t know Human traditions. I don’t know how to move forward.”
You bite back a smile at the sweet admission. “Well, humans are a bit different.” You give him a thoughtful peek from beneath your lashes, catching the way it disengages the tension in his shoulders. “We try to stay partners for life, but we’re complicated. Emotions get in the way, people change–”
“You would separate from your partner in such a short life?” Sukuna sounds utterly shocked at the thought, his nose wrinkling as he stops dead in his tracks. He turns to face you, staring at you like he wants to shake the mere idea from existence by your shoulders.
“We try not to. But sometimes it’s inevitable.” You shrug. “Sometimes you fall out of love with the person you marry or date, or sometimes things change or distance gets in the way–”
“Then you talk about it. Or visit.” His voice comes out clipped with edge. You can’t tell whether he intends it to.
“Our transportation isn’t very advanced. The ship I was in,” you explain, pointing over your shoulder, “it’s the tenth one capable of space travel beyond our own moon.”
The brutish alien’s scowl lessens as something of far greater importance occurs to him suddenly. You allow the silence that stretches on as you recognize his troubled expression. He’s grappling with something he doesn’t know how to address. The ship stands by idly in the moment where Sukuna straightens, settling a pair of hands on his hips while the others cross over his chest. He doesn’t move as he speaks with a flat tone that almost conveys solemnity. “I can take you back. To Earth. Along with the cure, once it’s ready.”
Somewhere between the kiss, the illness, and the acceptance that your fate was to die, you forgot that there was another option. “What if I don’t want to?”
Sukuna’s gaze travels listlessly left and right. It’s clear this is something he’s considered. After all, imprisonment awaits you on Earth regardless of the cure. What point is there in returning? And yet, Simuria would be imprisonment in a roundabout way, too. You can’t breathe the sulfuric gas. He isn’t even confident in your ability to withstand the barometric pressure in one of the suits in his ship.
He doesn’t answer immediately, either pretending something caught his attention by tilting his second ear towards something, or genuinely listening to something. Regardless, he glances aside as he considers your question before proceeding to completely ignore your query. “How do Humans wed?” He mutters, as though the concept that he doesn’t know makes him mad.
“We date first,” you chuckle. “We impress one another. We go out and do fun things together. We give gifts and spend time being intimate. Like, cuddling and kissing. Oh–! And then if things are going well, one person presents the other with a ring with a pretty stone in the middle and if things are right, that person says yes and then they wed and there’s a big ceremony, and then both people get rings, and friends come visit, and–”
Sukuna bends down to your height, nudging your nose once, then kissing you. “What’s a ring?”
Giddily, you can’t help a giggle as he shuts you up without complaint of your noisiness, simply backtracking to the portion of your rambling he doesn’t understand. “It goes around your finger.” Instinctively reaching for his face, your finger traces along the edge of the protruding plate from his face. One of his eyes twitches, but he allows you to do so. “It signifies to humans that you’re in a committed relationship with another human.” Your finger traces the side of his face as he stays bent to your height. “Do Simurians have something like that?”
“Tattoos.”
Your eyes brighten. “Humans do that sometimes in place of wedding rings, too. Basically, you present one ring when you want to get married, and then when you do get married, you get matching tattoos around your fingers instead of matching rings. It’s actually really–”
He kisses you again, that familiar spice of tea flooding your senses pleasantly.
Undeterred, you inquire about Simurian traditions. “What about for you?”
“We simply… Know.”
You pout at the mere thought. “Like love at first sight?” You whisper eagerly.
He nudges your nose, growling his disapproval. “Instinct.” He straightens. “No rings. The date of the ceremony is decided based on when other Simurians are available.”
“Oh right, they’re like holidays.”
He chuffs.
“Were they always, though? You said… I mean, you–”
“There used to be over a thousand of us, yes.” He doesn’t bother skirting around the question. “No, we didn’t always do things this way. We used to be selective.” He sucks in a breath, pushing past the question with little fanfare. “The ceremony has a fire,” he states now that he has the word after some experimentation involving it, “and a ceremonial dance.”
“I can’t picture you dancing,” you giggle.
His eyes narrow. “I don’t. The dancers dance.”
“Of course, of course, my bad,” you grin.
“Then, we braid one anothers’ hair, and an elder tattoos us.”
You smile at the differing culture. “That sounds beautiful.” Your gaze slowly rises to his short, pushed back hair. “Your hair isn’t very long, though.”
“Our hair has to be long enough to braid before Simurians can be wed. Or in some cases, exceptions can be made.”
“So you’d have to grow it out?” When he chuffs, you tilt your head with a grin. “That’s kinda hot.”
Catching the compliment in your tone, Sukuna shifts, a rare smirk crossing his features as he tracks the way your hands rest on your hips.
“Are we talking like a braid in your whole hair or just a small portion?”
“A small portion.”
Your grin widens. “That’s kinda cute. You’d be like a Jedi apprentice! Only, I don’t think it’s fitting to call you an apprentice, you’re more like–”
“Human.” Sukuna’s chiding carries far less annoyance since your recovery. “I don’t know ‘Jedi’.”
“Oh–! Right, yeah, I guess you guys don’t have Star Wars. Well, at least you avoided the sequel trilogy,” you mutter more to yourself than him when he lets out a huff as you turn to explore his ship again. He no longer leads the way, allowing you to explore all on your own, only keeping a hand on you to ensure steadiness as though your dwindling cough might blow you over. At least, that’s what he would tell you if you asked why he insists on keeping a hand on you.
His ship is vast. It could be compared to several acreages where your ship is barely the equivalent of a small apartment. The size is staggering, and you begin to realize exactly what he meant when he said Simurians enjoy having large properties to themselves.
“So, do your instincts just like… line up with the other person?”
“Generally.”
“How do you tell one another that you’re in love?”
Sukuna is silent for so long that you stop at the precipice that leads down into a storage and whip around to face him. He’s scowling at you with that kind of look that has you realizing your bug-based brain has missed a very Human– or in this case, Simurian– social cue.
“We nuzzle.”
You purse your lips as you’re faced with an intensity that’s oddly sweet given the frown it’s accompanied by. It’s not like you haven’t figured out by now that Sukuna is fond of you, but the reality of Humanity and Simurians is that he’ll outlive you. You’ll be nothing more than a distant memory by the time his hair goes gray. Assuming it does that, anyway. That’s not even beginning to address the planetary differences, atmosphere issues and dietary needs amongst other things.
Or the fact that you’ve known him for only a few weeks. Unusual by Human standards to be in talks of marriage, but by Simurian standards, you suppose he’s implying he chose you already. As much as the very Human part of you wants to call him yours, the scientist in you knows only compatibility. He’s a Thorny Devil Stick Insect to your Isopod Cubaris. Everything about the situation is absurd and your brain and your heart are fighting for keeps– Sukuna, or the reality that you should return to Earth and let Sukuna find a Simurian that allows his instincts to kick in.
As you stare blankly at him with pursed lips, he steps closer into your space, examining the way you fiddle with the hem of the hoodie draped over your shoulders. His movement kicks you back into the present.
“O-oh–! The nose, uh– The nose thing? The kiss?”
He huffs, shockingly cross as he averts his gaze. “Yes, the nose thing.”
You swallow hard, the reality of your harshly pounding heart bringing to light every issue you’ve already gone over in your head in spite of the fact that you’ve spent so long craving the touch of this ten foot tall man you have no right to. “Sukuna, I barely live like a thirtieth of your life span.”
The noise he lets out is something between an affirmative chuff that he knows and a grumble of sorts. He lets the moment hang, unsure what to make of it before brushing it off with something too simple. “Instincts,” he grumbles, nearing you again as his face lowers to yours. Without knowledge of dates or Earthly traditions, the most he can do is press his lips to yours. There’s something pleading in it that melts every reservation your brain screams at you.
His lips are never soft, neither in texture nor movement. He’s a being that lumbers around and his strength is beyond obvious. You feel that, too, in the way he aims to claim you, should you let him. When he leaves the ball in your court, you press forward, wrapping your arms around his neck as the kiss deepens.
Your tongue slips against his lips like an invitation that he doesn’t hesitate to grasp as he takes charge again. He still tastes of something with an overall spicy tang that you can’t place, but it’s no less pleasant now than it was the first time. No longer weakened by illness, he takes the opportunity to lift your thighs with his lower arms while his upper arms support your torso as he hoists you up, straightening. His lower hands knead your thighs in what feels like a subconscious manner, thumbs gliding over the stretch marks and scars of a life not yet fully lived.
He stumbles towards the wall, caging you between him and it, the strange coarse texture of the metals that make up his ship cool against the spot where your hoodie’s ridden up. He presses in, his lips moving faster, his body pressed against yours so tightly that you can feel the fact that his stomach mouth is panting.
The things that does to your body should be studied. Just as you grip him tighter, fingers curling into fists in his hair, he pulls back with a strange rigidity to him. “You never– I can still bring you back. To Earth,” he offers through pants in a tone that doesn’t suit his usual clipped and formal one. The uncertainty swimming in his gaze is unbefitting of him.
“Wh–” You look around like someone might be around to share your incredulous stare. “You’re asking that now?”
He swallows hard, the movement betraying his embarrassment. Good to know he’s capable of that, truly. “I want to give you the option.”
“Is it greedy of me to ask for both?”
He tilts his head curiously, something of a clicking noise coming from deep within his throat as he places just enough distance between your faces to take in your expression.
“It would be nice to make sure the cure gets delivered to the right people when we get there,” you admit, “but I’d like to say bye to Shoko and my family.”
He sucks in a breath. “You lost ten years getting here. You would lose another ten returning, and–” his hands dig into your thighs, his shoulders tightening as he calculates distance based on where you identified the Milky Way in your many scientific discussions prior to your illness. “Seven more, at least, on the trip to Simuria.”
Your gaze falls. “Oh.” Leaning back against the cool wall that suddenly feels nice on the back of your head, your fingers curl into Sukuna’s multi-sleeved compression shirt. “So I’d be over fifty,” you murmur. It shakes you to your core, and you lean into Sukuna.
He adjusts his arms to embrace you, nuzzling his face into the crook of your shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
The silence that follows is a welcome one of mourning. You had accepted death sealed in a tin can in the void of space. You had accepted death faced with illness, grateful to have met such a wonderful otherworldly being. You had been satisfied knowing you fell for someone, even if it never came to fruition. It had all been enough.
Until Sukuna came barreling through the hull keeping you imprisoned, unwilling to let death be an option.
To say you fell harder would be an understatement. If the option ever presented itself, there was never a question what you would choose. There is no question what you’re choosing.
After an extended period of silence, you lift your head from Sukuna’s shoulder. “The pods aren’t too damaged to make it to Earth?”
He blinks a number of times, questioning your decision-making. “I didn’t damage them.”
“Then… As long as my friends and family know I made it to the cure, that’s enough.”
Slowly, Sukuna sets you back on the ground, a surprising amount of conflict in the way he runs his tongue over his teeth, casting his glance at the makeshift garden whose artificial sun has set.
The low bioluminescence of the hall light glows softly over his features as you watch his expression pull taut. “You don’t seem happy.”
“I am,” he argues, flashing you a glare as he mutters something under his breath in Simurian.
“Then what’s wrong?”
He sucks in a breath, stepping forward as he leans his massive form down to your height. “You’ll be stuck aboard this ship until I can figure out something better.”
“I could use a suit!” You offer gleefully. “Actually, that would be kinda cool if you think about it–” you begin, your mind wandering. “It’ll be kinda like all the movies and shows I watched growing up and then I can come back to my little– no, actually this place is huge– my huge ship, or I guess our huge ship–”
Sukuna doesn’t interrupt you for once, chuffing not in affirmation but amusement. There’s almost a purr to it as you prattle on about how every kid on Earth dreams of being an astronaut and here you are on an alien ship. He casts you a sidelong glance as you make commentary on the hot alien company you’ve found, sidling up to him with a grin as you compliment him.
“Hey, um– Do you wait until marriage?” You query with warmth in your cheeks, sending the conversation in a complete one-eighty.
“For what?”
“Sex.”
Sukuna’s jaw shifts as he regards the small being beside him. “Sex?”
“Um–” Your gaze averts as your cheeks warm further. “Like reproduc–” you pause when you narrowly catch his lip quirking up out of the corner of your eye. “You know what I mean. You’re fucking with me.” You face him with a deadpan expression.
The creature rumbles in amusement. “Noisy human,” he chides. “I’m not having sex with you here. My ship is meant for one. We don’t wait, but this is unsightly.”
“Oh, so now you have decorum?”
Using context clues to put together the meaning of your retort, he straightens. “When have I not?”
“You call me annoying all the time!”
“I call you noisy. And I’m right,” he puffs his chest out as he crosses his arms over his chest as he continues your little tour.
–
The long-awaited day comes far sooner than Sukuna could have imagined. After countless temperature adjustments and endless suggestions from you that may have had him rolling his eyes weeks ago, the fresh Kerm stem cells attack the infected Alveolar cells, curing them.
He straightens, watching the immediate reaction under the duress of an exact temperature, and replicates it once more. Then again. And again.
You’re already watching, on the edge of your seat as you set aside the roasted turnip you were eating. You both wait with bated breath as the fifth experiment comes out as a success.
“It worked,” you breathe, getting to your feet. “You did it.” Disbelief coats your tone, the dimmed lab lighting reflecting off of Sukuna’s gloves as he discards them and steps back, staring at all five successes.
“A cure,” he states. His disbelief is plain, but there’s something far greater woven within the way his fists ball up at his sides and his shoulders rise.
He failed once and his species suffered for it. Maybe it’s not Simuria, but Earth means something to you. And this time, he didn’t fail.
As control weaves itself back into his grasp, he stares down at his hands, sucking in a breath. Blinking as tears prick his waterline, he stays put so as to not reveal his vulnerability to you.
But you’re already bounding towards him, practically whipping yourself around his immovable form to hug him with unmatched ardor. “You did it!” Your whole body trembles with relief at the thought that just maybe Shoko is still out there, and this might save not just her, but your entire home. Your family.
With a sharp inhalation, Sukuna’s arms curl around you, lifting you effortlessly, as he hides his relief in your shoulder. “We did.”
But as you put together instructions for cell breeding and duplication and prepare the cure to be sent to Earth, so too comes the day Sukuna has been dreading.
Staring out the window after sending off the cure, you lean over the control panel, wide-eyed as the stars twinkle back at you. You whip around to face your companion, but your question is met with a solemnity you aren’t expecting. “What now? To Simuria?”
Sukuna’s lips are drawn into a frown. It’s not unbefitting of him, but the dullness of his cerise eyes tells another story.
The pieces fall into place with every ounce of tension in his musculature. The gleam in your eyes burns out like a solar system’s light at the realization that faces you. “You’re gonna destroy the planet.”
Two slanted eyes turn to face you, followed by the two more humanoid ones, his arms crossed over his chest as his heart pangs at your disappointment. He’ll never fault your compassion, but this is something he can’t let go.
“It’s a sacrifice,” he admits. “A few to save many.”
“I know they’re the cause of so much destruction but… do you have to? It feels… wrong. Even if they’re artificial.”
The alien’s voice is a low rumble. “You’re kind, little human. I like that.” The warmth in his compliment echoes over hard stone lining the interior of the bridge. “I flew over the planet’s surface while you recovered,” he explains as he stares down at the stark green gas buildup around the planet that’s been increasing the longer the ship sits just outside of orbit. “There are no other species on the planet. No flora, no fauna. Where there were cities, there are now ruins. Trees are shredded. There’s nothing left. If I leave them, they will evolve. Someday, they will escape, or another unsuspecting species will do what Simuria or Earth did.”
When he puts it like that, you can understand his reasoning. After two hundred years of searching for the Kerm, you can sympathize with his need to follow through.
“This decision doesn’t need to involve you. This would have happened regardless.”
You turn to face him with your arms around your middle, hugging yourself. “I know, but after letting that one go on Earth, I feel like I’m involved now.”
“You had no way of knowing. Then or now,” he excuses your action, something you’re grateful for, as much as you’ll always harbor that guilt and the vision of a creature tearing through a crew.
After a moment of silence as he allows you to grapple with reality, he moves towards the control panel, sliding his finger along a series of sensors as his ship turns to move further from the planet while more systems come to life as he prepares a laser.
The planet looks beautiful from a distance. Pinks and blues scatter the surface, while a gaseous blue-green surrounds the planet. You don’t doubt Sukuna told the truth, but your heart pangs to know that the gorgeous sight will dissipate in mere moments at the hands of someone you care for. Hell, maybe even at your hands, if you think too hard about it.
Guilt bubbles in the pit of your stomach as the whirring of Sukuna’s ship ramps up, a bright light beginning to form somewhere from the side of the bridge where you can’t see. The brutish alien glides his hand over a few sensors, pressing something with finality before returning to your side. His palm settles along your shoulder, pulling you into him as his chest rises and falls, his own guilt palpable in the air between you.
The whirring of the ship comes to a sharp halt, the laser’s light suddenly brighter than the sight of the sunlit planet itself. Sukuna’s grip on your shoulder tightens as he moves deftly, pulling you face-first into his chest and wrapping you tightly in all four arms to prevent you from seeing the blast. With one hand on the back of your head, he prevents you from turning your head.
Even in your peripherals, you see the light. You shut your eyes tight, Sukuna’s grip on you increasing as the blast goes off. Some part of you expects to hear something, forgetting that space is a vacuum, and you’re met with nothing. But nothing is worse. An entire species eradicated, and you’re met with nothing.
Sukuna’s heart pounds hard as he watches the planet splinter. His curse to live with, but never your burden to bear. He won’t let it be. He holds you tight until the planet’s remains are little more than debris floating every which way. You’re far enough away that whatever else was blasted into space isn’t visible, and for that, he’s grateful.
He holds you so long that he isn’t sure whether it’s for him, or for you.
“It’s done,” he murmurs, allowing you at last to look out over the wreckage as his ship’s whirring slowly winds down.
“They won’t hurt anyone else,” you murmur as your brow tents when you look over the wreckage of stone and crystal that floats where Methalon–as Sukuna referred to it– once was.
“Let’s hope that’s true,” he murmurs in return, his body hunching over as he drops his face to your head, eyes shutting tightly.
–
It’s a wonder you make it to Simuria at all. Not because of any extenuating circumstances, but because you have so many questions and queries and noisy impulses that Sukuna seems to perpetually scowl at you. On equal grounds, however, you catch him with a longing stare when you least expect it.
In the midst of a full explanation on the reproduction of Scorpions. When you’re desperately trying to yank a Simurian radish’s roots from the ground while it protests you, sweat dripping down your spine. Even when you’re sifting through the remnants of your belongings from Earth. He trails after you with nothing short of zealous loyalty.
When you arrive on Simuria, you’re trapped on the ship as you expected, only able to experience the planet from the bridge’s window. Still, it’s more than you ever could have hoped. Not unlike Methalon, Simuria is primarily crystalline in nature with petrified trees growing crooked from mountains. You’re able to expand your diet to more vegetables, supplementing your vitamins with injections that Sukuna is damn-near overbearing about.
“Sukuna, I can do it myself!” You try to insist as he nuzzles you, intermittent with kisses.
“It’s my job to take care of you,” he insists into your neck, nipping at the sensitive skin to distract you before pulling back to inject your daily supplement into your thigh while you’re distracted.
“You’re a menace!” You insist through giggles, and the injection becomes nothing more than an afterthought.
Still stoic, you see his warmth within that familiar four-eyed gaze. “You chose me without instincts,” he points out in a teasing manner, pride held within his straightened back. “Now come.”
Rolling your eyes at his shockingly witty retort as he gets too good at your language, you let him lead the way through the ship until you reach the exit door. You’ve only seen the planet’s surface through glass as he promised you an oxygen tank to withstand his atmosphere someday. It had been taking so long that you figured he ran into a snag, but as you stand at the bay and watch his hand glide along the sensors, you realize just how foolish you had been.
For the first time, the bay opens up and you find yourself instinctively trying to search for a way to protect yourself from the sulfur.
“Sukuna, I–”
“Give me your trust, ange.” He holds your bicep as you begin to back away, his gaze insistent.
Ange. The syllables that, intermittent with clicks and growls, make up the word ‘angel’ in Simurian, and french–the language of romance– and his favorite nickname for you. He had explained that when he takes you to meet the rest of his kind, it would be helpful for you to understand more of his language, and that if you paid attention to– and spoke– in only the syllables of the words, you would largely be able to communicate with his kind without issue. The clicks and growls come out of necessity of Simurians having broadly low voices and living in craters. The second ears and extra sounds in each word allow them to communicate from longer distances without the necessity for the syllables, but the same is true for communicating without the clicks. The syllables can also stand, mostly, on their own.
Your jaw tightens as you stop resisting his grip, allowing him to lead you through a small bay door where you’ve often seen him leave through the pressurized chamber. When he leads the way through it, there’s shockingly no change in barometric pressure. Or oxygen.
Off to the side of the ship where you aren’t able to see from the bridge, Sukuna has built out a massive domed biome with oxygen production within, allowing you to touch the surface for the first time. Your lips part as your feet scuff over the crystal-threaded dirt beneath your shoes.
You take small steps at first, glancing to the left where petrified trees protrude from a cliffside within the barrier of the biome, hanging over the mild seafoam that coastal waves leave behind. You tread towards the beach, your shoes sinking into the sand as you take in the smell of the salt water, your mouth still agape at how massive the space is.
To your right is a cavern that you know to be partially artificial, Sukuna’s home held within. You turn to face him, the shock of it all pinning you in place, when you’re met with another surprise.
He’s not down on his knees, but in his hand is a ring crafted from metal with a gorgeous off-pink crystal in the center, clearly carefully procured. It’s simultaneously gorgeous and obvious. The jewel matches his hair. It’s romantic, but it’s claiming too, something you’ve realized of Sukuna over the months that you’ve resided within his ship.
Your hand raises to cover your lips as you stare down at it. “Are you…?”
He runs a hand through his locks. “My hair’s not long enough yet for a ceremony,” he states, the strands falling through his fingers, “but I think your traditions are different.”
“I–” You breathe, staring down at the stone. It’s not like you didn’t know this would all happen in time, but to wrap your brain around being proposed to by an alien who made a barometric dome of oxygen for you is still a feat. Slowly, you reach for the gorgeous stone. “Yes. I’ll marry you.”
His brow scrunches as though there was no need for an answer and he already knew such a thing, but he hands the ring over regardless, watching as you slide it down your ring finger with a gorgeous grin.
“This is beautiful, Sukuna,” you breathe.
He chuffs pridefully, four palms finding their place along your body– two on your hips and two your waist. He doesn’t hesitate to pull you in, his fingers kneading your skin as he nuzzles you hard. His hooked nose rubs against yours before he dips down to kiss you passionately.
Given that kissing in its Simurian form is so different from Humanity’s version, it’s almost unfair just how good he is at it. Your body goes warm as you grip the Simurian robes he’s begun wearing now that he’s home.
Kisses with Sukuna are never slow and sweet. There’s intention behind every swipe of his tongue as he invades your mouth, pleasantly flooding your mouth not with the usual herbal tea you’ve come to expect, but something more minty, like there was thought behind this kiss that makes you smile into it.
He swallows your smile as he deepens the kiss, tilting your head up. There was a point where you were convinced you would die alone in the darkness of a welded ship without feeling the warmth of the sun on your skin again, and by some miracle, the very man who held your life in his hands now holds your heart instead.
When he pulls back, his thumb brushing your waist softly, he inhales, long and deep. “It isn’t Earth,” he concedes, a rare vulnerability within his baritone voice. “But I hope you’ll be happy here.”
Reaching for his cheeks, your thumb brushes the plating along the side of his face. “Sukuna, this is everything I could have hoped for.” You smile softly, turning around in his grip to stare out at the ocean as you shed your shoes and wriggle your toes in the sand, his hands never once leaving you. “I could live here for a lifetime.”
“Good,” his chest rumbles behind you as he chuckles, watching the tide swim ashore to your feet. “Because you very well might, ange.”
You grin up at him, wading further into the warm water. The planet is so much warmer than Earth due to the heavily gaseous atmosphere that the water isn’t cold like much of Earth’s oceans, pleasant around your ankles. “I’m kinda like Sandy Cheeks, if you think about it.”
“What?” Sukuna’s nose wrinkles, perplexed.
You laugh heartily, staring down at the stone around your finger. “Don’t worry about it.”
–
“Are you sure I look okay?”
“You,” your fiancé heartily purrs, “look like my dinner for tonight.”
The worst part is that you can see the maw on his stomach grinning from under his white robes.
You whack his arm softly, earning a playful chuff in reply as he looks you up and down, already mentally undressing you of the traditional Simurian wedding gown that Sukuna had an elder Simurian make for you, giving your measurements and no further details as he perplexed the poor elder on just who his bride-to-be might be.
The robes drape over your shoulders elegantly, the pale green accents of the off-white robes complimenting your traditional makeup. The sweet young (in Simurian years, anyway) woman doing your makeup and using traditional natural skin dyes hadn’t stopped gushing the entire time about Sukuna finding a mate, something you had picked up through broken understanding of their language.
You had even caught on that as it would turn out, he was the only Simurian adult who lacked a mate of those remaining.
“Have you picked out your tattoos yet?” She excitedly inquires, sure to slow her speech down so you can piece together what you can.
In extremely broken Simurian, you reply, “Yes! He chose design and I chose placement.”
She squeals in excitement, going on to tell you about how a Simurian named Dura recently took up tattooing, and you two would be his first wedding tattoos. There’s a certain solemnity in knowing that, with dwindling numbers, you very well may be his last, too.
Your nerves hit hard as you grow closer to emerging from Sukuna’s home where you’ve been prepping.
“If you’re still worried,” Sukuna offers as the young woman heads off to prepare herself for the ceremony, “just remember you and I are the only ones that can breathe oxygen. They’ll all be in suits.”
You’re pretty sure he just told you to picture them all in their underwear essentially, but it helps ease some nerves regardless.
“You’ve got a point,” you breathe out a sigh of relief before sucking in a breath. “Remind me how this goes again?”
Sukuna steps towards you, lowering himself to a knee to speak with you. His hand raises, his fingers gliding along your palm as he takes a moment to stare at your palms pressed together. To think that glass once separated you feels like another reality now. His gaze moves from your hands to your eyes as he intertwines your fingers. “You will wait in a tent by the beach as I am readied,” he explains, referring to his own traditional makeup that needs to be applied, his hair shaggy and a complete mess now that it’s much longer and ready to be braided. “Dabura is to wed us, as he’s my closest ally. He’ll come get you. There will be a ceremony with dancers and a large bonfire, then Dura will tattoo us.”
“And then?” You chew on your lower lip eagerly.
“Then,” he nears you, his fingers delicately brushing your robes. “The night is ours.”
You let out a breath, biting back a smile at the thought given that you had chosen to wait to have sex after all when it took so long to get you out of the ship.
“Are you nervous?” He gruffs, tilting your chin with a calloused hand.
“For the sex, or the wedding?”
“Either.”
It takes you a moment to consider the thought. “Yeah, I guess so. Both.”
“No one can understand your language. If you need something, just say so. I’ll be here the whole time.”
“You know, you never would have had me thinking you were so sweet when we first met.”
His brow twitches, his gaze averting. “I’m not.”
Stubborn.
“Noisy.”
Your eyes narrow. “Just curious, can you hear my thoughts?”
“No, why?”
“No reason.”
The night carries out as he promised. Seventy eight Simurians gather from far and wide, of tribes from a bygone era, of all ages and appearances. A fire is stoked and dancers do what you’re sure was once a much more elegant dance without the added bulk of spacesuits beneath traditional outfits.
The Simurians are kind to you, regardless of your broken ability to speak their language. They pick up on the occasional word in your language too, not unlike Sukuna.
Once the grand part of the ceremony is over, the rest of the Simurians take their seats on the beachside surrounding you and Sukuna as you both take small portions of your hair and braid them for one another. Your husband’s fingers are surprisingly deft, and upon finishing the braid, he gets the rest of his hair cut back down to his preferred length. Once the ceremony is complete, you’re met with cheers as Dabura declares you officially wed.
The horned alien is somehow more aloof than your husband, and the largely disinterested looks he shoots everyone you come to realize is his neutral. Were you not surrounded by far more boastful Simurians, you might even think they’re all like this.
Following the cheers of the ceremony, as things begin to quiet down, you’re approached by a Simurian with long, flowing white hair tucked into his spacesuit. He has a friendly look about him as he grins at you. “Dura,” he introduces himself, extending his hand.
Your brow raises at the realization he’s given you his name in your language, keen to the fact that your ability to speak is broken. Sukuna seems to respect that, taking a step back from the protective shadow he’s been all night with so many people so close to you, wary that someone might disprove his choice to wed a Human. You shake Dura’s hand in turn, offering your name as though he hasn’t been hearing it all night.
“Have you chosen a design?” He asks in his mother tongue.
He speaks slowly, allowing you to keep up. “Sukuna chose design, I chose– um–” your brow furrows as you attempt to place the syllables for the word in Simurian.
“Placement?” Dura steps in.
In a harsh tone, Sukuna steps forward, his lip curled into a snarl. “My wife is talking,” he snaps, the growls and clicks far more bitter than you’re used to hearing.
Dura’s hands raise. “I was just helping with words, Sukuna,” he smiles easily, waving the white flag before anything breaks out amongst the Simurians still lingering from the ceremony. “I wasn’t interrupting.”
You exchange a sympathetic glance with Dura, setting a hand on your husband’s arm. “It’s okay, Sukuna,” you murmur. “I just didn’t know the word, he was helping,” you agree.
Your husband’s shoulders fall slowly into something less aggressive, his gaze immovable as it glues itself to Dura. The tension between the two men is brief, before Sukuna gives into your sweet touch and softens, describing the design and placement to Dura. The white-haired man proceeds to prepare a table for you, sanitizing everything and pulling out what, by Earth’s standards, would be traditional handpoke tattoo materials.
Once ready, Sukuna goes first. The design is small, two zigzags mirroring one another with a simple tear in the center right where you chose– on the ring finger. He’s completely still throughout the process without any complaint, and you find yourself embarrassed when you wince at the first tap of the stone tool. Dura does what he can to distract you, attempting to speak with you– though at you is probably more apt given how broken your Simurian is. Still, you’re proud of yourself for your proficiency with the language and your ability to sit through the tattoo, which isn’t so bad once the first few punctures are through.
Once it’s complete, you hold your hand up to Sukuna’s, comparing the ink to one another with a bright smile before Dura bandages them. Your husband leans down to nuzzle and then kiss you, succinct but meaningful.
As the night winds down and the attendees begin to take their leave in ships of varying sizes, you sit by the entrance to your now-shared home with Sukuna. The stars twinkle overhead as you marvel at how different they are from Earth’s. In spite of everything, you stare out at the same vast expanse of space as your family back home does. You wish they could see that you got married. Pulling your knees to your chest, you rest your chin on them as you stare up at the sky, only able to wonder.
A bulky shadow leans over you after saying his goodbyes to Dabura and shutting the dome for the final time of the night. He blocks your view of the stars, pulling your attention to his ever-intense gaze. His chest rises and falls evenly as he regards you fondly. “I’m sure that was a lot.” Sukuna doesn’t often apologize, and you’re fairly sure it’s what he intends when he speaks.
“I liked meeting everyone,” you shake your head, relaxing as you lean back on your splayed palms. “I just wish my friends back home could see.”
“See how well the robes compliment you?” He comments in a smooth tone, although his expression remains unchanged.
You scoff, shaking your head. “The ring. The tattoo. That I’m married. Here, Simuria. All of it, really.”
Sukuna’s fond smirk fades as the moment hangs. The waves washing ashore have an ambient white noise that barely manages to hide his small sigh. “I’m sorry,” he starts, kneeling down to your level in an act that reminds you just how big he is. “But Humanity doesn’t deserve my ange.”
You let out a breath through your nose, offering a lopsided smile. “Thanks, baby.”
It took him a moment to get used to that nickname, but now he fondly chuffs. “But,” he tacks on, a little more chipper than you’re accustomed to. “I do have something for you, too.”
“For me? Is that something we were supposed to do?” You worry. “Oh god, I didn’t get you anything– I don’t even know what I would–”
“Always so noisy,” he jeers, growling out what you recognize as a Simurian word for ‘mouthy’ even as he offers his hand to help you to your feet.
“Hey!” You smack him playfully, earning a grin as he casts a glance at you, his gaze dipping down to the portion of your leg that protrudes from your robes as he helps you up.
He’s quiet as he leads the way into your shared home, strings of lights and domed bulbs decorating the walls at your request given that your then-fiancé lived largely in the dark aside from bioluminescence, much like his ship.
It seems to be the Simurian version of when men just put a chair and a TV in a room and call that decorating. Despite living in a cliffside, the rest of the house is well-decorated, just not well lit. It isn’t largely personal by any means, something you hope to change with art and photos, but at least you can say he does have furniture.
When you reach your bedroom, the most expansive room in the house, decorated with plants and a small bug-like creature you found within the dome that you’ve been studying– to Sukuna’s dismay– he reaches within a closet and pulls out a large box. Blinking as you stare down at what you recognize as a device, you slowly approach the box as he sets it atop the bed that you requested he make plush, rather than the conforming stone he was accustomed to. With a glide of his thumb, a hologram comes to light.
“What is it?” You ask your engineer husband, nothing immediately giving it away as the light displays nothing.
“Your species uses frequencies to speak from long distances on Earth, right?”
You straighten, staring at the brute in disbelief as he continues fiddling with the machine. “Sukuna, you didn’t.”
It’s all you can manage as you watch Sukuna fiddle with a dial, tapping his nail along the smooth surface of the machine as he makes calculations to figure out how many parsecs the signal will need to travel and at what speed in order to allow you to speak to your friend in real time. Once he’s finished fiddling with it, he turns back to you like this is just another day, handing you what, effectively, looks like an old phone hooked up to the box.
“You use numbers, right?” He chuffs for the latter portion of the sentence, completely ignoring your slack-jawed expression.
“I don’t– I can’t– You did all of this for–”
“Ange.” He chuffs, nuzzling your nose as he pulls you close. “Dial the number.”
A lump sits at the back of your throat, but no amount of swallowing will rid the feeling as you stare at your husband. Tears prick your eyes as slowly you find yourself needing to set the device down in shaky hands, curling into his chest as warm tears trail your cheeks. “You did this for me?” Your voice is hardly a whisper, frail in its delivery into his chest as your makeup inevitably stains his white robes.
“Obviously,” he clicks in his mother tongue, positive you know the meaning.
“You didn’t have to,” you sniffle, muffled. “I brought a bug into our room and I know you think I’m loud–”
“Human,” he growls, his voice clipped as he pulls back. The ceremonial red makeup streaking across his forehead and nose has smeared with the day’s activities, a sheen of sweat over his skin as he lowers himself to your height, holding your cheeks. “You are loud. You are noisy. And you are my wife. I want you to be those and more.”
“Even the bugs?”
A pair of eyes swivels across the room to the beetle-esque creature in a large glass enclosure. A grumble begins in his chest. “I’m less fond of those,” he admits. “But, yes.”
You smile. Lopsided, but genuine. “At least you’re honest.”
“Put in the number for your friend.”
Given that it’s not common to memorize numbers anymore, you’ve never been more grateful in your entire life that you actually know Shoko’s off the top of your head. Your fingers betray your disbelief by trembling as you turn back to the remote of sorts that he gave you, typing Shoko’s number with no regard for what time it might be. It rings once, twice, three times, and a final fourth before your friend picks up.
“Hello?”
Your voice breaks into something between a sob and a gasp the moment you hear her. She sounds older. There’s a rasp to her voice that betrays the weariness of her trade, but she also sounds well. Not sick. Alive. “Sho?” You breathe her nickname in sheer incredulity.
The shuffling on the other end is immediate, a flurry of static as you can practically imagine her flailing out of whatever chair or bed she was slumped over in. “You’re alive?” More static follows, a distraught shout for someone, then, frantically, “oh my god, I thought you were dead, or– I mean after the cure got here, I just had to assume you had taken the drug and I just– where are you? Can you facetime or something?”
It brings a smile to your face to hear your friend again, tears continuing to silently trail down your face in disbelief as tremors ripple through your muscles like waves. You laugh airily at just how much she sounds like you, her mouth at least ten steps ahead of her brain. Turning to Sukuna, you wipe your tears with the back of your hand. “Sukuna? Is there a way to connect to video?”
Standing idly behind you, his gaze lowers to the glimmer of fresh tear trails, his adam’s apple bobbing as he steps forward. He lowers himself to nuzzle your nose first, undoubtedly wiping tears along his own cheek, before fiddling with the box. “What frequency are your videos run on?”
Shoko is practically vibrating on the other end of the line. “Oh my god, who is that?”
“I don’t think Facetime uses frequencies, I think it’s on like… internet. Or LTE, or something.”
Sukuna hums, though he doesn’t seem confident.
“Google says two point four gHz to five gHz!” Shoko much more helpfully adds on the other side.
“Tell Google that helps,” he gruffs as he fiddles with frequencies until the blank hologram gains static.
There’s a brief silence on the other end as Shoko attempts to process how strange that sentence comes across to someone on Earth, but she doesn’t have time to question it when at last a video is displayed for each of you.
It’s clear when the video connects that life has been harsh in far different ways on each of you. Neither of you are the spry twenty-five year olds finishing up degrees and putting out papers that put you at the top of your fields at young ages. Smile lines adorn the corners of her mouth and her eyes have an ever-lidded look to them that only time and exhaustion could bring about. To your surprise, you recognize another acquaintance in the background in Utahime Iori, Shoko’s biggest crush at the time and a big rock on her ring finger.
A wide smile crosses your face and if she were right in front of you, you would surge forward to hug Shoko. Utahime, too.
Shoko’s gaze flicks around your surroundings as she holds up her phone. “Where the hell are you?” She queries as Sukuna rises from where he was fiddling with the long distance radio, popping into the frame behind you.
“Simuria. It’s gorgeous, and the people are so kind, you would love it here.”
“What’s on your face?”
“Oh–! Right, it’s ceremonial makeup,” you explain as you hold up your ring finger to display both your engagement ring and wedding tattoo. “I got married like two hours ago,” you giggle, bubbly.
The sight has your husband closing in on you, unable to stand so far apart when the very sound of your happiness draws him in like a moth to a flame.
With her jaw already on the floor at the revelation of your marriage, she can hardly contain her next question. “Who is that?” Shoko exclaims again, her image a blur as she nearly drops the phone at the sight of your husband.
“This,” you hold a hand out to the brutish alien, “is my husband. Sukuna, this is Shoko.”
It’s not often that Sukuna greets others in your mother tongue, so as he leans into frame, revealing four arms and four eyes, he simply waves at your gawking friend.
“Nice to meet you!” She starts, before it devolves into that scientific disbelief programmed into her brain. “He’s– I mean–” Shoko shakes her head incredulously as she attempts to make sense of the situation. “Aliens are real,” she mutters to herself. “Not just beetle things, either.”
“I feel like you’re really breezing over the four arms and eyes part here,” Utahime comments, surprisingly calm given the situation. You were never particularly close, but the way she evaluates you both seems to anchor your best friend. “Also hey,” she greets you by name with an easy smile. “We’re married too.”
Before you can even congratulate them as well, Shoko is already continuing, too many things to catch up on in too little time. “Honestly after CRM-12, nothing comes as much of a shock.” It comes as an observation more than any kind of blame as she evaluates your towering husband behind you. When he hums, you note that his more talkative personality may be reserved for you only.
“Congratulations, by the way! Wait– Sho, did the cure get there?”
“THE CURE!” She cries out suddenly. You grin through a laugh as everything hits you both at once, over ten years to catch up on. “Girl, yes. You saved– I don’t know, billions of people. And you didn’t even need to send any of those fuckass beetle things back. The company was pissed at first, but I swear they didn’t actually want a cure.”
“They still spread the cure out though, right?”
“They didn’t have a choice. One of the pods landed with NASA. We got lucky.”
“Thank god. I was worried about that.”
“Wait, speaking of beetles–” The hologram flashes and flutters as Shoko moves about the room, a clicking noise followed by something snapping and at last the camera faces her again. “Look!”
You stare in disbelief at the Stag Beetle on her fingers. Sukuna curiously leans forward.
“There’s no way in hell Spike survived this long.”
“Meet Spike Thirteen!” She grins as the stag’s antennae reach for her phone, its mandibles curiously snapping together.
Barking a laugh, you lean back into Sukuna’s warmth. Under the dim lighting of the strung up bulbs, he relaxes into your touch as he instinctively reaches for your waist. “Thirteen makes way more sense.”
Changing the subject again with so many things she wants to go over, Shoko sets Spike on her shoulder. “Are you able to come visit?”
You knew the question was inevitable. The one you were dreading hearing, for there’s no easy way to say it. “I can’t. We’re about seven years apart. I’d be almost sixty by the time we get home.”
There’s a brief somber silence, but it surprises you when Shoko smiles, genuine and kind. “Home.” She repeats the sentiment. “Never thought you’d find one. I think I’m okay with that, knowing that you found a home.”
Your vagabond tendencies make her sentiment make sense, and a tender smile graces your features as Sukuna’s remaining two hands find your hips, like he’s grounding himself in his own home. “Yeah. I hope you did, too.”
“Yeahh, Hime and I are doing pretty well,” she agrees, mirroring the sentiment that perhaps home can be unconventional. For you, an alien in a dome (and just one little bug in a tank), and for her, a person.
“Good. That makes me happy,” you murmur softly.
Shoko’s lips part and it’s clear she has further questions and ten years’ worth of stories to fill you in on, but she shuts them with a smile. “I should let you enjoy your wedding night.” She sits back, Utahime’s hand barely in frame as it rests on Shoko’s shoulder, opposite Spike Thirteen. “Can we talk again?”
You swivel towards Sukuna for confirmation. He shrugs. “I built it for you. Use it as you wish.”
Your hand finds his, threading your fingers through the thick ones resting on your waist. “Yeah, I’ll talk to you soon, Sho.”
“You too,” she can’t help her grin as the line cuts out.
Leaning back into Sukuna, you bask in the thrill of seeing your closest friend again. It doesn’t quite compare to your old dinner and ice cream outings where you claimed dessert was for your second stomach and nearly threw up when that proved to not be the case, but it’s more than you could ever have expected. The lumbering form of your husband leans down slowly, nuzzling your neck from behind. His hooked nose nudges your chin. “Happy, ange?”
“Than I ever thought I could be,” you murmur, tilting your head as you allow him access to the sensitive skin of your neck. There’s a level of harshness to just how much he grinds his face into your neck, earning a giggle as he pulls you closer with ease.
“My wife deserves nothing less.” His lower arms anchor you to his chest as his upper hands trail delicately along the green accents of your robe. One hand dips between your breasts, resting on the tie around your waist. In Simurian, he mutters, “may I make you mine?” against the warm skin of your neck.
A shiver runs stark up your spine as you nod. He sets the transmitter aside, effortlessly lifting you onto the plush of the bed.
“I don’t know how you ever had sex on those stone beds,” you comment breathily as Sukuna parts your legs with a knee.
“My skin is denser,” he replies between nips and licks at your skin. “You’re weak.”
“Yet you married me.”
“Weak and noisy.”
“Whatever you say,” you hum when his lower palms press your hips into the mattress, his torso slipping between your thighs. It comes as a shock when he’s wet on his abdomen and you’re damn sure you’re not the reason. You instinctively search for the cause to find his stomach maw must be drooling under his own robes, more emotive than your husband is himself.
Eager to feel him, your hands slip to the tie of his robes where he leans over you, pulling one end until they hang loosely from his shoulders, revealing a toothy smile along his stomach. The maw’s grin widens, his tongue slipping from within teeth so jagged one would almost think your husband were a predator, not that he eats rocks. Along with his drooling maw, you discover something far more debauched that you had yet to come across.
Simurians don’t typically wear undergarments during wedding ceremonies given that it’s typical to give oneself to the other following the ceremony, hence why the party left at a reasonable hour.
So why on Earth– or in this case, Simuria– does this man have two massive dicks?
“Why do you have two?” You query in bewilderment as he deftly unties your robes.
His expression twists as he lifts his gaze to you, searching for an explanation to your perplexity in the fact that–
“Why don’t you?”
“Why would I need two?”
He points to his two throbbing dicks, each with a black band around the base. “Two,” he states plainly.
“Yeah, I–” You chuckle at the absurdity of it all. “I see that you have two dicks, Sukuna.” Covering your face as you can’t help laughing, you shake your head from behind your palms. “But why?”
“Twice the pleasure,” he states, letting out a throaty noise that you recognize as Simurian for ‘duh’. “Where’s your second one?”
“I don’t– Humans don’t have a second one, Sukuna!”
He hums, something of a grumble. “We’ll make it work.”
Left staring straight through your husband as he moves on while you’re still caught up on him having two dicks, on top of the fact that he’s almost twice your size, he returns to his musings. His nose trails the length of your neck, nudging your robes aside and kissing along the red dyes used to mark you for the ceremony, leaving new marks in their place.
“Gorgeous,” he clicks and purrs in his mother tongue, slipping his hands beneath the ceremonial garments as he pulls your mind to the present. Slipping your arms from the sleeves, you let your hands run along the tattoos that wrap over his shoulders, reveling in the way his rough skin still seems to get a rise from your touch, goose bumps following your fingers’ trail. Ten feet of alien bulk and a tiny human still brings him to his knees.
You let out a gasp as drool from his stomach drips to your abdomen, trailing down to your thighs, warm and wet. If he wasn’t already obvious with how hard he is, his stomach mouth gives him away entirely.
“You’re soft,” he comments, the words slipping from his lips like an idle thought unintended to be spoken. A large tongue swipes from the bottom of your slit to your clit, the sensation sending shivers up your spine as you breathe in a soft gasp.
The room is already warm with the anticipation of arousal, the musky smell of the night’s earlier activities pungent around you. Your husband drinks in the way your back arches for him when he gets a taste of you, a languid pace to his movements as he crawls further over you in spite of his eagerness. Once he realizes he has something, he’s not quick to let it go. The size difference between you allows him to lap at your entrance with his second mouth while he delves his tongue between your lips. Your fingers curl into his shoulders as your nails leave stark half-moons in their wake.
When he adjusts the way in which he laps at your dripping pussy, the flat of his tongue puts pressure on your clit as you realize that his tongue has a mildly rough texture as though it’s intended for your pleasure. Your back arches once more, separating your kiss. One pair of hands drives your hips further into the mattress, while the other pair steadies your cheeks, allowing him to swallow your moans once more.
It’s downright euphoric the way he uses his tongue to work you to the edge so quickly. You want to chalk it up to being over ten years since you’ve felt this sensation, but the only thing to blame here is him. Not unlike your language, he’s learning your body. Fast.
“Hah- fuck–” You breathe when he finally lets up for air, his chest heaving as you cling to him for purchase. “Don’t stop, Kuna.”
His chest rumbles as he lowers himself to one pair of forearms, continuing to knead the plush of your hips with the other pair. His fingers run along the imperfections of your skin, committing each and every stretch mark, scar, and beauty mark to memory without so much as pulling his gaze from your expression.
He drags his massive tongue slower against your clit, the barbed texture pulling you closer and closer to the edge and leaving you breathless altogether. Blood roars in your ears as he slows his pace to keep you right where he wants you, crimson irises mere rings as his blown pupils watch whimpers pour from your slacked jaw.
“I like you like this,” he murmurs, his nose nudging your cheek where makeup has already smudged. “At my mercy and begging me not to stop.”
“That’s because you have a superiority complex,” you mutter even through the haze, still mouthy at the worst of times.
His tongue pulls back, your head lifting in disappointment just in time to watch his stomach maw nip at your inner thigh. You yelp, clinging tighter to his shoulders as you undoubtedly leave behind marks. “I like you noisy during sex, but not mouthy,” he coyly remarks.
“You’re such a–” You sharply gasp when his tongue returns to your clit with another long drawn out stripe up your slit.
“Don’t be smart,” he chides in Simurian, although he speaks so fast he’s positive you don’t catch it. Your head’s already in the clouds, thrown back into the mattress as you cling to him for purchase when at last he gives you what you want.
Adding to the pressure of his tongue, he finally throws you over the edge with shorter, faster licks. Stars encroach on your vision, your nails digging into his tough skin as he nuzzles your chin affectionately while your body twitches with each jolt of static to your abdomen that could damn well be slowing time and you would never know.
When your vision begins to even out, you shift against your husband, suddenly very aware of just how much drool and cum has collectively pooled between your thighs. Your movement rouses his attention as he lifts his head to inspect you. The bliss lighting up your features has his chest puffing out, that stupid prideful and boastful purr that you’ve grown fond of rumbling his chest.
Your lips part as you catch your breath, pulling him back into your shoulder. He doesn’t protest, nuzzling into you so hard you might think he wanted to live there.
“I love you too, Sukuna.”
He lifts his head, his slanted eyes curiously narrowing. “Is that how humans express partnership?”
You smile as he picks apart your traditions so scientifically. “It’s one way,” you murmur softly, tracing a finger along his cheek. His left eyes flutter shut, only opening when your nails rake through his hair.
He chuffs his approval, returning his attention at last to your body with kisses to your breasts. He shifts you up the bed, spreading your legs over his thighs as he sits between them. His cocks are heavy against your stomach, twitching, and equally slick with his own drool and your cum.
As he leans over you, kissing you once more with ease given his extra height. Two thick digits gather the mix of cum and drool, bringing it to his mouth. He runs his tongue along his lips, bringing his wet fingers down to your core. Regardless of species, he clearly knows better than to try sex without adequately working you open for him. You’re small and he has no intention of hurting his wife.
One finger eases in without any friction, the saliva coating it acting as a natural lubricant. The second is met with little resistance too, and he uses the opportunity to pump them slowly. He moves his fingers not like a human might, but as though he’s searching. Like he knows, biologically, that you derive pleasure from a specific point. And god, does he find it. Your hips buck for him as he locates your g-spot, a devious smirk curling on his lips. Your nails rake down his back with each slow pump of his fingers, your arms trembling as you cling to him.
A third finger swipes up the amalgamation of drool and cum and slowly he slips it in to the first knuckle. He watches your shoulders tense, allowing you to pull him closer until your chests are slick with one anothers’ sweat. Your walls don’t clamp so tightly around his fingers as you adjust and slowly, he slides the third one in to the knuckle.
The stretch of three fingers from your massive husband is immense as-is. You both know he isn’t fitting the second of his dicks in you, but he seems satisfied regardless as he watches your expression with blown pupils.
“Fuck, that feels good,” you breathe as he works you open slowly but surely, picking up the pace until he’s got you damn-near at the edge again.
He hums, pulling his fingers away with a wet squelch just as your nails dig into his skin. “Keep that feeling going for me, ange.”
When he lines himself up with you, a shudder rocks your body. He’s always been big. From this angle, he looks massive and his cocks are no different. The upper cock is heavy as it rests atop your abdomen, leaking pre-cum and coated in saliva all the same, both of you equally a mess. When he pushes in the tip, you suck in a breath, a hand flying to his chest to stop him from pressing in too quickly.
He hisses at how tight you are, the size difference more apparent than ever. Swallowing hard, all four eyes turn their attention to you. “Relax, baby,” he coos, his voice dropping an octave as he uses your preferred pet name for him on you. Anything to allow you to anchor yourself. His gruff attitude flips on a dime, with no intention of causing you anything but pleasure and the knowledge that it’s not only been a long time, but you aren’t the same species.
He wets his thumb with his mouth, bringing it down to your clit to massage small circles into it. Your lashes flutter, the muscles in your arms slackening as the pain of the stretch twists into ecstasy, searing and hot. His body runs so warm that the sensation of him stretching you open all the while warming you up is nothing short of heady and intoxicating. Slowly, he sinks in past the black band around his cock until he reaches the hilt, heavy balls resting against your ass.
Your walls convulse, still short of an orgasm but grappling with his size, until they finally let up and he shifts his hips slightly, testing how you react. You throw your head back in a searing moan as you grab his shoulders again, the kind that rips from straight in your chest and to your surprise, your husband groans in response. “Fuck, that’s it,” he gruffs with a pleasureful lilt to his tone. He’s only ever heard you curse twice, but it seems he got the gist of its meaning quickly.
He pulls out to the tip, his breath hot on your sweat-slicked chest, gliding back in swiftly, though he watches you carefully. When he’s met only with a louder moan and your hands raking down his back, he takes the opportunity to dive in.
His hips rock slow at first, speeding up as he chases both of your highs. He keeps one finger perpetually on your clit, moving in calculated circles in spite of the fact that his hips now snap into you. Moans, pants, and the sound of his balls slapping against your ass fill the air as the scent of sex fills the room.
Your head is too hazy to look, but you’re fairly sure his stomach’s tongue is pleasuring his upper cock, if the feeling of pressure on your abdomen is anything to go off of. It’s like nothing you’ve ever experienced before, and just as his hands ball into fists in the sheets where they rest on either side of your head, both begin twitching. A heavy load of cum fills your pussy and coats your stomach all at once. He doesn’t stop once they begin jerking, chasing your orgasm and riding his own out.
The sensation of his cum filling you is enough to push you over the edge moments later like glass shattering as it rocks your body in ways you’ve never experienced before. You cling to him as your vision goes black, the world around you fading into an afterthought when all you can think of is your massive husband, hunched over and finally having stopped his movement. All four of his arms hold him upright and in one unsteady movement, he lowers himself to his forearms.
Both of your chests heave as you ride the highs, eyes lidded when he nuzzles the crown of your head. “I love you,” he murmurs into your hair, a hint of a question to the statement, as though he isn’t positive that he’s using it correctly.
Through pants, you chuckle at his uncertainty, lifting your hands from his back to the nape of his neck. “I love you too.”
He slowly pulls himself from within you, rolling to the side so as not to crush you. As you come back down, you give yourself a onceover, blinking at the mess along your stomach and thighs and coating the sheets.
“Sukuna, there’s drool everywhere.”
“That’s your fault,” he grumbles, eyes shut as he lays to your left.
“Literally how?”
With no words in your language for the matter, he replies in his mother tongue. “You feel too good.”
You can’t help a smile, but you do take the opportunity to turn and curl into him, coating him in every fluid you’ve shared.
“Mm,” he hums as you intertwine your legs, your head resting on his bicep. “You might be right.”
“Just a little bit.”
“I’ll clean us up,” he murmurs, leaning down to nuzzle the crown of your head. “Just give me one more moment of this.”
–
The tides are low as you sit with your bare feet in the wet sand. The water scarcely reaches your toes, coming up to your husband’s calves as he naps in the sun, a hat laid over his head. He stirs every so often as you read a Simurian romance novel with your legs thrown over him, the written text coming easier to you these days.
The couple in the novel are so young– relative to the species– that it has you feeling wistful for days long past.
“Sukuna?”
You know he’s awake, having recently adjusted his hat. His chest rises and falls in a content sigh before he chuffs.
“What will you do when I’m gone?” You wonder about your husband, a species that mates for life.
He moves lazily as he sits up, hunching over you to parse what you’re reading. When it isn’t of interest to him, he adjusts the hat back over his head to block the sun. “I’ll mourn you.” He stares out across the ocean of the dome he’s grown into a much larger space over the years. “But I’ll celebrate your life, too.”
The thought brings a smile to your face in spite of the somber tone of your conversation. “Will you take care of my bugs?”
“That’s what you’re worried about?”
You shrug. “Yeah, a little.”
He sighs. “Not the ones that sting. I don’t like them.” He wrinkles his nose at the thought of them. “But the rest, yes. I like the ones with extra legs.”
“Yeah, the tarantula-looking ones are pretty cool,” you agree, leaning back into his chest.
His gaze softens as he looks over your features. You’ve aged beautifully over the past several years of marriage, and he knows your reservations about the difference in your species’ lifespans, but he knows something else, too.
Your aging has slowed to a near-halt. At around forty in Human years, your body stopped showing the signs of age that you so often describe. He’s more than positive that you haven’t noticed, but every minute change in your features is something he categorizes mentally.
It was never on purpose, but by the will of some God, whether Human or Simurian, his injected cells have slowed your aging. He isn’t sure if he’s gained a lifetime with you, or simply a few more years, but he considers the action the sort of thing you might call star-crossed. Like the gene therapy that saved your life acted as a string of fate too, bonding you together not just for your life, but several Human lifetimes.
One pair of arms holds him up as he leans back on them, the other pair sliding around your waist as he pulls you closer, the feeling of your bare skin familiar and comforting to the lumbering man. His fingers curl into your skin as he watches you happily turn a page, content with his reply. His gaze lingers on the ink on your ring finger that matches his.
However many lifetimes it may be that you’re blessed with, he knows he’ll cherish each and every one.
☾⋆ a/n ; okay so i watched phm and between that, iron lung, and alien earth, i got alien sukuna brainworms. i didn't anticipate it being like 38k 💀 i hope you enjoyed though!! this one was a lot of fun and i'm proud of how it turned out. you may also notice a difference between the tumblr and ao3/wattpad versions of this fic which is because i found tumblr's post limit (1000 paragraphs) and had to do some quick combining/editing. forgive me for any strange pacing on this piece in the tumblr version <3
i also wanna take the time to thank you all for the patience while i deal with some medical issues, i promise my regular series should be coming back soon <33
☾⋆ taglist ; @lilrosyhaven @tiny-mimi @grimm3r @yujisredkicks @knittybritty98 @sukunahs @saezzi @epicderpface @ynishalee @pandabiene5115 @silibiliballs @ane5e @feyrinnn @jkslvsnella @maomimii @megumuro @beereadzzz @sukunas-one-n-only-peach @beaniesayshi @ryomeowie @suguusatoo
Suguru Geto is your bully, your boss, and now your...baby daddy?
pairings: baby daddy!Geto x f!reader x coworker!Nanami
content: MDNI, angst and fluff and smut, coworker AU, rivals-to-coparents, toxic relationship dynamics, bullying, Geto and reader HATE each other (for now), unplanned pregnancy, hidden baby trope (sorta), hatefucking, piv sex, oral (m! receiving), reader is incredibly petty, descriptions of pregnancy symptoms, more tags to be added
art creds: @/Bom61487782 on x for suguru + @/Neconi_o0 for nanami I believe !!
chapter index
plucked | branching out | broken twigs | picking petals
thorns | deadheading | weeds | ripping out the roots
yours, mine, his | briar | in bloom | trimming
drenched | shovel | overgrown garden | cut down
new seeds | rot | sprout | blossom
taglist is currently closed but you can turn on notifications for all writing updates here -> @indiesupdates
❝ in space, no one can hear you scream. they can't hear you wake up alone in a hunk of space junk against your will. they can't hear your ship get engulfed by a much larger and very alien one.
and they certainly can't hear you fall in love with the four-armed grumpy alien you meet while you're trapped within your own ship. ❞
☾⋆ cw ; mdni, 18+ only. strangers to lovers. slow burn. hurt/comfort. angst. fluff. smut. depictions of [likely inaccurate] science experiments. medical discussions. needles. illness. reader and sukuna can't exist in the same atmosphere. they're both huge nerds. bug discussions. mild violence. pet names [human, ange, baby]. trueform!sukuna. piv. inter-species sex. fingering. oral [f! receiving]. monsterfucking. sukuna has 2 dicks. size difference. biting. manhandling. licking. spitting/drool.
inspired heavily by project hail mary/iron lung/alien earth. mild modulo spoilers. sukuna is simurian. changed simurian lore.
☾⋆ wc ; 37.9k.
wattpad || ao3 || main masterlist
Your lashes flutter, eyes opening to sterile, controlled lighting. Lifting an arm feels like a hurdle to overcome when your muscles behave far more like limp pasta than something meant to support a full biological system. After your arm protests the very concept of movement, you flex your fingers, adjusting to the harsh whites of your surroundings.
“Movement detected.”
Blinking hard, you slowly take in your surroundings, expecting a hospital bay, only to be met with smooth white surfaces that tell a different story. Space.
It hits you like a truck and by sheer force of will, you lift an arm to your head, expecting some sort of blunt force trauma. That you must be seeing things. Rubbing your temples makes you aware of several tubes all connected to a tight white suit clinging to your skin. As you begin tugging on the tubes, many release with a hiss while others simply come loose without fanfare.
“Crew aboard: one member. Arrival imminent.”
You have to be dreaming. Hallucinating. Something.
Managing to weakly push to your feet, you stumble through the halls of the ship on a weak gait. It’s a small vessel, with a science bay through a sealing door just outside the medical bay where you awoke, four bunks and a washroom in what you assume is sleeping quarters, and the bridge itself. It’s small, but clearly designed for more than one crew member. Your heart drops at the thought, because that’s when it truly comes flooding back.
Your work. The project. The disease. The creature.
Several pieces of the same puzzle, but each one troubling in its own right.
Still groggy from the induced coma, you force yourself to take a seat in the hall, grateful for what you can only assume is artificial gravity. You might have been sick if you had awoken in zero gravity.
Taking a breath as you sit in the center of a large octagonal hall, you force yourself to breathe. Long breaths, drawing each one out in an effort to keep yourself from boiling over when memories of the very thing that put you here feel fresh in spite of your ten year induced coma. It shouldn’t be you here. You, some entomologist they found online for a paper suggesting beetles are smarter than people think.
You weren’t even really good with people. Just bugs. You spent most of your time alone with your stag beetles, attempting to bring out the very intelligence you’d written about. You never minded being alone. Maybe it’s sad that you spoke to the beetles, but they kept you company in their own way. Yet here you are now, onboard a space ship by sheer coincidence, if it can even be called that. And it’s not the loneliness you fear.
No, you’re content to grab a marker and draw a face on one of the many white walls, call it ‘Wilson’ and name yourself the next Tom Hanks, even if your acting credits are undeserving.
What scares you is the narrow hallways holding you hostage in a vacuum. Once you reach the supposed ‘destination’ that the ship’s programmed voice spoke of being imminent, gravity will cut out. The ship will rely on your ability to navigate yourself through its halls and hell, even navigate the damn hunk of metal through space yourself to send the mission target back. You’re a fucking entomologist. A bug scientist. What the hell are they hoping for from you?
With a sharp inhale, you push back up to your feet, navigating through the cramped hall until you reach the bridge. There are a number of screens and what feel like countless buttons and switches, all labeled with tape. You suppose that’s meant to be for your convenience given that you’re no pilot, but the amount of labels is a textbook in and of itself. Frustrating.
Slipping past the second of two chairs on the bridge, your eyes are glued to the first window you’ve seen. Your lips part as the marvel of space itself comes into view when you slip into the nook by the window.
It’s beautiful. Stunning. It’s full of twinkling stars and the far more consistent shine of distant planets. There’s debris of various different kinds of space rock meandering endlessly through a void. There’s a gorgeous mildly yellow-green planet not too far away with pink and blue accents. Its surface is probably unlike everything you’ve ever seen.
Seeing a planet from space is another kind of beast. Space travel is relatively new to humanity as far as the general public is aware, and you certainly never envisioned yourself aboard a spacecraft. In another world, under other circumstances, it might even be a dream.
The nearest sun has you staring down at your fingers, wondering if the faint heat you feel might be from its rays or if you’re imagining things already, hardly a few minutes into your trip. That is, if you don’t count the several years in which you were in an induced coma.
Flexing your fingers again as you stare at them, it’s not until a shadow takes away the sun’s distant rays, that you notice something incoming quickly. Your eyes widen at the sight of a ship, alien in appearance. Long, slender, dark grays in sharp and jagged angles all come together to build a ship that makes yours look not entirely unlike the very bugs you study. Very, very small. Insignificant.
“Oh shit,” you gasp in wide-eyed disbelief as something straight out of a sci-fi movie moves in a line straight towards you. “Oh shit” you gasp again, racing to push yourself to your feet and clamber for the pilot’s chair as though the labels will push you into action. Paralyzed on the chair, the most you can do is skim each word in hopes that one might magically say ‘turn one hundred and eighty degrees and get the hell away from the giant evil-looking alien spaceship’.
Unfortunately, you never find that button. With your hands hovering over the controls, you find yourself watching in horror as you’re swallowed whole by the other spacecraft. “Oh shit.”
Your ship is harshly jostled as all of a sudden the hull drops like a stone onto something hard and metal, screeching as it slides across what you can only assume is a bay of the other ship as you stare into the darkened corridor of the inside of an alien spacecraft. You grip the chair for purchase in an effort not to get thrown aside while your ship blares warning and lights flicker.
“Oh shit,” you breathe when the lights outside your ship flick on and flood the bridge with the harsh lighting of a warehouse. There doesn’t seem to be any other ships aboard if this is a bay or hangar, but it certainly looks like one… Though you suppose you’re basing that off of movie knowledge, which is probably stupid. Especially for a scientist at the top of your field.
Slowly descending from your chair, you approach the window in awe, staring out into the metal box. It’s largely human, with pipes running up the walls and across the ceiling, lights in long bulbs overhead and lower lighting from small circular vent-like structures. The structure seems rougher than the smooth metals of your ship, almost as though it’s made of an unpolished mineral, with a luster that dictates something akin to quartz or obsidian, but it’s slightly off. The only thing inhuman about the entire thing is the text. It’s not entirely unfamiliar, the sort of thing that you wager you could decipher in time, but when you spot movement at the far bay, you figure time isn’t exactly on your side.
What a way to wake up after ten years.
The alien figure that approaches your ship isn’t human. But… they aren’t inhuman either. You know they aren’t human, with an extra pair of limbs attached to their upper torso and an extra pair of eyes aboard a plate of some sort on the right side of their face, but otherwise the only thing inhuman about them is their massive size, standing at what must be ten feet tall.
A tight shirt clings to their upper torso, some sort of spacesuit loosely draped from their torso in an off-pink that matches their short hair. Markings line their jaw, coming up just beneath their eyes not unlike tattoos, though you can’t be sure whether or not that’s what they are. The most inhuman feature of all, however, is the blood red gaze they fix your ship with as they walk in an even, calm stride towards the door.
A creature with a calm like this is one that knows it’s powerful. It’s the type of confidence befitting of someone who far outclasses everything they’ve ever come across and doesn’t fear the beyond like you do. “Oh shit!”
It’s just about the only words you can manage as you clumsily navigate towards the small porthole of the door where the alien has deduced they may find you. Peering out the small circular window, you can only pray you aren’t about to be probed or something similar.
When the alien approaches your ship with some sort of technology in-hand, you tap on the glass to get their attention. The large alien’s head rises, their brow lowering to a scowl of sorts as they examine you. This close, they look startlingly like a human man. Like the kind of man you might see in a gladiator movie given his sheer size and musculature, sure, but human enough to reason with. He speaks some sort of language, but you can’t understand a word he utters.
The language is a mix of huffs, growls, clicks, and what you would otherwise consider sounds not unlike the languages found on earth. Between each noise that reminds you vaguely of an echolocation sort of noise is a very human syllable. If you were to put the syllables together without the clicking, you might even get something akin to human vocabulary.
By all accounts, this is an intimidating encounter. His gaze is sharp, almost grating in looks alone. His pupils have rings surrounding them that give him a formidable appearance. His mother tongue is so different from any language you’ve ever encountered– human or animal– that the only thing you even can compare it to are films. Some part of you is wired to expect a Xenomorph to uncurl from wires and silently drop to the ground, acidic saliva dripping from its mouth, and yet the man remains still, awaiting your reply before he answers in kind.
Maybe it’s your poor instinct for danger, but you’re far more intrigued than you are concerned.
“Uh– Hello!” You attempt to reply in an effort to keep the peace, further perplexing the alien whose eyes narrow. Your heart pounds behind your rib cage as you give your best effort to not get eaten. Or examined. Or whatever this species does. “I come in peace!” You offer, making a peace sign through the door with a wide grin.
His gaze slides to your hand, his deduction of the action clear in the way his narrowed eyes regard the action. He frowns like you’ve caused him an inconvenience, gliding his finger along the device in his hand briefly as he looks away. You almost wish he was more animalistic. You’re a better read on animal behaviour than human.
“Okay, um– hold on!” You hold up one finger, clumsily dashing back through the ship to the science bay. You grab a white board and marker, making your way back to the porthole. The four-armed alien is tapping on what you assume to be the screen of the device he brought with him, though his attention returns to you once you reappear. You draw a circle and the general outline of the continents, presenting the image to him. “I’m a human. From Earth,” you say, pointing to your drawing.
The alien’s gaze lowers to your drawing, then he taps on the screen of his device, growing more frustrated by the moment. When the device doesn’t seem to give him the results he wishes for, his shoulders visibly fall in frustration as he faces you again. His gaze fixes the drawing, then you once more.
When he doesn't reply, you quickly erase the drawing of earth, and draw something that might be more familiar. You draw the very thing you’re here in search of as clearly as you can from memory.
CRM-12. A creature so foreign, the scientists never even gave it a name. Beetle-like in appearance in spite of its size, which begged your attention, one of the heads in entomology. A creature intelligent beyond any credit they were willing to give it, treating it as lesser than even rodents. It was no more than an experiment, and your reason for being in the middle of uncharted space.
You present the drawing of the creature, a metallic brown beetle with accents that resemble an oil spill, iridescent pinks visible in the sun. Its eyes, however, are completely unlike any insect. Cat-like, they follow movement like the eyes of a higher being. Like they know. You hope that comes across in a crude drawing with a black marker.
The alien looks at the drawing you present, seeming to recognize it. He stares at you and chuffs, almost like a tiger, followed by a syllable unrecognizable to you.
“You know it?” Your brows raise eagerly at the reaction that you’re fairly sure is a yes given the way big cats so often use the first portion of the sound.
Another chuff in reply, then the syllable. You can work with that. The recognition in his gaze tells you that it isn’t a no, which means you’re communicating, even if it’s preschool-level communication. Even if he seems frustrated by the whole ordeal. Or maybe by you. Or the device. You really can’t say.
“Oh my god, you know it? I’m looking for it!” You point with a grin, intrigued by the alien life that seems to be as advanced, if not more than humanity.
He watches your eager movements with hooded eyes, all four following the way your body almost seems ahead of your mind as you attempt communication. In a far more languid movement, he lifts an arm, simply tapping once on the door as he stares at you, awaiting.
You purse your lips, fairly confident you understand. “Oh– I can’t leave my ship,” you glance down at the door’s handle. “Um– hold on.” You raise one finger again, drawing another picture on your whiteboard. This time, you present the alien species with a poorly drawn version of your ship, an ‘X’, and a stick figure of you, with your tongue out and an ‘X’ for either eye. “I would die in your atmosphere. I mean, probably. I guess I don’t know.”
One of his brows raises at the crude demonstration before he looks you up and down once through the porthole. He huffs, something of disbelief or maybe annoyance, before looking around the bay. He replicates your motion, raising one finger in a ‘hold on’ type of manner, disappearing for a minute. When he returns after a few moments, he lifts a lower arm to present to you a new device. From the device comes a hologram far more advanced than anything earth has managed thus far.
Your eyes widen at the sight of the very beetle-like species you’re here for. You nod, giving a thumbs up. “Yes! Yes, that’s it!” You loudly proclaim with a grin.
He recoils, though you can’t quite place why. He watches your reactions, the smile, the thumbs’ up, the nod, and chuffs in reply. Alright, communication.
“Hey, um, there’s–” You stammer over words, before giving your signal for ‘hold on’. Quickly and crudely attempting to draw your best version of the window by the bridge. You hold it up to the person opposite you, pointing in the general direction of the much larger window across the ship.
His sharp gaze follows the direction you point, his head moving in that direction altogether, before chuffing and surprisingly disappearing. You blink, before quickly moving in that direction as well, cables and tubing still drifting listlessly behind your clothing from when you awoke. You stare down briefly at the ordeal, at the mess you’re sure you look, and figure that’s a problem for when an alien isn’t staring you down.
You’re just grateful he isn’t looking at you in the same way humanity looked at that beetle. That stupid, god forsaken alien beetle. Even if he does seem a bit annoyed with you.
Dragging the cables along with you, you slip past the chairs in the bridge to the larger window where your new alien peer is curiously examining the circuitry within the bridge. “This is the bridge,” you explain, pointing behind you. “For the captain.” You turn to face him again, unsure if he understands a word you’re saying, but the need to fill the air is unfortunately at the forefront of your mind. Slipping into the nook of the window, you watch as his crimson gaze tracks your movements, dropping to the cables that he examines for a moment. “These are just cables,” you explain, holding them up.
He grunts through a deadpan expression as though he has that figured out already, and it’s at this moment that you realize how grateful you are that there’s an atmosphere at all in his ship right now to carry either of your voices so that you can communicate. The entire thing is fascinating beyond any kind of entomology you’ve ever been witness to. Of course, you’d have an easier time grasping his behaviour if he were a bug, but you suppose you didn’t get much of a good understanding of CRM-12’s behaviour anyway in light of the events that took place with the species on Earth.
CRM-12. The thought makes you wonder. “Do you have a name?” You glance down at the whiteboard, but you aren’t sure how much it’ll help. “A, uh–” You point to yourself, stating your name, then to him. “What’s your name?”
He straightens, and in a very alien language gives you a series of growls and hisses, along with a series of somewhat more human-sounding syllables. You attempt to replicate the sound, you really do. The problem is that your vocal chords simply can’t shape the same noises that his can. He frowns as you can’t reach one of the clicks in your vocal range, and surprisingly offers something more familiar.
“Sukuna.”
Your lips purse as you stare out the window at him. It’s shockingly close to the syllables that sit intermittently between the clicks and growls in his name, like his language might not be as far off as you originally hypothesized.
“Human.” He adds, then replicates your name, shockingly nearly perfect.
“Yeah!” You agree with a grin. “That’s my name. I’m human.”
“My name,” he forms the words, copying them in his deep baritone voice. It sounds somewhat foreign after you’ve heard primarily chuffs and hums, but he doesn’t struggle to form the words. They’re clipped, like his tone isn’t intentional and there’s a rasp to his words like his throat wants to add the clicking to the words, but doesn’t.
You have an itch to write and document everything you can, but your lab is a few light years away and your journal is… yet to be found, since you awoke. You do what you can to catalogue every detail for later in your mind.
“Okay, okay.” Beyond interested and excited by the ordeal, you make a wild motion with both arms towards– well– everything. “This is my ship.”
Sukuna’s gaze lifts to the exterior of the ship, then returns to you. An upper arm lifts, muscle that’s inherently humanoid rippling beneath what looks to be something similar to a performance long sleeve clinging to his arm. He taps twice on the window. “Ship.” Then directly in front of you. “Your ship.”
“Yeah,” you breathe in disbelief. “Is this your ship?”
He points back, chuffing. “My ship.”
The velocity of his ability to learn is stunning. In fact, you would wager a bet that not only is he so far advanced that he outclasses Humanity by miles, you would be willing to be there’s more to it than that. The scowls, the grimaces, the huffs. Could he be annoyed that you’re not capable of picking up his language? “Are you–” you point to him, then the chair behind you, “the captain?”
His gaze examines you as you point towards the seat on the bridge behind you. Understanding your gist, he chuffs.
“Holy shit,” your breath. Looking eagerly past him into the rest of the hangar bay, you press your hands to the window. He straightens, taking a step back as he stares at you with a raised chin. “Where are the rest of you? Do you have a crew? Do you have scientists?”
He growls, but it doesn’t appear to be a warning. Your limited knowledge of his language tells you it may just be a vocalization that’s within his language, but you can’t say for sure. You can’t be sure whether he’s answering in his own language or simply frustrated with your onslaught of questions. Maybe both.
“Are you alone?” You offer the option. “Just you?” You point.
To that, he straightens slightly, his gaze dropping as he evaluates your stature. He must determine you aren’t a threat, because he finally replies with a chuff. “Alone. Just Sukuna.”
It’s unbelievable, truly. It’s not the fact that there’s other intelligent life that baffles and equally excites you, but the fact that not only does he seem to be far more advanced, but it’s clear you’re both studying one another’s behavior. More interestingly, he’s making sense of your language so quickly without so much as forgetting a word that you’re fairly sure his species can outdo humanity’s feats in an evening. You watch him pick up words before you’ve even used it in much more than a sentence to yourself. He adjusts so quickly that it has you questioning everything you know about life outside of Earth. About life on Earth. About behavior, intelligence, and everything you’ve studied so hard when it comes to entomology.
Much of the… day? Is spent going back and forth, focusing primarily on language using the whiteboard, and you’re surprised to find Sukuna doesn’t just keep up, but clearly surpasses your intelligence. He’s offput by noise and moves at a much slower pace that gives you the impression that he wouldn’t know the expression ‘life is short’. You wonder how many years he’s wandered the universe.
He primarily listens and learns, letting you yap about tenses and grammar with little more than an aloof frown. He rarely inquires, but as his knowledge grows, he becomes more at ease. The rigidity in his upper and lower shoulders releases, and his expression shifts from one of skepticism to intrigue. Before you can inquire about his species or language, however, your ship comes online. With a robotic timbre, an announcement comes across the speakers. “Please report to the lab for documentation.”
You stare back into the ship for a moment before facing your new companion. “I need to go make a report,” you explain. “The humans back on Earth want a video of how things are going.”
You can’t be sure how much of that he understands given that he’s largely a closed book, but he chuffs his general understanding.
“Do you… sleep?” You make a motion of sleeping. “Or eat?” And point to your mouth.
The mere suggestion has him yawning, revealing primordial fangs behind his lips. He doesn’t grace you with a reply otherwise.
In a series of clicks and hisses, he says something you’re unable to translate and turns on his heel. Your best assumption is that he’s wished you a goodnight, so you opt to do the same. “Goodnight, Sukuna!” You call loudly from your side of the glass.
He tilts his head slightly, then shakes it, but doesn’t look back.
You watch the spot where he disappeared for a long moment. In the barren bay, the lights click as one by one they shut off until you’re left with only the ambient light of the interior of your own ship. Stepping back from the glass, you blink to yourself. He’s unlike anything you could have imagined when it came to aliens. It’s not like you haven’t met one, given that your assignment on Earth was studying CRM-12 and your assignment now is simply to retrieve more of them, and while you know even that creature’s intelligence was largely underestimated, you never imagined another planet like Earth could exist.
Maybe the atmosphere doesn’t match your own. Maybe there’s no oxygen. Maybe his planet is overruled by dinosaurs. You wouldn’t know. But somewhere out there is a planet with architecture and entire civilizations that you don’t know the first thing about.
As you make your way to the lab, a small camera prepped for you to record, you swear you’re still jittery with excitement. The scientist that swims in your veins can’t wait for tomorrow to come, ignoring every natural instinct to exercise caution. You don’t see yourself sleeping well in spite of the fact that your body remains heavy with the weight of several induced years of sleep.
Without thinking twice, you flip the camera’s screen to look back at yourself and begin recording. You recount your ship being engulfed, describe Sukuna, and explain your findings in largely scientific terminology.
“I know he’s not what I’m here for, but– This could be… I mean…” You shake your head. “I’m not giving up on this research,” you steel yourself, staring into the camera. Chewing on your lower lip, you reach for the camera, shutting the screen and effectively stopping the recording without signing off.
You take the extra time in the evening to put yourself back together. You’re not trained for space, or even for the use of this vessel as a whole, but you track down a sponge bath and washroom, before finally managing to find a small compartment with your belongings.
Dragging the compartment out from the netted area in which it resides, you open it slowly. Within are some clothes– some your own, most provided by the company responsible for your launch– along with a few general sanitary items. It’s largely impersonal, which you suppose you expected. Having prepared for this, you reach into the pocket of a hoodie and pull out the one thing you hoped to keep with you.
You breathe out a sigh of relief, unfolding a photo. The lines through the center block out only a modicum of the happiness held within it, but at its core it’s everything you wanted to hold onto. You’re holding the camera with a huge grin, an Extatosoma Tiaratum, a large stick insect, climbs along your shoulder, and your beloved Lucanus Elaphus, an Elk Stag Beetle, is in your hand. To your left is your best friend Shoko and her German Shepherd puppy, a month after she adopted him. She’s holding him like her pride and joy in spite of the fact that throughout her entire veterinary medicine degree, she swore she’d stick to an animal with less genetically pre-disposed health problems.
You had just gotten back from a research trip back then and were meeting her pup for the first time while she cared for your bugs while you were away.
It’s strange to think that she’s ten years older now. Your bugs are surely dead, and Shoko hasn’t seen you in over ten years. Your heart pangs as you pull the familiar hoodie on over your head and tuck the photo back in your pocket as you make your way back to the bed that didn’t exactly do wonders for your neck as you make way for the second day in uncharted territory.
–
The morning greets you in the same way it did yesterday. Cold, sterile, and controlled. The white lights flick on without asking, deciding your schedule before you ever do. You blink away the sleep in your eyes, grabbing a dehydrated granola bar sort of thing to bring with you to the bridge as you dress yourself in white pants and your own hoodie.
Sukuna still isn’t there when you arrive at the bridge, so you do the only thing you really can do in the enclosed ship bay. You come prepared this time, with a model of your ship, your whiteboard, some snacks, water, and a journal and pen to note your findings. Not necessarily for humanity’s sake, but out of habit, for you. With everything spread out around you, you reach into your pocket, pulling out your photo with Shoko. Your thumb smooths along the fold lines before you set it off to the side in front of you. Then as you would on any other day, you note your findings with small drawings in the column of your journal.
After a short wait, the bay’s lights flick on one after another with a metallic clang as each one begins pulling electricity to the large hangar. Sukuna has also come more prepared, with another new device in one of his many hands and what looks to be a spacesuit draped over another arm. He’s wearing much the same top in a slightly deeper tone of gray and baggy pants this time around, with that same overall neutral expression on his face.
Neutral is generous, given how grumpy he looks in human terms. Given how grumpy he is. Maybe it’s just his species, you can’t be sure, but he gives you the impression you frustrate him.
You perk up at the sight of him regardless as he approaches in the direction of the door’s porthole, changing his stride when he spots you at the window.
He clicks and grunts, which you assume is a greeting of sorts.
“Hi, Sukuna! Did you sleep good?”
He doesn’t beat around the bush. “Sleep bad.”
“Oh. Why?”
He approaches the window, dropping the suit on his arm into a pile on the floor. “Human loud,” he states, pointing accusingly at you with a finger to the window.
“Me? This ship is huge, there’s no way you heard me. I don’t even snore!” You pout first, but your mind doesn’t give you the time to be offended as something occurs to you. “Wait, is your hearing really good?” You ask, pointing to your ear.
He chuffs. “You loud.” He makes a motion to his chest, demonstratively inhaling and exhaling in kind. “Like that.”
“Oh my god, you could hear me breathing across the ship?” You instinctively bring up your fancy space pen and journal, scribbling down messy notes as your mouth gets a few steps ahead of your brain. “Wait, but the ship is on. I can’t be louder than like– Is your engine not loud? Or the life support systems? You must breathe some sort of gas or–”
He huffs, tapping the glass with a subsequent growl. Much like yesterday, it’s not a warning but something entirely else. “Ship my design. No sound.”
“No sound? Your design?” You gawk, sitting down at the window. Sukuna follows suit opposite you behind the glass. His movements are heavier in nature and far more languid, one corded muscular arm keeping him upright as he takes a seat. In spite of his constant aloof expression, you note that he does still seem intrigued. “Wait– oh my god, are you an engineer?”
He shifts his jaw, eyes narrowing thoughtfully as he attempts to use context clues to put the word engineer into place in his mental dictionary. He says something in his own language, reaching for the device he used yesterday to show you a hologram of CRM-12. This time, he flicks it on into some sort of 2D image, a screen of sorts. In concise, easy strokes, he pulls up a blueprint of his ship. “Engineer?” He queries, confirming the term.
“Yeah,” you breathe in disbelief. “Yeah, you’re definitely an engineer. Holy shit,” you laugh, tone wrought with disbelief. “The photo you showed me with that yesterday, the uh– beetle species?”
His gaze narrows and he grunts, almost a low growl.
“Um–” you lower your gaze to your whiteboard, drawing a quick sketch of CRM-12 again, writing its name beside the image. “This guy.”
The confusion rife across his features dissolves as he chuffs. “Kerm.”
“Kerm?” You blink, unsure where this word has come from.
He points to ‘CRM-12’ like it’s the most obvious thing he’s ever pointed out, blatantly frowning. “Kerm one two.”
You laugh, airy and light, grinning. “Yeah, Kerm. Yeah, okay. Kerm. Um, you’re looking for them too, does that mean you’re a scientist too? Like, um–” setting the whiteboard aside, you tap your fingers listlessly along your thigh. “You study life and elements? And learn about creatures?”
That clicks with him and he chuffs again.
“Holy shit,” you practically bound to your feet, quickly sitting back down at the revelation with a multitude of further questions.
Sukuna’s brow tents as he watches, disdain dripping from his expression as though you’ve offended him in your bout of excitement when he shuffles back slightly. He leans back on one arm, the other three held as though you might present a threat to him. Still, he remains silent.
“Wait, so you’re the captain, engineer, and a scientist? Oh my god, that’s incredible. Human life is so short we could never even dream of studying all three things and exploring space.” You don’t even pause as your thoughts simply spill from your lips. “You must be able to live so much longer than us. Or maybe you’re just that much smarter. Wait–” Your hand presses to the glass. “Where are you from? What planet–”
“Human.”
“–are you from? How long are your years? How old are you?”
“Human.” Sukuna’s hand presses to the glass with a jarring bang as he leans over you in spite of the barrier, the size difference growing apparent. His voice booms, stopping your endless trail of words in their tracks. Once he has your silence, Sukuna proceeds to click and growl in a series you’ve heard once before, though you now recognize it as displeasure.
It doesn’t take an understanding of his language to put together that he’s calling you ‘too much’. He’s telling you you’re annoying.
Your cheeks heat up and you take the opportunity to sit back, sucking in a breath.
Sukuna’s hand peels from the glass, his prints remaining in the spot where it was. He sits back with a loud huff, rubbing at his temple with one hand as he leans back on another. “Planet is–” he states the name in his language first, then pauses to think before providing something you understand. Removing the noises between the syllables, he lands on a simple name. “Simuria,” he starts, choosing one of your questions and going with it. “Age–” he glances down at the hologram, waving his hand through it to erase the blueprint. He makes ten markings through it like a whiteboard, then clicks, his word for ‘ten’.
“Ten,” you nod your understanding.
He points at the markings. “Ten tens.”
“One hundred,” you nod your understanding.
“Ten one hundreds.”
Your lips part. “One thousand?”
He chuffs, staring blankly at you.
“You’re over one thousand years old?” Your disbelief is palpable as your jaw hangs slightly ajar, taking in the details of his face and overall physique. He looks to be in his late thirties or early forties, but if there’s one thing you’ve learned in your time interacting with aliens, it’s that you don’t know the first thing about them.
He chuffs again, like it’s plain to see and his age is obvious. “How old you?”
“Um, three tens,” you hold up three fingers. “And a five,” you demonstrate the next number. “But I, uh, spent the last ten years sleeping to get here,” you offer a tight-lipped smile. His eyes narrow as he attempts to decipher the emotion written across your face, but you train your expression back to neutral before he can. “We only live to be about nine tens, though.”
“Nine tens?” He recoils at the mere thought. “Weak.”
You let out an airy laugh. “Weak, yeah. Humans tend to be.”
“Three thousands. Or more.”
“You can live three thousand years?” Once again caught up in the sheer difference in time you’ve both experienced, you’re forced to sit back, leaning on your arms. “Holy shit.”
That’s not even beginning to touch on the fact that his planet’s years could also be longer than Earth’s.
Sukuna has come to recognize your exclamations as disbelief and puffs out his chest. You can’t be sure whether it’s pride or a sort of bragging right he holds over your head, but it’s heartwarming to bond with someone so similar, and yet so different.
“Where your crew?”
“Oh–” You push a hand over your neck, staring back into the ship. “No crew. Just me. Just a scientist. I’m an entomologist. I study bugs.”
His brow dips as he attempts to put together what he understands based on your statements. “No captain?”
“No. No captain,” you reply coolly, the most calm he notes you’ve been since arrival.
“Captain?” He points to the photo of you and Shoko as he peers closer.
“No, that’s my friend Shoko. Another human, on Earth. And these are my bugs. I’m a bug scientist.” You point to the beetle.
“You study bugs?”
“Yeah!” You grin, followed by the familiar feeling of information running through your brain as your most passionate subject arises. “There are thousands and thousands of them on earth. Like, a thousand thousands. More than that. We’ve barely scratched the surface of what we know about them!” You pridefully explain.
“Scratched the surface?”
“Like, we barely know anything about them. So I study them to learn more.”
Leaning back on one pair of arms, he crosses the other pair over his chest, fixing you with a perplexed expression as he clicks and chirps out a word, followed by ‘human’.
You smirk, lopsided but wholehearted. It’s yet another of those familiar moments where you recognize the word from context alone. Weird human, he called you.
“Do you not like bugs?”
“Bugs on Simuria big.”
“They’re big? How big?”
He tilts his head to either side, casting a quick glance off to the side as some sort of debris hits the hull of the ship. His gaze returns to you, unbothered otherwise by the noise. “Big like that,” he presses his finger to the glass separating you.
Following the direction in which he points, you whirl around to find he’s pointing to a duffel bag of sorts. “Oh, we have some like that. Most are smaller though,” you explain as you turn back. “These two are my friends, like Shoko. That’s Spike,” you point to the stag, “and Stipple,” you point to the spiny stick insect.
“Stipple like Simuria bugs.”
“Really?” Your eyes widen, filled with wonder, and Sukuna’s head tilts as he lets out a pleased chuff. The revelation only brings up more questions. “Simuria,” you breathe the word like something sacred. Were the circumstances of your trip to reach CRM-12 any different, you might even be racing to document this beyond messy scribbles in a journal. “Do you all have four arms and eyes?”
Sukuna follows your gaze before he growls, which you take as a no.
“Is it based on region? Or– oh, maybe modification or–”
Sukuna huffs loudly, staring intently at you. “Human weak and loud.”
Ah– insults. The default when you’re bothering him or going too fast. “Sorry Sukuna,” you laugh, still lighthearted and chirpy in spite of his grumpy demeanor.
“Simurians all different,” he explains, waving his hand through the hologram still sitting off to the side to erase it. He draws a stick figure of sorts with horns and an eye on its forehead, then another with a tail that seems prehensile from what you can tell, like a monkey.
“All different? So, it’s not based on regions?”
He growls, confirming your thoughts. “I need four arms for science and making ship,” he points broadly around him.
You blink in complete and utter disbelief, the buzzing of the bay lights audible even over the gears turning in your mind. “So you… grew two extra arms? Like, your body made them yourself?”
He chuffs, pleased once again by your disbelief with a hint of what you might call a smile. You’re coming to notice that he seems to like that. He enjoys praise, even if it’s of his species rather than himself. He enjoys being above you in any way he can. It’s probably one of the most human things about him, in a roundabout sort of way.
“That’s incredible,” you shake your head regardless, watching as he puffs his chest out again, his chin tilted up. You can’t help a smile at the sight of him, the boyish pride on his face is something of a marvel. “What other adaptations do you have?”
He considers this for a moment, before running a hand through his hair and presenting a second ear hidden under pink strands over his humanoid ear. It’s far less human than the first pair, you would consider it closer to an owl. Your lips purse as you near the glass, leaning with both hands splayed across it. He then lifts the hem of his shirt and you damn near choke.
You can’t even decide which part it is that actually chokes you. The fact that he’s sporting a six pack like no other and a second pair of pecks that sends heat to places you do not want to think about while trapped in a box in space, or the huge mouth plastered where a belly button would otherwise be. You cough to distract him from the way your throat seizes, then sit back in an effort to disguise how you’ve reacted to an alien you hardly know.
Sukuna tilts his chin up slightly as he regards you. You want to chalk it up to nothing more than a natural reaction to your cough, but there’s a gleam in his eyes that you recognize. You’re then unfortunately reminded that his hearing is like nothing you’ve ever experienced and he can likely hear your pounding heart. It puts an idea in your head that his sense of smell may… also… be better on that note, too. Breezing past the moment as quickly as you can, you cough once more. “What’s, uh– what’s that for?”
“Eating large food.”
The sensation is jarring, but it occurs to you that you’ve never once asked what he eats. “Like… what?”
To your surprise, he smiles. Actually smiles. “Noisy food. Good food.”
“Are you joking with me? Are you joking about eating me?” You sputter.
His toothy grin is replicated on his stomach mouth as he lets the hem of his shirt drop and for the first time you hear him rumble in laughter.
You don’t even have the instinct to wonder if he’s lying when you’re too intrigued by the whole ordeal and just shake your head. “Oh, so you have jokes now?”
“Always have jokes,” he grins, wide. “You not understand, weak human.”
You scoff. “I see how it is,” you tease, curious about his ability to pick up not just language but the deeper meaning behind it. With a sigh, you cast a glance back at the spot where he revealed the stomach mouth, focusing back on your mission. For as curious as you are, at the end of the day you’re trapped in a box in space with a limit on time and supplies. “How quickly can you evolve?”
He tilts his head from side to side, something he’s seen you do when you reply with ‘maybe’.
“Does it depend? Is it based on how your surroundings are?” You make a motion to everything around you.
“Yes,” he replies affirmatively for the first time in your language, rather than his usual Simurian response.
“How fast are we talking?”
His brow tents, head tilting like the question is stupid. “We talk at normal speed for you.”
You bark a laugh at the realization that he’s now completely misunderstood. “No, it’s a saying, sorry. How fast can you evolve? One planet rotation around the sun? Two?”
Clearly displeased with your laughter, he takes a moment to fix you with a glare before replying. “Not one planet rotation. Smaller time.”
“Less than one planet rotation around the sun or less than one planet rotation?”
“Less than one planet rotation.”
You swear you need to pick your jaw up off the floor. “Less than a DAY?” You shout in disbelief, hand raising to the glass in a slam that echoes over the metal bay.
Sukuna growls, recoiling away from your reaction. It’s not out of fear, but rather that you’re being noisy again. “Human. Weak human. Stop.”
Sitting back down, you offer another apology to the begrudging man sitting across from you. Pieces of the puzzle all suddenly begin to click into place. That’s why he picked up your language so quickly. He didn’t just learn, his throat adapted to the sound. His vocal chords changed in less than a day to work around the fact that humans can’t. His species is advanced in the kind of way you could only dream. Hell, you never even realized he lost the strange rasp to his vocalizations in your language. “Sukuna, I–” you pause, raising a finger as you become aware that you’re about to get ahead of yourself when you go dashing back to the lab.
You gather a space meal, several beakers, pipettes, gloves, and a sterile handling box. When you return and dump it all on the ground beside you in a cacophony of glass, Sukuna still seems displeased with the noise.
“Humans sent me here because of this,” you present a phial of liquid to him. Held within the small glass container is a dark red, almost black liquid with yellow separation. “These are Alveoli. Normal ones. They’re cells in our lungs,” you point to your chest. “And this,” you present another phial, but the color of the liquid is off, almost more of a brown. “Is Alveolarium. It appeared on Earth I guess ten years ago now and we can’t find a cure. Around the same time it showed up, I got called to an island in the middle of nowhere to research a new discovery,” you explain. “They sent a ship somewhere around here back then, and picked up a CRM– um– a Kerm.”
Sukuna doesn’t move, but you have his attention.
“I was sent to research behaviour since it looks like a bug, but they also discovered that Kerm have cells in their shell that are really similar to the pathogen causing Alveolarium which was spreading a lot, but Kerm cells seem to carry properties that might help or stop or kill the disease or something,” you explain, shutting your eyes tightly as you search for vocabulary he’d know. “Basically they have similar cells,” you explain.
Sukuna inhales, long and slow as he sits up. Interestingly, his gaze splits as he looks over both samples at once. His languid movement makes sense when you consider that he’s well over a thousand years old and still has two thousand to go, if not more. Of course life isn’t short for a creature like him.
“We had one Kerm,” you continue. “But it died.”
“Died. Gone?” Sukuna confirms the meaning of the word.
“Yeah.”
He grunts. There’s no real emotion behind it, it’s nothing but sheer acknowledgement.
“So I need to get more Kerm. It’s…” You stare down at the sealed contaminated cell sample. “It’s bad, Sukuna. A lot of humans died. Probably way more since I’ve been gone.”
He stares at you for a long moment, his jaw moving as he evaluates your expression and every little micromovement of your body. He has a way about the manner in which he moves like he’s above life itself, everything in his mannerisms is lazy and unbothered– that is, until you grate on his nerves, anyway. There’s something almost kingly in the way he carries himself. After a long pause, he sets a forearm on his leg, leaning forward. “You want cells. Mine.”
Your jaw hangs open as you attempt to explain yourself. “I mean– you might be able to save us, but obviously only if you’re okay with it! I just– We don’t actually know anything about the Kerm, and I can’t guarantee if it’ll make it back alive or even at all, and–”
“Human.” There’s less heat in his voice as he shuts you up with the low rumbling of his timbre. “I help. You get suit,” he speaks like he’s ordering you, pointing.
“Suit?”
His eyes narrow as he gets to his feet, offense dripping from the very click of his tongue he gives you. “You scientist. You help.”
Your jaw hangs open as you glance back between him and the ship. You seal your lips into a tight line, staring down at fidgeting hands. “Sukuna, I–” You shake your head.
“Your atmosphere weak, humans weak. Use your second heart, my ship pressure not crush you. Stop scared movement,” he points mildly at your twiddling thumbs.
Before you can explain the truth, you’re perplexed by his words. “Second…? I only have one heart.”
He huffs. “Then I help reinforce oxygen tank to survive pressure of sulfur gas atmosphere. Weak human. Foolish weak human.”
You’re left in utter disbelief and mild shock, frozen in place as he turns on his heel to, you suppose, make you a new tank fitting of the pressure of his ship. When the hell did he even pick up the word foolish? Did you say that? Shaking your head of the thought, you need to focus on what matters here.
“Sukuna!”
He stops a short distance away, his gaze thrown over his shoulder.
“Sukuna, I can’t– I can’t leave.”
He crosses his arms– all four of them– unimpressed. “Why?”
“This was always meant to be a one-way trip. I don’t get to go home. I’m sealed in here. I have no depressurization pod, no suit, no way to unseal the ship without losing the oxygen in here. No portable generators, nothing. When the ship loses power, that’s it.”
Slowly, he turns towards you, straightening as he regards you. He doesn’t just look displeased, he looks downright offended. His usual go-to doesn’t seem to cut it either as he spews out something more than just ‘weak’. “Wrong.”
It likely doesn’t convey what he wants, but you get the gist anyway. “Yeah. It’s stupid,” you agree.
“Your stupid.”
“Yeah,” you laugh half-heartedly. “My stupid.”
Clearly realizing you’re butchering your own language to appeal to his limited use of it, he turns on his heel again, muttering something under his breath. Your hand slips away from the glass keeping you safe and trapped in tandem as you watch Sukuna disappear. You find yourself staring at the photo of you and Shoko again. What you wouldn’t give to check in on her right now. Or ever again.
This will be it for you. Your food supply is limited to what it was deemed was a reasonable amount of time to– somehow– procure not just one but multiple specimens of Kerm or CRM-12, or whatever you’re meant to call them. Your power will fizzle out. Your oxygen supply will end. Your ship’s fuel is already near its limit. You’re sealed in a death trap as a final sentencing. You shut your eyes tightly, rubbing your hands over your face in an effort to reset.
When Sukuna doesn’t return in a couple of minutes, you move around the ship in an effort to clear your head and get some exercise. Anything that stops reminding you of just how trapped you are in a void of uncharted territory with an alien that far exceeds any of humanity’s feats.
You grab a bite to eat, rehydrating some macaroni and cheese in a flimsy bag. It’s unappealing as all hell but it’s better than starving. Eating straight out of the bag, you meander back towards the window, blinking when you find Sukuna setting up a mobile science lab of some sort just outside the bridge. You jog closer to the window, taking a seat to watch as he sets out largely similar and recognizable equipment, although the shape and build of much of his technology is infinitely more advanced. Bigger, too, given his size.
One set of eyes glides to your movement, an eerie feat of having an extra pair, while he continues to set up. Your mind goes into overdrive trying to figure out just how much that sets apart his biology from yours to have the energy production and sheer brainpower to manage so much at once.
His nose wrinkles when he watches you spoon food into your mouth. Chuckling, you approach the nook by the window, presenting the bag to him. “It’s macaroni and cheese.” You tilt the bag in his direction.
“It’s bad.”
“Hey!” You chide with a grin. “It’s better than it looks. You can’t call it bad until you try it.”
With an unusually pompous huff, he turns back to the mobile set-up and picks up a box-like device, connecting it to the window by suction. He runs his thumb along the edge like a dial and it comes to life, seeping a sort of caulk onto the glass before it begins drilling through the window. Your survival instinct recognizes the structural instability. Your curiosity chooses to ignore it as the device uses some sort of nanotech to recreate its shape on the inner glass, sealing itself.
You purse your lips, your spoon held in mid-air. “A mini pressurization chamber.”
He chuffs. “Give macaroni and cheese.”
“You need to learn manners,” you mutter more to yourself than to him as he literally holds his hand out to bluntly demand your lunch with that unnatural edge to his voice that never quite fits his genuine intrigue.
“Manners?” He queries, though his hand never moves.
Chuckling to yourself as you give in and offer the small bag and spoon of food to him, you watch as your door closes and the pressure within the device changes. “We say please when we ask for something and thank you when we’re given something if we want to be polite or nice to someone.” When his side opens, the bag and food as a whole are crushed under the pressure of his differing atmosphere, presenting him with a dripping mess of squished pasta.
Admittedly, it does look bad now. As it begins dripping melted cheese that’s entirely too watery out the other side straight onto his shoes, he stares at you with the kind of tight-lipped expression that transcends any language barrier.
He’s not thanking you for this.
“Sorry,” you wince, offering an apologetic grin.
He growls, trudging back across the large expanse of hangar bay to get something to clean up the mess. By the time he returns and cleans up the cheese, he finally opts to take a bite of the crushed food, fixing you with a glare.
“Bad. Bad food for weak human.”
You can only smile, because it figures that he would hate it. “Fair enough,” you laugh, watching as he sets it along with the dirty rag he used to clean the cheese. Your eyes widen a fraction at the thought. “Wait, what do you–”
Rolling his shoulders, he points to the small chamber that connects you. “Give Alveolarium.”
Your thoughts are already long forgotten as you pick up one of the cultures, chewing on your lower lip as you examine the glass. “I think your ship’s atmospheric pressure might crush the vial.” You hold it up to him. “It’s pretty thin.”
With a hum, Sukuna offers a box through the exchange to put the phial in. As you exchange materials and Sukuna begins separating the infected cells into smaller cultures within an oxygen-controlled box with barometric pressure equal to your ship’s, it occurs to you that in spite of your life being cut short, some part of you is happy for this experience. Even if your notes and findings get stranded out here, you can say you found companionship in a grumpy ten-foot-tall genius alien, and that’s pretty cool.
With your plights long forgotten as you watch Sukuna work with your face practically plastered to the glass, the technology and rate at which he’s able to work grabs your attention. Your chest practically rattles in excitement as he moves through practiced motions like he already knows what to do.
“What’s that?” You query, watching eagerly as he injects something into a lower arm.
One pair of eyes flicks to you. “For cells.”
“For stem cells? Like from your bones?”
He chuffs, pulling out a rubber band as he restricts his blood flow to take a sample.
“It’s that fast?” You gawk as he already begins drawing a sample.
His brow twitches as you break his concentration, but he chuffs to give you a reply regardless.
“Oh my god. We have a drug that does that too, but it takes a while before it produces any neutrophils– um– stem cells. You’re so much more advanced than us, I never imagined how much different life could be!” You watch as blue blood is extracted from his arm, and he begins separating the sample in order to work with it. “Your blood is blue? Is that because of the differing atmosphere? Or maybe it’s an adaptation somehow–”
“Human,” Sukuna groans, disenchanted with your rambles. He fixes you with a tired expression, pointing to the experiment in an effort to get you to focus. “Stop. Noisy.”
“Right, sorry!” You apologize with a wide grin.
A series of clicks, syllables, and growls escape the brutish man as he mutters something to himself, undoing the band from his arm and flexing his fingers a couple of times before pulling a sleeve back down. As he introduces his cells to the Alveolar cells that are infected in the controlled environment, he moves a small device over the culture slide, projecting hologram of the microscopic cells. His cells are so different from anything you’ve observed on Earth that you have no issue telling which belong to him in spite of your differing major.
The cells collide once, the Alveolarium attempts to attack Sukuna’s cells, then simply… backs off. “They’re incompatible,” you state dryly, your shoulders dropping.
Sukuna grunts. “Alveolar cells still functional. My cells not see issue.”
“That could be it.” You shrug.
He hums, tapping a finger twice along the table. “Then we change environment.”
“Create artificial stress until your cells react,” you breathe, your hand snapping down to the ground beside you with a metallic clang that has Sukuna flashing you another glare.
“Loud. Loud human.”
“Sorry, I just– I’m a bit overexcited,” you offer with a smile.
Sukuna continues to stare for a moment, then adjusts the pressure within the glass box where the experiment is taking place to something more dense. He attempts to alter the environment enough that his cells recognize a threat, while not outright killing yours. Striking a balance between them proves to be a multi-day endeavor. In the moments where you can only wait, you slowly begin to unravel the enigma that is Sukuna.
You can’t count how many times Sukuna huffs or makes his disdain known with a very dramatic look in your direction when you suggest something altogether dumb, but you also note that he tells you you’re noisy less often. He picks up on more scientific terms, and even begins to pick up on prepositions purely from your use of them. He teaches you about Simuria, how the Simurians all have extra eyes, two hearts, and are fairly large compared to humanity, though they largely don’t resemble one another. He teaches you about one with horns, who you assume is a friend. He, on the other hand, refers to the horned Simurian as a neighbor.
You get the feeling Sukuna isn’t the friendly type.
“You’re invasive,” he gruffs out in reply to your question.
Your head falls back as you stare at the ceiling with a groan. “I literally just asked if you choose to be alone!” You retort lightheartedly. “You don’t even have to give me a reason!”
“You’re invasive. Like Kerm.”
“Like–” You gawk at him, watching a slow smile curl at his lips. “Like Kerm?”
“Loud like them too.”
“Hey!”
His head tilts as you exclaim your displeasure with that statement, but it’s one of the rare moments where he does seem pleased, which brings a smile to your face regardless. For whatever reason, nothing seems to get him boastful quite like belittling humanity. And since his only knowledge of humanity is you, that puts you at the center of his jokes.
“You know,” you meander back to the topic of Kerm, pulling the smile straight from his lips when you change the subject. “You never did tell me why you’re here. You know the Kerm too, so is it for them?”
He chuffs. “I did tell you. The Kerm are invasive.”
“That’s not really a reason. That’s just like– a statement.”
Seated on the floor with his back against the glass that separates you, he rolls his head along the rigid surface, his gaze finding you. “Kerm are smarter than you humans think,” he grumbles out a baseline explanation. He utters something in his language, then puts together a few sounds until he has a new word for you. “Methalonian weapons. They aren’t natural. They’re–” he taps his fingers on the bay’s floor briefly in thought. “Created by another species.”
“Methalonian,” you test the word. “Are they artificial? Or are they mutated? Like, completely not real or mutated from something that already existed?”
He taps his finger decidedly. “Mutated. Another species mutated them. I’ve been circling this planet for a while now to find where they come from,” he explains. “There are no other species here. They ate all of their resources. Now they invade.”
“How do they even leave? Are they that smart?”
He growls. “They attach themselves to ships and invade.”
“Oh. What are you planning on doing to them, then?”
He sucks in a breath. “Killing them.”
You freeze, staring at him as he examines your expression. You’ve never been much good at training your emotions, your pupils narrowing to mere pinpricks. You swallow, gaze averting to the photo of Shoko. “You were never gonna let me take any.”
“... No.”
“That’s why you trapped me. You knew I was here for them.”
“Made a guess,” he agrees with a hand motion that you’d equate to a shrug.
Slumping back against the bridge’s floor, you stare at the ceiling. Your alien counterpart watches in silence as you process what you know of the Kerm, your current situation, and your species’ survival. You consider Shoko back home, and the rest of your family and friends. You consider your nights out together ten years ago and what that might look like now if you ever make it back. You consider the failing government, and how it’s possible everything has completely fallen apart since your launch. But what really gets to you is that if this doesn’t work, there’s no world where Sukuna lets you send a Kerm back.
Maybe you shouldn’t care. You’re physically welded into a ship in the middle of nowhere. Yet here you are, even after everything, still being hopeful. It’s the most human thing you could possibly do. “What did The Kerm do to you?” You quietly murmur, still staring at the ceiling.
He inhales once, long. His eyes shut. “They’re mutated to kill,” he grunts. “The cells your scientists found in their shells…” his jaw ticks as he clicks, something you can’t decipher as syllables follow it. “It is not your cure.”
You lift your head, leaning on two elbows to look at him.
“It is your cause.”
Your lips part, brow furrowing. “But– I– That’s not–” Your chest tightens, emotions betraying you as you feel your waterline wet. Quickly wiping away the evidence, your fingers curl against the metal floor beneath you.
Sukuna doesn’t budge, his fiery gaze pinning you to place.
“But Alveolarium has been around longer than the Kerm was on Earth.”
He moves a knee, tilting his head. “Has it?”
“I… Don’t know, actually.” At last, you admit it, but things don’t fully add up from what you know. You let yourself fall onto your back again. “The company that sent me here, we had a bit of a disagreement. I guess… Maybe they were right, but still.”
Sukuna’s eyes narrow, minute, as he attempts to decipher the vagueness of your statement, but by nature of a language barrier, he can’t make out what emotion it is that you’re so graciously dancing around.
You swallow hard. “Did… Did they kill a lot of Simurians?”
“Yes. Humans?”
“If it’s them then… yeah, I guess. Millions. Like, thousands upon thousands.”
Morbidly intrigued, Sukuna shuffles to get a better look at you, his face closer to the glass than ever. “How many humans are on Earth?”
“Um–” You quickly pull up the whiteboard, demonstrating a number for ten, then a thousand, then a million, then a billion. “There were eight billion.”
This is the most baffled you’ve ever seen Sukuna, who physically recoils at the mere thought. “How do you keep distance? How do you celebrate the union of humans?”
“Union of humans?” You laugh. “Weddings? I don’t know, you invite a hundred people and call it a day.” But the question sparks something in you as you sit up to face your baffled friend. “How many Simurians are there?”
“Seventy nine.”
“WHAT?” You gape, noting that he doesn’t complain about your noise in spite of his narrowing eyes and defensive posture. “Are you guys close to going extinct? Like, being gone? Are you not worried?”
He simply growls in reply. “No, human. Things are…” He hesitates, his gaze averting. “We all have space and resources, it isn’t cramped.” He rolls his shoulders back. “We celebrate all weddings every year. Then stay alone with our partners.”
There’s a pit of jealousy in your stomach that you cover with a smile. “So you have someone you’ll be going back to, hey?” You grin, prodding at him through the window. You equate the unsettling feeling to a yearning for having someone like that back home, or even the option to return, but it would be ignoring the bigger picture that you’ve both been sitting in this bay for several days together and you’ve grown fond of him. You may not have a choice in being here, but he does. And he chooses to help in spite of his own goals. Your heart likes that he chooses you a bit too much.
To your surprise, your question irks him and his eyes narrow. A harsh hiss erupts from his throat as he suddenly turns back towards the pressurized box where your experimentation is taking place.
Your shoulders fall, watching the muscles over his back pull taut as he busies himself with little more than prep work for a next experiment as you continue to wait.
It doesn’t take a rocket scientist (hah) to realize that Sukuna has no partner. The thought trickles through the pockets of your mind. Seventy nine people on a planet total… You can only imagine how lonely that gets. Even you, who chooses to be with bugs a majority of your life, always returns home to Shoko and your bugs at the end of a trip.
Seventy nine. That’s thirty nine weddings. Is he the only Simurian with no partner? “Sukuna…” You watch him work, his movements unbothered as he dilutes samples and ups heat to push his cells to react. “Are you lonely?”
He freezes. A muscle in his cheek twitches as he flexes his jaw, choosing not to reply when he continues in his motions.
Your shoulders fall as you watch him silently work, pulling the rug out from under you on the reality of your relationship. A working relationship, really. He’s always chided you for being invasive, and you suppose this is why.
“I’m lonely,” you offer, quietly. His movements don’t freeze altogether, but they slow. He moves as though any noise might distract him from what you’re saying, in spite of the fact that there’s no keeping secrets from a man with ears like him. “I wish I could go back to Earth. Or maybe meet the Simurians, or see more of the universe. I wish I could study bugs again.”
When he still doesn’t reply, but his movements slow to a crawl, you pick up the photo of you and Shoko, presenting it to him again. “I’d love to tell my friend what we’re up to.”
After an extended moment’s silence, he removes his hands from the box, resting them on the table he rolled in. The dense metal protests his weight, even though it was designed for him. Likely designed by him, too. He still doesn’t face you, choosing to protect himself from your prying eyes by continuing to face somewhat away from you.
“It’s not so bad up here though, you know. I mean, I met you. That’s pretty cool.” You scoot closer to the glass, hoping to find common ground through friendship, if you can call this such a thing.
Your movement grabs his attention. His gaze flickers towards you, the only sign he’s heard you at all. He continues to face forward, his shoulders hunched over the cool metal table.
“Why are you alone?” He finally speaks up, unmoving otherwise.
“I’m uh– pretty noisy,” you offer with a grin in terms he knows well, deflecting the question. “So I guess it just never worked out with other people.”
Sukuna straightens, turning to face you. “Not what I meant.”
You smile, half-hearted. “I’m a criminal, Sukuna.”
“Criminal?”
You nod, pulling your knees into your chest as he slowly nears the glass again. He takes a seat, cross-legged as he leans over his forearms to give you his full attention. “I did a really bad thing. Other humans got hurt and I’m here as a punishment. Our technology isn’t as good as yours and the crew that signed up for this mission knew they wouldn’t get to go back to Earth. The choices I made landed me here instead of them.”
“What did you do?”
Your arms tighten around your legs as you settle your chin along your knees. “The Kerm, you know how I told you we had one?”
He chuffs.
“We put it in a cell, a big cage or room,” you explain to the best of your ability. “I was told they just caught it and I was brought in to study it, because it looks similar to our bugs so people in charge made assumptions,” you haphazardly point at the photo where your bug pets are crawling on your clothes. Their features are close enough to the Kerm that you can see the train of thought that led to you. “In my time studying it, I realized it was smart. Like, way smarter than any bug on Earth. Maybe even smarter than any animal. It was listening. It was learning.”
“You opened its cell.”
With a drawn out sigh, you bury your face in your folded arms, muffling your words. “I opened its cell.”
“It ate them all.”
“It ate the crew for this mission. Every last one of them. And then the people in charge killed it, too.”
With two arms relaxed in his lap and two holding him up, Sukuna watches in relative silence as emotions swim through your eyes. He doesn’t have a name for most of them, but he’s seen them in himself. Over a thousand years of life will do that to you.
Your voice is a mere whisper. “It was so smart, Sukuna. I just couldn’t watch it live out its life in a cell.”
“Now you live your life in a cell.”
You lift your head, gaze flickering across the buttons you never bothered to figure out and the white walls you never quite grew accustomed to when all you ever see is Sukuna. “Yeah, I guess so. Funny how that works, huh?”
“It’s not funny,” he hisses, his brow furrowing in such a way that actually has you curious.
It’s not as though you didn’t consider yourself acquaintances at least with him by this point. You've spent several days together and he chooses every day to return when he could have dropped you off at any point and cleaned up his scuffed hangar, but he doesn’t. Every day, he pushes his own goals and mission back another day into the future and chooses to help the trapped little entomologist residing in the back corner of his ship. The whole thing is funny if you’re grim enough about it.
In spite of his frustration, you shuffle forward, pressing a hand to the glass. “It’s okay. I’m glad we met before I’m gone.”
His brow twitches not once but twice as he stares at your hand like it’s a personal affront. “My ship can get you home.”
Your fingers curl just slightly against the glass. Your body inadvertently winces at the thought. “Maybe. But if I go home, I’ll still be arrested and live life in a cell down there. That’s… worse.”
“Even if you bring back a cure?”
“Humans are… complicated.”
“Stupid.”
A puff of air leaves your nose. “Yeah. Humans are stupid.” You do what you can to mask your underlying sadness as your lips curl up into a smile.
You can’t read Sukuna’s expression as his intense crimson stare burns into you. You know there’s a level of disbelief and maybe even frustration at your self-sacrifice in his eyes. Whether you want to admit that an alien could feel something like that for you is another story.
You can see the internal battle raging within him, although you can’t identify what battle it is that he fights. In spite of his troubled scowl, you’re shocked when an arm slowly lifts from where his elbow rested on his thigh. He brings it to the glass, his fingers pressing first over each digit, before his palm splays over yours. The heat he radiates is warm enough that you feel it through the glass, befitting of a ten foot alien that expends far more energy than you. As if you weren’t already aware, it makes it apparent just how much he dwarfs you.
You peel your gaze from his hand, examining the way he refuses to look at you. Softly, you pose a question that might answer some of your own. “How many Simurians were there before the Kerm?”
His frown deepens, his head falling. “Over one thousand. I evolved. Most… did not.”
Something briefly occurs to you of the whole ordeal. You wonder if maybe there was someone that even he– a scientist and engineer clearly capable of incredible feats– could not save. “Your family?” You query, your voice a near-whisper that you know he picks up on.
His eyes slowly drag across the glass, staring straight through you as his reflection startlingly pins him in place. He swallows hard, refusing to confirm when it’s not you staring him down, but his own misplaced guilt that reflects back at him.
His jaw locks, teeth grinding as he pulls back suddenly, on his feet in an instant with an expression you can’t place. He’s scowling with wide eyes, turning on his heel as he excuses himself with nothing more than an “I’m tired,” trudging away with footsteps that echo throughout the bay.
Sitting back, you let out a sigh as you’re left alone once again.
–
The somber tone of that day never fully recuperates itself into something easier. There’s a constant pressure looming overhead that unfortunately isn’t barometric. It’s that of a ship set to fail and a man who treats revenge like a cure for loss. But on the other hand, one thing does change. Sukuna opens up.
He shows you a hologram with images of Simuria that leave you wistful for the greater universe. Space was never your forte, but the dense petrified wood forests and gaseous craters and mountains have your brain tripping over itself in curiosity of what insects could exist in those biomes, much to Sukuna’s dismay as he brushes you off as noisy.
As the days pass and your food supply begins to run short, you’re left with no option but to eat less as you quietly enter survival mode upon realizing Sukuna eats… well, rocks. So you’re left only with what was packed for you.
You were intended to have sent Kerm back by now. You weren’t intended to find life like Sukuna. You weren’t intended to bond. You weren’t intended to be left with a yearning to explore the universe and see the things he’s seen. You weren’t intended to slowly begin to wither. There was an out for you, as morbid as it is. A single dose ready to take once your mission was complete.
And yet, every day, Sukuna brings something new for you to see or experience. It’s small, but it’s surprisingly meaningful. He shows you the vast cliff faces of a Simurian coast that’s a famous vacation spot. He tells you stories of the gaseous craters within the planet that make much of it uninhabitable, hence the far smaller population across it, even before the Kerm. He demonstrates the use of four arms to their full extent and how his brain adapted. He shows you his tattoos. God, the tattoos.
He tells you all about how they each have meaning. How in Simuria, they’re a mark of life events. His wrists were banded when he finished an equivalent of elementary school at twenty-eight. His upper arms were an equivalent of high school at thirty-six, and something akin to university marked his shoulders at sixty-two. It’s a wonder to hear someone graduating university at sixty-two with their life still ahead of them.
He lifts his shirt and points to stripes along his shoulder and back. You swear you’re paying attention. You swear. He smirks, but he tells you nonetheless that they were from what you might consider a bachelor’s degree equivalent.
“What about your face?” You ask, tracing the ink on his jaw along the glass as you leave behind a smear.
“That,” he states, “was my choice. We all choose what our face will look like.”
“No special event?”
“Just me,” he breathes.
It makes you smile.
He hates how much that very action sits under his ribs. It pokes at him, prods at him like it belongs there, reminding him that this won’t last forever.
One morning, he arrives with dark circles under his eyes. He notes that you both look tired. He knows his reasoning, but he can’t place yours. Your energy is largely spent, yet you just awoke. You’re not noisy anymore. He places a circular device on the ground. A holographic device, you recognize it right away, but it’s far larger than the usual one.
“You wanted to see the mountains,” he states simply, ignoring the failed experiment to his left, in spite of the fact that he needs to start a new one with time of the essence. “You will.”
Awaiting him in your usual nook by the window, you’re wrapped up in a blanket, smiling in spite of yourself. For the first time since you met, weak feels as though it properly describes your appearance, but you refuse to give up despite your body’s shortcomings as your stomach rumbles. Sukuna never points it out.
He runs his finger along the outer dial that his machinery tends to run on and it springs to life. You bring a hand up to block the light protruding from a high-lumen-count projector, squinting as the hologram doesn’t just project something in a controlled, small environment, it extends to every wall as though you’re there. The bulb remains bright as Sukuna steps away from it, allowing you to see a mountain as though you’re there.
It’s not a rebuilt landscape either, you realize as you press your hands to the glass to get a better view. It’s a video. It’s a bit shaky, and you’re certain that if it played audio, you might hear the camera operator panting. Every time it shakes and the hologram can’t make sense of what it’s projecting, you squint, but it comes back in a moment. When it flashes suddenly, you catch a glimpse of Sukuna, following along behind the camera operator. He looks young. In human years, you would guess his twenties. Maybe three hundred for him. You can’t help a smile as you note that he doesn’t seem to have four arms. You wonder if they came later.
The camera flashes again as the operator moves it, revealing his own face along with Sukuna and four laughing Simurians. Sukuna still bears his usual aloof expression, but the joy in his eyes is palpable as they all pose for a photo. The camera operator looks largely like Sukuna, though he bears no facial tattoos and only a simple set of extra eyes. A twin, perhaps.
To Sukuna’s left is a Simurian with shoulder-length white hair who’s much shorter than the rest of them with an eye in the center of their forehead, a tall and slender Simurian with horns and the same third eye, one with shaggy white hair and six striking blue eyes, and one with silky-looking black hair and four eyes, purple beyond your wildest beliefs.
“Are those your friends?” You query, covering a cough in your elbow.
Sukuna intently watches the action, chuffing when the camera turns away. “We went on a trip after my fourth tattoo.”
“You look young.”
He steps around the projector, moving closer to your window. “I was.” He’s never been the most talkative, but he does ask more questions. You chalk it up to scientific curiosity. “Are Earth mountains like this?” Were you more keen, you might realize he’s deflecting you from the subject of the friends of which he’s mostly lost.
You stare around at the landscape. Simuria is largely rocky with giant craters. It’s covered in iridescent minerals that seem to form under the far more gaseous and toxic-leaning environment. “Some,” you decide. “The more harsh environments get colorful like this. Mostly, they’re gray with trees. Kinda spiky green ones with pointed tops. We get snow, too, at the tops where it’s colder.”
Simuria is warm, from what you’ve gathered, and his head tilts curiously at the thought of snow.
“You know when you bring a liquid to a cold temperature and it freezes?”
He chuffs.
“Like that, but tiny shavings of it. It’s white and cold. It falls from the clouds.”
“Fascinating.” And he means it, too. It’s the most intriguing part of all of your interactions with him. You don’t learn through questioning as scientists anymore, you learn through sharing as friends.
“It’s beautiful,” you murmur to yourself, watching the video clip play out. It cuts off without so much as a sound of warning, the room returning to the usual bright and barren metal appearance you’ve grown accustomed to. “Snow doesn’t have much friction, so humans would go to the top of mountains and slide down.”
“You have no cliffs?”
“Not really on the snowy mountains.” You scoot forward, leaning your shoulder against the window as you pull yourself into a tight ball with a blanket draped over your shoulders. “Mostly in deserts. Desert mountains look more like Simurian ones, but mostly one color. They’re warmer, too. Most of the time.”
Subconsciously, Sukuna leans against the glass, his shoulder warming you enough that your eyes flutter shut. “What color?”
You yawn. “Orange. It’s kinda like a darker version of your hair. If you squint.”
Absently running a hand through said locks, he stares out at the hangar’s walls, where the hologram projected mountains mere moments ago. “I think I know the color,” he murmurs mostly to himself. Rising from where he leans against the glass, his lips part to speak when he finds you sound asleep slumped against the glass.
His jaw tightens, a sharp pain rising behind his teeth at the sight of the tiny Human he’s grown fond of curled into a little ball aboard her ship. His friend. Slowly, a hand rises to the glass as something in his chest twists painfully. He recognizes the feeling, he’s no fool. He’s spent over a thousand years alive and isn’t a stranger to the pang gnawing at him as the noisy stowaway he picked up passes out in his presence.
To you, he’s safety. To him, you're more than just company.
And you’re wasting away in his hangar bay because some species he’s never come across decided that would be the case simply for having compassion. It brought about a mistake, sure, but you had compassion nonetheless where they did not.
He sucks in a breath, taking long strides over the metal floor to continue experimenting until you rise again. He works quietly, although he knows your hearing doesn’t compare to his. He moves with silent ease in spite of his lumbering form and watches with a frown as every environmental change he puts either of the cells through doesn’t bring out the result he wants. His cells adapt to the environment, but never recognize the Alveolarium as a threat.
Stepping back as he attempts to re-evaluate, he casts a glance back at you. Even if your energy wanes, your heart still beats steadily in his keen ears. He can get you back to Earth so long as he can figure out a solution to get energy back into your system somehow given that his food doesn’t fit within your diet.
You stir with a yawn, seemingly roused by his glance. You press against the glass, sitting up and blinking a number of times. When you meet his gaze, a spark of energy ignites that has Sukuna wincing. You clamber against the metal, some sort of button or zipper on your clothes clanging hard against the metal. “Sorry, Sukuna! I didn’t realize I fell asleep.”
He growls, rubbing absently at his second ear tucked within salmon locks. “It’s fine,” he grumbles, although your company is more welcome than he gives off as you sit upright to watch his experimentation once more.
You offer suggestions that get you deadpan expressions and a dramatic roll of the eyes given your lack of knowledge on the subject of medicinal chemistry is lacking. You figure you’re better at telling stories anyway, and even if you lose your place here and there when your tiredness catches up with you, Sukuna always offers a guiding suggestion when you falter.
The following day is when he starts to notice a trend that doesn’t greet either of you with warmth.
You drag yourself to the bridge later than usual without your morning granola bar. Sukuna offers you a mineral, but he knows it would break your teeth. He also offers meat, but you both already know your system rejects it. The blanket you’ve been dragging around with you for the past few days is bundled so tightly around you that Sukuna would wager a guess that you’re colder than usual, too.
When you make a motion to point at something on the table, his gaze lingers on your trembling finger. He can hear your stomach. He knows you’re starving. He’s watching your spirit fade, completely helplessly.
Sukuna, a man who’s spent over two hundred years coming to terms with the past and adapting to being alone, finds himself completely at a loss and frustrated beyond his means when he finds you the following morning. Or– more accurately– when he doesn’t find you.
His footsteps are even as he makes his way across the hangar. Your belongings remain at the glass, but you aren’t there yet. He tilts his head, catching your heartbeat as a slow, steady thump that keeps him at bay, and moves to check on his most recent experiment. He frowns as he finds after the allotted time, his cells remain by their lonesome, still unable to identify your Human disease as a threat.
Truthfully, it perplexes him. You determined early on that you share enough DNA to potentially be susceptible to the same diseases. Hell, by all means this is something Simurians have already overcome. It came from the same source, so he can’t figure out why his stem cells have yet to take to yours.
Carding his finger through his hair, he lets out a forlorn sigh, eyes shut for a long moment. Your heart is a steady drum in his ear, a reminder of what it is that he’s working towards. Had someone told him two weeks ago that he’d be helping such a pitiful little species overcome a disease of their own doing, he might not have believed them. But there’s more to you than your brittle bone structure and weak muscle mass. You’re smart. Perhaps not as advanced as he is, but you’re smart far beyond your thirty five years.
You’re smart in the kind of way Sukuna can only dream. He’s seen the way your mind works, how thoughts pour out before you even have time to put them together. He’s seen how resilient you are in the face of certain death. But what really gets him is your attitude. You grin through every shortcoming. You ensure him that if you keep trying, eventually your minds will come together and you’ll figure it out. You never acknowledge that breakthroughs like this take centuries. You didn’t even blink when he revealed that he’s been searching for the source of the Kerm for over a hundred years.
You’re unlike anything Sukuna’s ever known. And something dark crawls beneath his skin when you don’t rouse by the time you’re usually eating. Noon, you called it once.
With his experimental cells set in an extremely cold environment, he leaves the workspace to round your ship. His head tilts as he listens for your heartbeat as though it ever left his periphery, but it’s as sound as it’s ever been. Slowed by sleep perhaps, but sound. He comes to a halt when it grows louder as he nears your sleeping bay. His hand drifts across the scraped metal where your ship tilted on its axis when it scraped the ground as he scooped you up, resting along the damaged hull.
He hones in on you, and finds you’re still breathing. Still there. Still alive. But shallow. There’s no wheeze, no sharp inhales. It’s simple and shallow.
His brow furrows as he turns to fully face the ship. You aren’t just malnourished anymore. Something is wrong. His gaze lifts, traveling along the mechanics that keep your ship in one piece, far more primitive than the smooth and compact design of his. He doesn’t know what he expects to find, but when what he’s faced with isn’t an easy explanation, he turns on his heel.
He moves with more severity than he has in a century, no longer silent as he pads over extended corridors of metal that leave him questioning ever having a ship of this size. When he reaches his lab, he reaches for a scanner and jogs back to your ship.
It only takes a moment to calibrate its sensor to search only for organic matter. He lifts it to your ship. Alveolarium, as expected. Blood, and healthy stem Alveolar cells, as expected. All in small quantities.
Until everything lights up red. Immense amounts of blood, of musculature and tissue, along with a high volume of water. He’s found you. And along with everything he expects of an organic creature, a revelation that makes his blood run cold.
An uncontrolled quantity of Alveolarium. You’re infected.
Somehow, between the multitude of items you’ve exchanged and the experiments you’ve run by your lonesome, you must have been exposed. Your energy is being sapped because your body is fighting a disease engineered to kill.
He harshly clicks and growls to himself in a series of muttered curses, as he stares at the reading. For the first time since the bioweapon you call Kerm was found on Simuria over two hundred years ago, he finds himself completely and utterly helpless yet again. Control slips through his fingers like the sands of time as he raises the scanner once more as though it might reveal a different fate, but it never does.
His chest rises and falls heavily, his arms falling to his sides as he stares blankly. His mind takes a moment to wrap around the reality that you’re not Simurian. You’re human. You’re noisy and weak, your mind can’t keep up with your thoughts, and you’re invasive as hell– you won’t adapt to the illness. And god, is it quiet without you.
Urgency kicks in like a long-dormant volcano coming to life as he moves back to the table, evaluating how many samples he has left. He draws more of his cells, ignoring the tingling feeling in his arm as he injects himself with a drug to draw stem cells from his marrow. He drags more of his lab to the hangar, setting out tables and creating extra boxes able to pressurize to the same barometric pressure as that of an oxygenated atmosphere.
He lowers incubation times to do more tests, changing the parameters so often that his notes become a mess.
You don’t move. He hears you shuffle once on the first day. On the second, he grits his teeth as he listens to your harsh breaths. Your moans, your groans. You move at one point in what sounds like a drag of your feet and he hears water, but he’s not even positive if you make it back to your quarters.
As he watches one of his cells back off from Humanity’s infected lung cells, he leans over the table on two arms, sucking in a long breath. He doesn’t know how long he has. He doesn’t know how long you can survive without food. He doesn’t know if you have more water.
His second pair of hands ball into fists at his sides as he shuts all four eyes tightly. He didn’t know what to do two hundred years ago watching something so similar take out his entire species. He doesn’t know what to do now, stuck in the same situation. His knowledge is far more advanced than everything he knew back then. His technology and abilities exceed everything from back then. So why the fuck can’t he figure it out?
Is it that your suggestions were more useful than he gave you credit for? No, is it that he simply misses them? That they kept his mind from running off-rails into mania?
He works himself to the bone until he’s leaning with his back to your window. With one knee pulled up, he rests his elbow atop it, using his hand to block the light from his pounding head. He absently rubs at the bridge of his nose, eyes shut as he runs through formulas in his head until his mind begins to give in. The only thing he can bring his mind to hone in on is the sound of your heart. The steady reminder of the noisy human he’s doing this for in the first place.
Just as he begins to drift off, the gentle buzz of lights in your ship comes to a halt, a mechanical voice brought to life by necessity.
“Backup power activated. Life support systems online.”
The alien jolts, his slumber interrupted as he stares up at your ship with wild eyes. They flick all around the bridge as he takes in the red light and the way the buttons along the navigation board have dimmed, many shutting off altogether.
“Backup?” He states the word as though the program might respond to him. “Online?” Neither word is in his vocabulary, and as he gets to his feet, all four hands pressed to the glass, he searches desperately for meaning. “Human? Human?” His mind is too worn out to fill in the gaps with context as panic coats his movements like a snake slowly seeping its venom into its prey.
With a final call of your name, his fingers squeak as they drag along the glass. He turns back to his work station, dragging his hands violently over his scalp. He clicks and growls to himself, slamming a lower hand down over one of the sealed pressurized boxes. It cracks easily from his strength, putting his experiments immediately at risk. His eyes widen, two hands raising as though he might be able to stop it with his bare hands. He rushes back through his ship, racing through corridors to find something capable of stopping the crack before it shatters altogether.
Returning with a handful of options, he opts to melt a stone element from his planet into the crack. It’s the safest option he can think of. Sitting back from the soldering gun, he collapses onto the floor in a flurry of exhausted limbs. His stomach mouth parts as his body expends much of his energy on his mental state, only furthering his trouble.
In an effort to gather his thoughts, he leans over his knees, dragging his hands down his face. Backup. Red lights came on, some systems shut down. Using context clues, he can put that together. He pushes down his panic as he works on the second word. Online. He can still hear your ship whirring. He can hear your breathing. Life support must be working.
Okay. One problem down.
No matter how he changes the co-culture or adjusts the selective pressure, no matter how he adjusts his hypothesis or the duress he puts his cells under, the results remain the same. His cells adapt. But never to the disease. They co-exist in separate worlds.
Two eyes flick towards your ship, reminded of you, stuck on your own in a cell of your own doing. His fingers curl into his palm as he drives his focus back to his makeshift lab.
He can’t figure out why his cells won’t recognize yours. You may be different species, but his cells should recognize the pathogen in the Alveolarium as similar to the same illness that took out a majority of Simuria. He’s already adapted past it, and the cell structure isn’t that different.
He drags his nails over his scalp while his lower arms remain in fists. How much power do you have left? How much longer can you survive without water? You’re largely compounded of it based on his scan, can you survive without intake?
With a harsh growl, he pushes to his feet, ignoring the way his muscles protest. Pain simmers as he pushes them, keeping the reins on his control over this situation with an iron grasp. He pushes through the burn, pushes his mind to its limits as he works out chemical compounds with what brain power he has left, all the while continuing to alter the cells’ environment until he has nothing left to give.
–
Your ship doesn’t do its usual chime come morning. What’s worse is that your coughing startles him awake. Your heart stutters, a deadly sound for any species.
Hunched over in an odd position on the floor, Sukuna cracks his neck, rubbing at it as adrenaline pumps through his veins.
You’re dying. For all the tireless work he’s doing, you’re still dying.
He reaches out for the window where you once sat, dragging his fingers over it like your very ship might fall from his grasp at any moment. His breathing accelerates, his chest leaden with the gravity of the situation. Resting his entire body against the glass, all four arms settle along the panel. His head rests unevenly on the panel, off-kilter at the whim of the plate that resides over the right side of his face. A low rumble starts from deep within his chest, erupting in a full-blown furious fit of hisses, clicks, Simurian syllables and roars.
He curses in his mother tongue like he did over a hundred years ago. He’s spent over a century learning, advancing, and searching the damn stars for a bioweapon only for the very same thing to be his demise once again.
Peeling himself off of your ship, he reaches back to rub at a kink in his neck. His first issue was a lack of understanding of your ship system. He fixed that. His second issue is the cells. He can’t fix that without trial and error. His third issue is you dying, which is made up of two issues. The pressure of his ship would crush you, but your own life support systems are failing. When your ship depressurizes, the hull will be crushed, your oxygen will flow out into the sulfuric compounds that make up his air, and you’ll suffocate.
And then there’s the dehydration. And he doesn’t know which one is a more immediate threat. Regardless, his immediate problem is your ship. He stares at it in an effort to figure out how to remove it from the equation.
He could create a new box for you, something smaller than your ship, create his own life support systems for you and pressurize the box by pumping in oxygen and out carbon dioxide, similar to the box he uses for experiments. It’s not impossible in theory, but he doesn’t have the materials on-board to build a box of that size, nor does he have an extra generator capable of creating oxygen at that scale.
The only materials aboard are from your ship, the very thing he can’t tear apart right now.
He drags his hand back through his hair, tearing it straight from the scalp as he fails to find a way to guarantee containment while also pressurizing whatever he can work out. On a small scale, he can manage with what’s in his lab. On a large scale, all he can truly manage is his ship itself. His shoulders fall slowly. His ship.
The pressure of your atmosphere wouldn’t be a big deal on a creature like him. His ship could handle that without question. His muscles would survive. He could wear a suit, pump the sulfuric components through it. He could save you from the immediate threat. For a moment, the thought sits with him. It slips into his chest along his ribs, curling around his pounding hearts. It almost doesn’t feel real.
But when the dust settles and he’s left simply staring at your window, it becomes suddenly, startlingly, real. He turns on his heel like a man on a mission, moving through the ship as he heads for the mechanical room. He wrenches the small metal door with too much force, causing it to bend as he slips down into the tight space.
Machinery hums and breathes around him, worn pipes humming on every side as he shimmies through the space you might think was built by someone else given how much Sukuna is forced to squeeze through it. A whirring tank brushes his skin– hot– burning him in the process, but it’s barely a distraction when he’s aiming for the back of the room.
Sure enough, the sulfuric gas generator residing at the back comes into view quickly. The generator currently keeping his ship pressurized could be repurposed for oxygen through chemical reactions similar to what’s currently generating his sulfuric gasses. He can suit up, and–
His hands come to a halt as he finds himself scanning his surroundings like it might change his fate.
]He only has one generator. He can only create sulfuric compounds for his own atmosphere on a small scale with what he has onboard his ship, but not enough to support him long-term, and what’s currently stored won’t last forever. And that’s only the tip of the iceberg, when he considers that he still has to kill the Kerm, on a planet whose atmosphere he knows nothing about, with creatures built to kill whether through sheer violence or illness. He can’t risk using what sulfuric compounds he has stored while aboard his own ship.
In the cramped space with the generator’s hatch open, he presses the ball of his palm against his temple. There’s an answer. One that he’s already considering. But the cost could be his life. He could make the change to oxygen and pray his body is forced to adapt and maybe save you, should he survive. It’s either that or sit here and listen to your heart and breathing weaken until you’re nothing but a shadow in his hangar bay.
On the flip side, if he doesn’t adapt, then you’re both dead.
Sukuna has always been a man of certainties. He chose science because it makes sense. He chose science, because variables don’t react without reason. He chose science because it gives him control of his outcomes through error and studious attention. But this decision isn’t about science or reason.
This decision is about the hundreds of Simurians he feels responsible for losing. It’s about his revenge against the Kerm. It’s about the noisy human wheezing in his hangar bay who told him she wanted to see Simuria. It’s about the stupid girl whose heart stuttered as she solemnly lied to him about being okay with her fate. It’s about how cold your hand felt, even through the glass.
He barks out a Simurian curse, reaching for the tools necessary to begin generating a different gas.
He wrenches on a cable, giving it a harsh twist to unlock it from its position. The ship comes alight with warnings that he opts to block out as the pressure of the hull begins to shift. It’s not painful to begin, even as the ship’s very structure complains with harsh moans and groans. He floods the chamber with sodium chloride and ups the heat until it begins producing oxygen. As the remaining sulfuric gas runs into a reserve chamber, he shuts the generator and continues to ignore the creaking and warnings his ship spews.
Getting to his feet again, he slides through the tight space, sucking in every last breath he can of sulfuric gasses as they begin to dissipate.
Oxygen hurts. He pushes through the pain, trudging through the halls as he fails to catch his breath, certain that the generator is working when his muscles feel loose as the pressure of the ship adjusts to the new gas flowing through its chambers. He turns down a long hall, ignoring the flashing lights along every wall while the hull groans. When he finally reaches the hangar, his chest doesn’t ache or burn, it sears like something is clawing at him from within, begging to be let out. It’s not his first brush with pain like this, but there’s something different when it’s his lungs. Tears form along his lash line as he lacks sulfuric gasses to his brain, the compounds unable to pump blood to his most important organs.
When he reaches your ship, he stumbles into it, still upright through sheer willpower alone. He slams his fist into the panel nearest where he last knew you were, loosening the edge. His fingers curl around the newly revealed edge and with all the might left in his body, he tears it off. Along with it comes a series of mechanics as your ship begins to beep and protest in tandem with his. Only once he tears through some wiring with a series of flashing lights does your ship finally shut off.
This is it– the test of his own scientific capabilities. Whether or not you survive in the environment he’s artificially created within his own ship.
The blaring alarms mitigate his ability to find you, his head whipping one way or the other. He drags himself through the pain, through the mind-numbing brain fog, picking up a half-finished bottle of water he spots on a counter along the way, until he finds you.
You’re sitting awkwardly in a corner, shivering, but conscious. Alive.
Your eyes are harshly lidded when you stare up at him, clinging to your blanket like it’s a lifeline. Your dry lips part, a look of sheer confusion falling over your expression like you doubt what you’re seeing in the dark corridor of your ship whose systems have completely failed.
Sukuna’s chest struggles to rise and fall evenly, every breath furthering the pain behind his eyes as his lungs fail to pump sulfuric compounds into his bloodstream and his brain function falters. He doesn’t let his knees give out until he’s able to hand you the water bottle.
“S’kuna?” Your voice sounds as though it’s been scraped against the very compounds that make up Simurian mountains. You sound as though you don’t trust your voice, let alone your mind.
Close enough to leave the water within your reach, the giant alien’s body finally gives out. The water hits the floor beside you just within reach as one arm attempts to grab the counter that you lean against. His palm brushes the surface, but his body drops like a stone to the floor beside you, scraping his palm. His vision is narrow as he uses what little strength he has left to envelop you in his arms, acting as a blanket for your shivering form.
The moment he touches you, clarity shoots through your mind like lightning. This is no fever dream, you’re not waking up out of sheer necessity of needing water or a way to warm up. It’s a shock to your system in more ways than one. He’s not just warm– his body runs like a furnace in comparison to yours. He’s so warm that curling into him isn’t a choice, it’s survival and he knows it.
The very thing that kept you apart for so long hits you harder than the shock that Sukuna is beside you. “Wait–” the word comes weakly as you give his arm a shove. It barely affects him. “You can’t–” A cough settles at the back of your throat, interrupting your thoughts. “What did you do?” You rasp out between the kind of coughs that wrack your body and send spikes of pain to every receptor that will listen.
But he doesn’t respond, any semblance of consciousness long gone as his arms go limp. You can’t move him. You can barely move yourself. The most you can do is hope that his body takes to oxygen like it did to science, or whatever it was that truly gave him an extra pair of arms. You assume that’s his hope too.
The flashing lights and warning buzzers continue to blare outside the hull. Your ship offers very little cover from the noise, but enough that your already-foggy mind is able to drown out the noise with the static of illness. Unable to fight the heaviness held over you, you shakily grab the water. You may be too delirious to grasp the true gravity of the situation and what Sukuna’s done, but you know better than to overlook the gift of water.
The massive alien wrapped around you on the ground makes it easy to lean into him, basking in his warmth as it quells a modicum of your shivers. The longer you sit there in the flashing lights and blaring sirens, the more your body gives in to the grasps of the sandman. Subconsciously, you lean into Sukuna– passed out beside you– until your head leans against his shoulder. It doesn’t rise and fall, but you find comfort in the fact that when you press a hand to his chest in search of something, anything, that might give you hope, his heart pushes a single beat through. One after another, each of his two hearts continues to push through the unlikely situation.
That reassurance makes it easier to give in to the forces pushing you to unconsciousness. Because you recognize Sukuna’s actions as more than just kindness in the face of danger.
This is a species you’ve never witnessed whose primary goal was revenge, brought to his knees by the very stowaway he huffed and puffed over being noisy. Not by manipulation or force either, but by choice. Sukuna didn’t just choose to save you. He chose pain, he chose to bet on low odds. He chose to put off his mission, and he chose to endanger and expose himself to disease, all for you.
He isn’t just asking you to live. He’s commanding it.
–
Sukuna doesn’t stir for forty eight hours. You aren’t much better, but at least your body faces wakefulness in the face of dehydration. You don’t know how long Sukuna can survive without food or water, but you have no other option but to hope it’s longer than you.
Midway through the third day is when he finally stirs. It comes in twitches at first. It’s not dramatic, but in the few moments where you’re awake and delirious and you spot any semblance of movement, you cling to him like your life depends on it. Because it does.
Next come the wheezing breaths. Then groans, and sharp inhales that sound unnatural. You feel his pain deep in your ribs like a stabbing sensation. His fingers drag so harshly against the metal floor that his fingers break through it, the metal proving to be little more than an ant to his elephant strength.
Consciousness is dramatic for him.
Like a switch being flicked, his body comes to life and with it, his pain and confusion. He flies back, head ramming harshly into the cabinets you had been leaning against. He huffs out his displeasure, but the sensation is harsh in his chest. His lungs may have adapted, but oxygen is a harsh forced change to sulfur. The compounds shred within his chest, something that has one of his many hands flying up to grip at his chest.
He mutters a harsh curse under his breath in his mother tongue that sends pain back through his throat like a ricocheting bullet. In the cramped confines of your torn-open ship’s hull, he rests his head back against the door to the lab. Every breath is fire in the large expanse of his chest, his lungs accepting the oxygen not out of desire, but need.
He mutters a curse again, recoiling far less as he pushes through the pain. Ignoring the deliriousness of pain and the cramping in his gut, he cards a hand through mildly oily locks, pushing them away from his forehead. When his gaze glues itself to you, blearily watching him from the floor in a state of suspended wakefulness, he freezes altogether.
You’re alive.
His chest finds a new way to deliver pain as he hunches forward, sliding back to the spot where he had clearly been your pillow if your odd position is anything to go off of. He glides over the floor, taking a seat where he had been in an effort to provide a pillow.
The sensation of his returned warmth has your lashes fluttering as you stare up at him. He can see the gears physically turning in your mind as you make sense of him being there, awake, and alive as well.
For a moment, his brain betrays him. He moves on instinct, brushing his thumb over your collar. Only to be met with a weak smack to the chest. He blinks, staring down at you with confusion woven within his fondness.
“You could–” you cough, “have died.”
A series of growls and clicks between syllables you don’t recognize fall from his lips like he’s giving you a full scolding in a foreign language. It almost brings a smile to your dry lips as you recognize only two words.
“Noisy human.” His muscles are fraught from disuse as he hoists you into his lap.
The alarms may have stopped blaring, but the lights around him continue to flash in warning, reminding him of the reason he underwent this in the first place. Under the duress of having very little energy after evolution and his chest protesting his every movement, he groans as he pushes to his feet with you cradled close. He pulls you into his chest, casting a glance down at you as even in sickness, your eyes seem to shine as you watch your environment change. You never fail to bring wonder along with you, no matter the circumstances.
He treats you with the fragility of a flower as he brings you to his lab, moving over a panel that has no identifiable buttons, yet as Sukuna moves his hand over it, you hear the shift behind you. A bed reveals itself from the wall, not entirely unlike that of a human, though it’s a far harder material that he makes adjustments to in order to conform to your body as he lays you down.
His medical equipment isn’t unlike yours. He gets you started on an IV without hesitation, preventing the first of his major worries, and watches as your body shuts down, grateful for the new fluid intake. Every time you fall asleep is no easier than the last. One of his hearts skips, then the second one, but he takes the opportunity to continue his work. He moves the samples back to the lab, no longer bothering with the oxygenated box as he’s able to work faster now.
Waiting is the hardest part. It leaves him feeling powerless, pushing himself to his limits to distract himself from the fact that you look weaker every time his eyes glue themselves to you.
“Dabura’s anniversary was yesterday,” he mutters one morning, standing between you and his experiments where he can monitor both.
His lower hands rest on his waist, the upper arms crossed over his chest like twisting wrong doesn’t still send a shock to his system as his lungs continue to mold themselves to their new dual-purpose. He pushes through, idly taking a step towards you and the pile of blankets he stole from your ship that keep you from shivering.
“You would like the celebration,” he remarks, meandering to the side of your bed. He lowers himself to take a closer look at you, before sinking to his knees. His upper arms rest along the edge of the bed, chin seated atop them. “We have a–” he pauses, glancing aside at the realization that he frustratingly can’t even tell you about the celebration because he lacks the words. He growls, his expression pushing into a scowl as he utters the Simurian word for ‘fire’. “A heat light. It’s big,” he presses on. “We use chemicals to create oxygen vacuums,” he continues. “Everyone comes from across the planet. We eat a lot. Drink.”
You don’t stir.
“You would have liked Satoru. He was noisy, too.” His gaze rises from where he sits to sweep your face. You don’t have the gentle look he’s grown accustomed to anymore, your features sunken and permanently pulled into a pained expression. It wrenches at his chest more than the pain of evolution somehow. “He studied the Kaliyans. Some Simurians have deep ties to them. Neither him or I did, so he chose to study them. We never did find answers before…” He huffs, muttering a curse of clicks and growls. He lets his cheek fall to his arms, at a loss. He shuts all four eyes at the sound of a timer going off, sucking in a breath as he wearily pushes to his feet.
He stares at the hologram emptily. It irks him to see the Alveolarium still rampant, but he expects no less at this point. He doesn’t know what exactly he’s expecting to get out of these at this point when experiments like this don’t just take days. They take years. They take materials and vigorous testing and… He throws his gaze over his shoulder, noting how shallow your breaths are now.
He doesn’t have years. He might not even have days, yet again. He bought himself more time, but he’s back to square one with control slipping through his fingers yet again. He grits his teeth so harshly it sends a sharp pain straight to his brain. One would only catch his wince if they were paying attention, as his bottom left eye twitches from the sensation.
Padding out from the room to give himself a break to eat as he overthinks every equation until there’s no semblance of hope left, he sits casually at the bridge, staring out at the planet below. Green clouds and space debris make up the remnants of the species that created the Kerm, long extinct by the hands of their own bioweapon. Below those clouds are the pinks and blues that make up the largely crystalline surface where the beetle-adjacent species now resides, hungry and in search of new prey.
Kerm. The thought settles between his ribs alongside the pain of his evolution. He always envisioned his arrival at their planet to be more triumphant. He envisioned traveling to its surface to ensure that his hypothesis was correct and they’ve eaten beyond their means, invasive to their own planet and destroying its very ecosystem until all that remains are themselves. Then leaving without a trace of the Kerm, the planet, or his own actions.
Yet all this trip has done is resurface every scar he buried a century ago. He scratches at them until what remains are no longer just scars, but open wounds. Forcing down what food he can manage, he drags a hand down his jaw, staring out at the planet, Methalon. It’s silent for a long moment as he inhales and holds the breath.
In Simurian, he finds himself muttering to himself. “What if you’re right, human?” Another extended silence as the thought lingers. “What if… Kerm are more than your cause? What if they’re your cure, too?”
He taps his finger along the panel in which controls reside as he mulls the thought over, before springing into action. He doesn’t have the luxury to consider the consequences, pressing a palm to the controls as they react to electromagnetic pulses emitted from his brain and read through his fingers as he brings the ship to life for the first time in a couple of weeks, disturbing the spacerock that’s settled around the ship.
With a groan, the ship’s nose shifts as he points it towards the planet’s surface. The pressure surrounding the ship shifts as he nears the atmosphere, far more dense than what you would be accustomed to, so he thanks the stars that it’s him going in place of you. He stops the ship a short distance from the planet’s surface, setting it to hover within the densely gaseous atmosphere. It’ll keep you out of reach of the Kerm, which he hypothesizes shouldn’t be able to reach you with their stubby wings.
Should he be wrong, he supposes you’ll both succumb to his stupidity. He almost cracks a morbid smile at the thought. Not that you both might be a lost cause because of his decisions, but because he so often chides you for being stupid, when he’s recklessly allowing himself to be stupid now, too.
But he’s certainly not noisy. No, he talks to you because you like it. Not because he does. He’s quiet.
Suiting up, he drops to the planet’s surface with his limited sulfuric compound supply, his tank unsuited for oxygen. Gravity pulls him down like nothing he’s ever experienced as he drops heavily to the surface. He expected the dense atmosphere, but it still presses down on him like a weight.
Crystallic compounds crunch underfoot, and he shouldn’t consider himself shocked when he comes across the first series of Kerm, or as he knows them, Methalonians. He supposes the name isn’t very fitting, however, given that they’re unnatural. They killed whatever species was more befitting of the name.
The first one turns towards him, its head swiveling as its iridescent shell reflects the gorgeous light of the crystalline environment aiding it to blend in. It regards Sukuna with an entirely animal head tilt that might fool someone who doesn’t know their methods, but Sukuna isn’t fooled. He grips his EMP gun tighter, preparing himself for the inevitable. While the Kerm believe he’s fooled, he sets down a heavy containment pod, opening it with a hiss.
When he faces the group again, all fifteen or so creatures are facing him. Their wings buzz and hiss as they communicate, their antennae twitching through the air as they coordinate what Sukuna already knows to be an attack.
This time, however, he’s prepared. The first one approaches him slowly and curious, feigning a kindness they don’t possess. The brutish alien keeps up the facade in an effort to keep himself from being buried by a sea of Kerm.
He reaches a suited-up and reinforced hand out to the creature, watching its mandibles click together. It approaches slowly, peering up at Sukuna’s outwardly non-threatening demeanor. Its head tilts as it nears, nudging his fingers like it might provoke him.
But it’s not Sukuna that breaks the facade first. The creature zips forward, smashing its mandibles together where Sukuna’s hand just was, giving him enough time to lunge back. As the rest of the group moves in a coordinated hive towards him, he unleashes a small EMP attack that temporarily disorients the Kerm, sending them in more varied directions.
One that approaches him meets the fate of a heated vibrating dagger to its thorax, while another leaps at Sukuna’s shoulder. He spins, wrenching his shoulder in an effort to dislodge it from his suit, but its mandibles dig into the material. The material is impenetrable by their mandibles, but fuck if it doesn’t hurt anyway.
Hissing, Sukuna throws an arm around the Kerm to prevent it from leaving as he pulls the gut-ridden blade from the previous Kerm to lodge it into the next one. He remains largely in control, throwing one off to tear another from its own thorax with the blade the following moment until the smaller crowd re-coordinates itself. Sukuna launches another small EMP attack, throwing two of the group off, while the remaining four all leap at him at once. Mandibles clamp down on one shoulder, while another clings to his abdomen, choosing to methodically jab at the spots where his organs are.
Smart little asshole.
Sukuna recoils, hissing as pain rips through his stomach just beyond where his second mouth can reach. It momentarily disorients him, knocking him to the ground long enough that the remaining two Kerm are able to pile themselves onto him as well. They separate him from both the EMP and dagger, the sound of the vibrating tool over the crystalline earth grating on his nerves.
He shuts his eyes tightly, attempting to reset himself as he evaluates how much he’s been stamped down. He grits his teeth, grunting as he manages to lift an arm and throw one creature off with enough force to disorient it. The freed hand allows him to get enough leverage to flip himself over, slamming one hand straight through the creature’s shell. With one fierce glare, he flips the fight back in his favor, grabbing an incoming Kerm by the head and crushing it in one hand.
With a majority of his movement freed, he picks up the EMP again, blasting the remaining three insects and smashing them too, leaving only the one he tossed aside earlier. He grabs it by the thorax, wrangling it between two arms as he shoves it into the containment box with his spare set of hands. Once it’s inside, he lets out a huff, staring down at his gut-covered suit. He’ll need to be sure he carefully washes himself and his suit after this, given that he doesn’t want to expose you to more diseases that the bioweapon could have hidden beneath its shell.
Getting back to his feet, he better evaluates the surrounding environment. There’s evidence of trees, of civilization and buildings in the distance now turned to rubble and ash. He doesn’t have much sulfuric compounds left to breathe, so he figures he’ll do a once-over of the planet from within the ship, focusing his efforts back on a cure for you as he returns to the safety of his ship.
–
Splaying the Kerm’s insides across his workbench proves to be a disgusting feat. Even within a containment box, the smell permeates the damn room. He ends up moving it into the hangar, which by some grace has better filtration, but Sukuna finds himself further beaten down by the smell. As if his failures weren’t enough.
Unlike his cells, the Kerm’s stem cells do attack the Alveolarium… Unfortunately, no matter how he attempts to alter them, they only ever seem to act as aggressors.
For as smart as Sukuna is, he finds himself missing your curiosity. Your stupid questions. You challenge him. Not just because you’re noisy, but because you’re far more willing to approach the unlikely with an open mind. You lack the knowledge he has, specializing in natural biology where Sukuna excels in chemistry, cytology, geology, archeology, and engineering, but he’s also had a few extra years. Your lack of specific knowledge allows you to excel in general knowledge that Sukuna found himself praising you for.
Mentally. It’s easier to show fondness through actions than words, after all.
Bringing a hand up to his eyes, he presses a thumb and forefinger into them, yawning as every continued failure sets him back not just physically, but mentally too.
He collapses at the base of your bed, your breathing setting his nervous system into a furious rage of emotion as he realizes for the first time how close he truly is to losing you, with no cure in sight. Your species is weak in every sense of the word. Your muscles lack the build that Simurians have, your brain’s capacity is low, your immune system could be knocked over by a harsh wind, and yet Sukuna can’t help but find you endearing. Your lifespan is barely a smear in the grand scheme of his life, and yet the brutish alien, a species who mates for life, finds himself wondering how many ways you might be able to throw his life into disarray.
He wants your annoying quips. He wants your too-loud rambles. He wants to feel you warm in his arms, your eyes bright and wide as he shows you a Simurian mountaintop in some dumb-looking suit of his creation.
He slams his head back against your bed with enough force to rattle the very stone that makes it up. Dragging his hands down his face, the most he can do is stare at the experiments as one by one the timers go off and he’s left with one failure after another. His gaze splits as he looks between not just one, but four separate failures. Pushing his hands back through his hair, he balls his fists within the strands, eyes shut tight. Sitting so close to you, he still feels far. He finds himself mourning something he has yet to lose.
You haven’t awoken in several days, and as much as he wishes he could equate it to illness, the fact is that you’re dying. He can pump as many nutrients as he wants straight into your body without allowing your stomach the opportunity to reject his food, it’ll only do so much when it’s not your stomach fighting you anymore. It’s your lungs.
Every round of failed experiments is another scathing tear at his wounds as he leans against your bed on the floor. His gut aches where the Kerm attempted to strategically puncture his suit and beneath his performance longsleeve are several mild puncture wounds that only serve as annoyances in the grand scheme of things.
“I’m the foolish one,” he states simply out of the blue. “Not you.” He doesn’t follow it up with a long-winded explanation or flourish, it’s as simple as he makes it. You only ever did what you thought was right, giving every living creature the benefit of the doubt. It landed you in a cell, parked in his garage, but god damn it. You gave life your all. You lived without regrets. Sukuna’s lifespan trumps yours, and yet he lives with every weight he’s ever conjured still boiling under his skin.
He’s spent over a hundred years building himself into an impenetrable wall. The kind of man that doesn’t let his past haunt him. Yet here you are, under his skin like a leech and wrapped around his mind with roots that dig straight for his hearts.
He’s so wrapped up in his thoughts that he doesn’t feel your hand at first, as it slips into his hair. He jolts when at last he feels movement against his head, whipping up to face you. He meets your eyes from barely over the bed, heavily hooded as you regard him with a small smile in spite of yourself.
His shoulders fall as he approaches the side of the bed again, resting his head atop his arms. His lips press into a thin line as he doesn’t just let you reach back out, but leans into your touch against his cheek.
“You know,” you rasp, unsurprisingly coughing. “I was wrong about Kerm, but I wasn’t–” another cough, “wrong about you.”
His brow furrows, a deep scowl overtaking his features. Your words sound startlingly like the kind of thing that one might say when they’re coming to terms with the decisions they made in life, further wrenching his hearts.
“Thanks for trying to help Earth.”
He growls and clicks his displeasure with your words, earning a laugh that feels warm even in sickness. When you quiet down, his muttering is nearly unintelligible. “I don’t care about Earth.”
“I know,” you smile, your thumb trailing down his cheek as one lower eye flutters shut. “I like you too, Sukuna.”
He allows himself the peace of shutting his eyes, kneeling beside your bed with his cheek in your hand until his legs go numb and you pass out again. Pain spikes through his knees when he finally rises and straightens them, sighing as he wearily looks over his experiments again. His gaze passes over a hologram displaying one of his cells idly standing by as he considers what the hell he could possibly be doing wrong when something finally hits him like the full force of a jet engine as something dangerous surges into his chest– hope.
His cells are part of a system. A system capable of sending electromagnetic pulses like thoughts to his cells in order to trigger mutation. Sure, the cells will mutate on their own no matter what you put them through, but could the reason they aren’t accepting your cells be because there’s no system to indicate to his cells that there’s an issue?
He’s been approaching the whole situation under the lens of his cells being anti-pathogens, when in fact they’re closer to mutagens. They aren’t a cure, they would never be accepted as a cure. In fact, he’s willing to wager a bet that you’re right and there is a cure that could be pulled from the Kerm, but he doesn’t have the time to figure that out.
His cells could very well re-write your DNA. They could overwrite important information, they could make you more sick. He doesn’t know. His experiments will never work without a live test subject. But on the flip side, they could save you. They could mutate your cells into something capable of handling Alveolarium. Quite frankly, when both alternatives are death, he’s willing to give it a shot.
He moves across the room quickly, hitting a dial that brings to life a hologram in order to act as a whiteboard. He takes your weight and general body size, measuring the exact quantity of his cells that would need to be injected in order to fight a full system infection without the dose being lethal, or possibly mutating beyond control. Gene therapy is a risky move by all means, but he doesn’t have any other options.
He moves through the lab with ease as he extracts a new sample from his lower arm, moving it in a box to ensure his cells aren’t contaminated. He isolates the cells necessary at a dosage he prays is non-lethal and injects them into a sample of healthy stem cells you provided before you got sick to act as carriers.
With a final check of his calculations, he moves to your bedside, praying the healthy cells trick your body into accepting his cells. Sucking in a breath, he injects the gene therapy, and pulls up a chair to wait.
There’s nothing ceremonious about the wait. Sukuna busies himself by continuing to search for a cure, something you can send to Earth assuming he didn’t rip through the return vessels in his effort to get to you. After every pair of gloves he tosses aside, he always returns to the same chair to wait, resting his head on the edge of your bed.
On the second day when he wakes up with his hair glued to his forehead by sweat and drool dripping down his cheek, he moves to wipe it when he finds his head weighed down. He blinks, unable to see past the arms crossed under his cheek, but when he lifts his gaze just slightly, he finds you’ve shifted for the first time in days. Your hand is settled on the back of his head, fingers curled into his hair.
When he tries to tilt his head, your hand falls away again. You’re still asleep, but the hope in his chest surges.
Your face fills out properly over the next couple of days. He seems to miss your waking hours whenever they do happen on his horribly varied sleep schedule, but your coughing fits begin to die down and your breathing evens out.
It’s almost a week later when you wake up with an ache in your muscles like no other, but relief in your chest. The ceiling should be unfamiliar, but even within your fever dreams, you knew glimpses of him were real. Your head lolls to the side, the bedding beneath you rough in spite of its conformity to your body. Across the room, Sukuna moves around the ship in a frantic bout of quick movements. There’s a crudeness to his movements that doesn’t fit the put-together Simurian you’ve come to know. You catch a glance of the side of his face, noting the dark circles under two eyes that rest in a familiar fashion on his face, while those that sit angled along flesh are simply squinting more than usual.
He yawns, betraying the obvious. There’s a slight tremor to his hand as he uses a pipette to transfer cells. He sets a phial down, his lower arms heavily leaning over his work table. It’s obvious weariness plagues him to his marrow, but he doesn’t stop for a second.
“Sukuna?”
Crash!
In the flurry of his limbs leaving the table as he whips around, he sends an empty flask to the floor. Not a single one of his eyes shifts to follow the mess, frantically flickering around your face as he searches for signs of illness. Rather than the dull look he’s faced for the past week, he finds a gleam that he mentally pockets for later. He moves towards you in slow, lumbering steps like he doesn’t quite believe what he’s seeing, before lowering down to a kneel. His skin is deeply calloused, far denser than human skin, as his hands come to rest on your cheeks.
You find yourself biting back a smile as the stoic alien you’ve come to know keeps his intense gaze on you as he nuzzles his nose against you. You may not know Simurian, but you know animals. In some species, that’s a kiss.
“Sukuna?”
He hums.
“Was that a kiss?”
His lips press into a line, nudging his nose slightly against yours again like action is easier than a reply.
“Humans kiss with their lips,” you explain softly.
He doesn’t move immediately, his face a breadth from yours. Something cocky and knowing gleams within his gaze. A laugh bubbles from within your chest but it comes out as a cough, which you attempt to stifle, pulling back momentarily. Sukuna drags you back like he can’t stand the mere thought of distance.
Your laughter subsides quickly as you try hard not to grin.
The stoic Simurian’s breath comes out in an eager puff against your face. “Lips are usually for other things,” he offers with a suggestive tone. But he doesn’t know how to deny you anymore. The corner of his lips quirk up as he surges forward, engulfing you in a claiming kiss. You don’t know what exactly a kiss means for a thousand-year-old being that spends their life with one person when you only live a fraction of his lifespan, but in spite of that you don’t think you mind finding out.
Everything about the kiss is all-encompassing. His smell floods your senses first, the sort of sterile musk that comes with a man working himself to the bone in a lab. His taste doesn’t match it, though. There’s a spice to his taste that isn’t Earthly in nature, but it’s pleasant like a warm herbal tea. It’s intoxicating and addicting all the same, the kind of taste you could get drunk on, should he let you.
His grip doesn’t let up, hands sliding up the base of your scalp as he tips your head back to deepen the kiss. Your hands fly up to his collar, curling into the thick material of his muscle-tight shirt for purchase. It’s dizzying, and not just because your head is spinning with the sheer amount of thoughts bouncing around your overactive mind like ping pong balls. His lips move against yours in the kind of rhythm that doesn’t just insinuate passion, but something far deeper. A desperation that can only be conveyed through actions.
You can sense his resistance as you pull back, but you find yourself laughing as your hands splay across his broad chest. “Sukuna,” you tease. “I’m feeling better, but you still need to give my lungs a break.” You laugh airily, chest rising and falling heavily as he refuses to break contact.
The lumbering giant’s shoulders tense for a moment, then relax, his hands gliding down the column of your neck to rest on your shoulders. He takes the opportunity to envelop you in all four arms, grateful to find you’re no longer shivering. You don’t hesitate for even a moment, arms snaking around his neck as you bury your face into his neck.
“How’d you do it?”
He inhales, letting out a breath of relief as he relaxes into your grip in spite of his awkward hunched position over your bedside. “My cells aren’t like yours. They react to neural oscillations and signals sent through electromagnetism. We were trying to use them like anti-pathogens, but they aren’t.”
“They’re mutagens,” you finish the thought in an excited burst, pulling back to face him with those wonder-filled wide eyes he’s come to adore. “You did gene therapy.”
He chuffs proudly, puffing out his chest under your hands. It’s somehow far more endearing up close.
“Wait, oh my god–” You proclaim suddenly like you’ve come to the greatest realization on earth. “Do you think that means I can breathe sulfur? Or– Or maybe I can grow extra arms,” you murmur, wiggling your fingers over his chest.
His expression deadpans. “No.”
“But if you changed my DNA with alien DNA–”
“That’s–” He breathes out a sigh, amused with your overactive imagination and how fast your mouth moves before your mind can catch up. “That’s not how gene therapy works.”
“Bummer,” you pout. It’s clear the word perplexes him as he narrows his eyes, but he cracks a hint of a smile. He gets it regardless.
You let the moment hang, laughing airily as the reality of your last two weeks truly hits you. Sukuna doesn’t handle the situation with the same lightness as you do, pulling you back into his chest and muffling your laughter altogether. You wrap your arms around his torso once more in reassurance. “I’m still here,” you promise.
“Stupid human,” he mutters, his chin dipping over your shoulder as he locks you tightly against him with a squeeze. When you bury your face into his broad chest, he winces, hiding it behind another squeeze as he attempts to ignore the meager injuries left behind by the Kerm. “Stupid, weak human.”
“I know,” you murmur into his chest. “I know. But I’m here now.”
–
The difference between Human and Simurian traditions turns out to be greater than you think. Not in the sort of grand way you might expect, but in the sense that Sukuna doesn’t quite seem to know what to make of being close. Of course, Humanity aims to choose a person for life, but not without trial and error. For Simurians, there’s some sort of instinct. Something Humans don’t possess that has Sukuna uncertain how to navigate the idea of courting you. In particular, while you’re still recovering.
Your pulse increases to a steady waking beat as your lashes flutter open. You’ve gotten accustomed to the strange way the stone bed conforms to your shape, but you have yet to grow accustomed to the way you’re greeted every morning, even a week into your recovery where– by and large– you just have a cough.
You’ve barely roused when Sukuna’s hand is firmly planted on your jaw, tilting your head left and right. “Nngh, Sukuna,” you sigh, fingers wrapping around his wrist. He doesn’t budge, not satisfied until he’s determined that you’re still on a steady road to recovery. His fingers loosen once he lets out a steady breath, his palm sliding down to your cheek. He doesn’t hesitate for so much as a moment to lower himself to his knees and brush his nose against yours. The Simurian nuzzle is something you’ve grown fond to waking up to and even in your half-asleep state, you find yourself unable to hold back a grin.
“You haven’t coughed yet.”
“I just woke up,” you reply groggily, amused.
“You’re better.”
“Getting there,” you chide, staring down at the mountain of a man on his knees for you. Every morning gets easier, and every morning you have a menacing-looking puppy greeting you at your bedside. It makes recovery easier, especially when you’re forced to eat some sort of alien vegetables he cultivated for you upon converting his compost room to a garden as the only food your body won’t reject, alongside nutrients he continues to inject into your bloodstream.
Slowly pushing up to a sitting position, you suppress a cough that comes across as a personal affront to the bulky alien, who stands upright with you. “How did the experiment from last night go?” You query, your vision still mildly blurry from sleep as you look over the holograms opposite you.
“We’re close,” he murmurs, long strides taking him across the room. “Your hypothesis was right. The Kerm cells react to heat, but not too much heat. I was killing them before.”
Rubbing your eyes, you smile. “So we’re close to a cure that we can send back?”
He pauses, facing you. He’d been unwilling to send his own cells back to the very people who sent you to your death, but at your request, he’d continued experimentation for a cure that didn’t require gene therapy. “I don’t understand why you care.”
“There were eight billion Humans, Sukuna.” Your head tilts in sympathy for the fact that he resents a whole species for their treatment of you. “The hundred or so involved in sending me here shouldn’t be responsible for punishing the rest of the species.”
“Punishing,” he repeats the word, though he doesn’t need an explanation when he can use context clues.
Pushing to your feet, you walk on weakened feet to join him, sidling up to his warmth. “You know, I never got the chance to thank you.”
Two eyes flicker down to you, questioning, while the other two evaluate the weakened state of your muscles.
“You’re breathing oxygen.”
“I am.”
“And you risked getting Alveolarium from me.”
He stubbornly looks up. “I did.”
If there’s one thing that remains the same between your species, it would seem it’s embarrassment. Sukuna is over one thousand years old with no partner. You can only assume he never found someone, or prefers solitude. Or, more aptly, preferred. It’s safe to say he doesn’t know how to navigate your healthy return to his life.
As you jovially grin at his side, Sukuna adjusts the temperatures of his experimentations, each by a fraction of a degree, before he turns to face you. The tension in his shoulders has released upon seeing you eagerly facing him with clasped hands. “Yes, human?”
“Can I see the rest of your ship?”
“Not until you’re well.”
“I’m literally fine!”
He crosses both pairs of arms over his built chest. “You coughed.”
“There was something in my throat,” you counter.
His lip curls in haughty frustration. He clicks with intermittent syllables that you’re unable to put together. Missing the word, he goes with the simplest train of thought. “No.”
Stepping towards him, your palms settle over his lower veiny forearms. Your thumbs rub small circles into his tough skin, the hair on his arms noticeably standing on-end. “Please? I promise I’m okay.” His eyes narrow a fraction. “I wanna see how you keep your food, and where you’re growing those turnip things. Oh–! And the bridge, and– Wait, your ship is so big, what else do you even have here? Do you–”
He huffs loudly, but you note that in spite of the scowl pulling his brow down, relief floods his gaze and his lips fluctuate wildly between a frown and smile. It doesn’t take much for him to give in, loosening an arm as he wraps it around your shoulders in an effort to steady you as he leads the way through the ship.
It’s massive beyond anything you could ever comprehend. Metals you’re not even positive exist on Earth line the walls and natural bioluminescent amoebas are used to light long stretches of hall where wasting energy is unnecessary. Light only exists where needed, like bathing a large medical bay with a missing bed and several bottles and boxes thrown astray as though the room was flipped upside down in search of supplies. Your heart surges with something dangerous at the sight, as you know the stoic creature beside you– who doesn’t so much as bat an eye at the mess– did this for you. He tossed aside equipment and tore through supplies in order to keep you alive, who barely lives a fraction of his lifespan.
Hell, he’s almost twice your height and keeps walking at your unsteady and slow pace without so much as a peep. His hand shuffles from your shoulder to your back as he briefly points out a food hall complete with a garden and a large freezer for overgrowth and cured meats. There’s a pungent smell to the room befitting of what was once a compost bay.
“Is this what I’ve been eating?”
He chuffs, lifting a heavy arm to point at what you would otherwise describe as a radish. He states its name in his mother tongue, not bothering to translate given that the syllables thrown in between each click sound painfully like ‘engine’ and he’s heard you use that word before, so it simply doesn’t translate into a word you can both use. You nod your approval as he continues his tour with little fanfare, his hand gliding from your back to your elbow.
“I’m lucky,” he states, “they’re the only plant that will grow in oxygen from what I tried.”
Next, he leads the way through an exercise hall, a gravity converter, and a communications bay. His ship dwarfs yours in every possible way and it’s all intended for just one person. The real enigma, however, is the way his hand keeps shifting on you, like he isn’t quite sure what to do with himself now that he has you back and you’ve kissed.
“I didn’t think you’d be so awkward,” you blurt out without a care in the world, pleased as you tilt your head to find his expression narrowing just slightly.
“Awkward?” He searches for confirmation despite being able to put the context clues together.
“You keep moving your hand. Seven times now, Sukuna,” you tease, your grin widening.
“I’m guiding you,” he grumbles dismissively.
“I don’t need a hand to guide me through a ship. I’m a good follower.”
His gaze glides to the side, teeth gritting as he clicks his disapproval. “Noisy.”
Laughing, you give him a nudge that pulls his attention back. His usual aloof gaze briefly flickers across your face like he expects signs of sickness before fixing on your chiding grin. “You’re allowed to be nervous, Sukuna.”
“I’m not.” He growls out some sort of curse word in Simurian, continuing on the walk through the ship as he finds the explanation he needs. “I don’t know Human traditions. I don’t know how to move forward.”
You bite back a smile at the sweet admission. “Well, humans are a bit different.” You give him a thoughtful peek from beneath your lashes, catching the way it disengages the tension in his shoulders. “We try to stay partners for life, but we’re complicated. Emotions get in the way, people change–”
“You would separate from your partner in such a short life?” Sukuna sounds utterly shocked at the thought, his nose wrinkling as he stops dead in his tracks. He turns to face you, staring at you like he wants to shake the mere idea from existence by your shoulders.
“We try not to. But sometimes it’s inevitable.” You shrug. “Sometimes you fall out of love with the person you marry or date, or sometimes things change or distance gets in the way–”
“Then you talk about it. Or visit.” His voice comes out clipped with edge. You can’t tell whether he intends it to.
“Our transportation isn’t very advanced. The ship I was in,” you explain, pointing over your shoulder, “it’s the tenth one capable of space travel beyond our own moon.”
The brutish alien’s scowl lessens as something of far greater importance occurs to him suddenly. You allow the silence that stretches on as you recognize his troubled expression. He’s grappling with something he doesn’t know how to address. The ship stands by idly in the moment where Sukuna straightens, settling a pair of hands on his hips while the others cross over his chest. He doesn’t move as he speaks with a flat tone that almost conveys solemnity. “I can take you back. To Earth. Along with the cure, once it’s ready.”
Somewhere between the kiss, the illness, and the acceptance that your fate was to die, you forgot that there was another option. “What if I don’t want to?”
Sukuna’s gaze travels listlessly left and right. It’s clear this is something he’s considered. After all, imprisonment awaits you on Earth regardless of the cure. What point is there in returning? And yet, Simuria would be imprisonment in a roundabout way, too. You can’t breathe the sulfuric gas. He isn’t even confident in your ability to withstand the barometric pressure in one of the suits in his ship.
He doesn’t answer immediately, either pretending something caught his attention by tilting his second ear towards something, or genuinely listening to something. Regardless, he glances aside as he considers your question before proceeding to completely ignore your query. “How do Humans wed?” He mutters, as though the concept that he doesn’t know makes him mad.
“We date first,” you chuckle. “We impress one another. We go out and do fun things together. We give gifts and spend time being intimate. Like, cuddling and kissing. Oh–! And then if things are going well, one person presents the other with a ring with a pretty stone in the middle and if things are right, that person says yes and then they wed and there’s a big ceremony, and then both people get rings, and friends come visit, and–”
Sukuna bends down to your height, nudging your nose once, then kissing you. “What’s a ring?”
Giddily, you can’t help a giggle as he shuts you up without complaint of your noisiness, simply backtracking to the portion of your rambling he doesn’t understand. “It goes around your finger.” Instinctively reaching for his face, your finger traces along the edge of the protruding plate from his face. One of his eyes twitches, but he allows you to do so. “It signifies to humans that you’re in a committed relationship with another human.” Your finger traces the side of his face as he stays bent to your height. “Do Simurians have something like that?”
“Tattoos.”
Your eyes brighten. “Humans do that sometimes in place of wedding rings, too. Basically, you present one ring when you want to get married, and then when you do get married, you get matching tattoos around your fingers instead of matching rings. It’s actually really–”
He kisses you again, that familiar spice of tea flooding your senses pleasantly.
Undeterred, you inquire about Simurian traditions. “What about for you?”
“We simply… Know.”
You pout at the mere thought. “Like love at first sight?” You whisper eagerly.
He nudges your nose, growling his disapproval. “Instinct.” He straightens. “No rings. The date of the ceremony is decided based on when other Simurians are available.”
“Oh right, they’re like holidays.”
He chuffs.
“Were they always, though? You said… I mean, you–”
“There used to be over a thousand of us, yes.” He doesn’t bother skirting around the question. “No, we didn’t always do things this way. We used to be selective.” He sucks in a breath, pushing past the question with little fanfare. “The ceremony has a fire,” he states now that he has the word after some experimentation involving it, “and a ceremonial dance.”
“I can’t picture you dancing,” you giggle.
His eyes narrow. “I don’t. The dancers dance.”
“Of course, of course, my bad,” you grin.
“Then, we braid one anothers’ hair, and an elder tattoos us.”
You smile at the differing culture. “That sounds beautiful.” Your gaze slowly rises to his short, pushed back hair. “Your hair isn’t very long, though.”
“Our hair has to be long enough to braid before Simurians can be wed. Or in some cases, exceptions can be made.”
“So you’d have to grow it out?” When he chuffs, you tilt your head with a grin. “That’s kinda hot.”
Catching the compliment in your tone, Sukuna shifts, a rare smirk crossing his features as he tracks the way your hands rest on your hips.
“Are we talking like a braid in your whole hair or just a small portion?”
“A small portion.”
Your grin widens. “That’s kinda cute. You’d be like a Jedi apprentice! Only, I don’t think it’s fitting to call you an apprentice, you’re more like–”
“Human.” Sukuna’s chiding carries far less annoyance since your recovery. “I don’t know ‘Jedi’.”
“Oh–! Right, yeah, I guess you guys don’t have Star Wars. Well, at least you avoided the sequel trilogy,” you mutter more to yourself than him when he lets out a huff as you turn to explore his ship again. He no longer leads the way, allowing you to explore all on your own, only keeping a hand on you to ensure steadiness as though your dwindling cough might blow you over. At least, that’s what he would tell you if you asked why he insists on keeping a hand on you.
His ship is vast. It could be compared to several acreages where your ship is barely the equivalent of a small apartment. The size is staggering, and you begin to realize exactly what he meant when he said Simurians enjoy having large properties to themselves.
“So, do your instincts just like… line up with the other person?”
“Generally.”
“How do you tell one another that you’re in love?”
Sukuna is silent for so long that you stop at the precipice that leads down into a storage and whip around to face him. He’s scowling at you with that kind of look that has you realizing your bug-based brain has missed a very Human– or in this case, Simurian– social cue.
“We nuzzle.”
You purse your lips as you’re faced with an intensity that’s oddly sweet given the frown it’s accompanied by. It’s not like you haven’t figured out by now that Sukuna is fond of you, but the reality of Humanity and Simurians is that he’ll outlive you. You’ll be nothing more than a distant memory by the time his hair goes gray. Assuming it does that, anyway. That’s not even beginning to address the planetary differences, atmosphere issues and dietary needs amongst other things.
Or the fact that you’ve known him for only a few weeks. Unusual by Human standards to be in talks of marriage, but by Simurian standards, you suppose he’s implying he chose you already. As much as the very Human part of you wants to call him yours, the scientist in you knows only compatibility. He’s a Thorny Devil Stick Insect to your Isopod Cubaris. Everything about the situation is absurd and your brain and your heart are fighting for keeps– Sukuna, or the reality that you should return to Earth and let Sukuna find a Simurian that allows his instincts to kick in.
As you stare blankly at him with pursed lips, he steps closer into your space, examining the way you fiddle with the hem of the hoodie draped over your shoulders. His movement kicks you back into the present.
“O-oh–! The nose, uh– The nose thing? The kiss?”
He huffs, shockingly cross as he averts his gaze. “Yes, the nose thing.”
You swallow hard, the reality of your harshly pounding heart bringing to light every issue you’ve already gone over in your head in spite of the fact that you’ve spent so long craving the touch of this ten foot tall man you have no right to. “Sukuna, I barely live like a thirtieth of your life span.”
The noise he lets out is something between an affirmative chuff that he knows and a grumble of sorts. He lets the moment hang, unsure what to make of it before brushing it off with something too simple. “Instincts,” he grumbles, nearing you again as his face lowers to yours. Without knowledge of dates or Earthly traditions, the most he can do is press his lips to yours. There’s something pleading in it that melts every reservation your brain screams at you.
His lips are never soft, neither in texture nor movement. He’s a being that lumbers around and his strength is beyond obvious. You feel that, too, in the way he aims to claim you, should you let him. When he leaves the ball in your court, you press forward, wrapping your arms around his neck as the kiss deepens.
Your tongue slips against his lips like an invitation that he doesn’t hesitate to grasp as he takes charge again. He still tastes of something with an overall spicy tang that you can’t place, but it’s no less pleasant now than it was the first time. No longer weakened by illness, he takes the opportunity to lift your thighs with his lower arms while his upper arms support your torso as he hoists you up, straightening. His lower hands knead your thighs in what feels like a subconscious manner, thumbs gliding over the stretch marks and scars of a life not yet fully lived.
He stumbles towards the wall, caging you between him and it, the strange coarse texture of the metals that make up his ship cool against the spot where your hoodie’s ridden up. He presses in, his lips moving faster, his body pressed against yours so tightly that you can feel the fact that his stomach mouth is panting.
The things that does to your body should be studied. Just as you grip him tighter, fingers curling into fists in his hair, he pulls back with a strange rigidity to him. “You never– I can still bring you back. To Earth,” he offers through pants in a tone that doesn’t suit his usual clipped and formal one. The uncertainty swimming in his gaze is unbefitting of him.
“Wh–” You look around like someone might be around to share your incredulous stare. “You’re asking that now?”
He swallows hard, the movement betraying his embarrassment. Good to know he’s capable of that, truly. “I want to give you the option.”
“Is it greedy of me to ask for both?”
He tilts his head curiously, something of a clicking noise coming from deep within his throat as he places just enough distance between your faces to take in your expression.
“It would be nice to make sure the cure gets delivered to the right people when we get there,” you admit, “but I’d like to say bye to Shoko and my family.”
He sucks in a breath. “You lost ten years getting here. You would lose another ten returning, and–” his hands dig into your thighs, his shoulders tightening as he calculates distance based on where you identified the Milky Way in your many scientific discussions prior to your illness. “Seven more, at least, on the trip to Simuria.”
Your gaze falls. “Oh.” Leaning back against the cool wall that suddenly feels nice on the back of your head, your fingers curl into Sukuna’s multi-sleeved compression shirt. “So I’d be over fifty,” you murmur. It shakes you to your core, and you lean into Sukuna.
He adjusts his arms to embrace you, nuzzling his face into the crook of your shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
The silence that follows is a welcome one of mourning. You had accepted death sealed in a tin can in the void of space. You had accepted death faced with illness, grateful to have met such a wonderful otherworldly being. You had been satisfied knowing you fell for someone, even if it never came to fruition. It had all been enough.
Until Sukuna came barreling through the hull keeping you imprisoned, unwilling to let death be an option.
To say you fell harder would be an understatement. If the option ever presented itself, there was never a question what you would choose. There is no question what you’re choosing.
After an extended period of silence, you lift your head from Sukuna’s shoulder. “The pods aren’t too damaged to make it to Earth?”
He blinks a number of times, questioning your decision-making. “I didn’t damage them.”
“Then… As long as my friends and family know I made it to the cure, that’s enough.”
Slowly, Sukuna sets you back on the ground, a surprising amount of conflict in the way he runs his tongue over his teeth, casting his glance at the makeshift garden whose artificial sun has set.
The low bioluminescence of the hall light glows softly over his features as you watch his expression pull taut. “You don’t seem happy.”
“I am,” he argues, flashing you a glare as he mutters something under his breath in Simurian.
“Then what’s wrong?”
He sucks in a breath, stepping forward as he leans his massive form down to your height. “You’ll be stuck aboard this ship until I can figure out something better.”
“I could use a suit!” You offer gleefully. “Actually, that would be kinda cool if you think about it–” you begin, your mind wandering. “It’ll be kinda like all the movies and shows I watched growing up and then I can come back to my little– no, actually this place is huge– my huge ship, or I guess our huge ship–”
Sukuna doesn’t interrupt you for once, chuffing not in affirmation but amusement. There’s almost a purr to it as you prattle on about how every kid on Earth dreams of being an astronaut and here you are on an alien ship. He casts you a sidelong glance as you make commentary on the hot alien company you’ve found, sidling up to him with a grin as you compliment him.
“Hey, um– Do you wait until marriage?” You query with warmth in your cheeks, sending the conversation in a complete one-eighty.
“For what?”
“Sex.”
Sukuna’s jaw shifts as he regards the small being beside him. “Sex?”
“Um–” Your gaze averts as your cheeks warm further. “Like reproduc–” you pause when you narrowly catch his lip quirking up out of the corner of your eye. “You know what I mean. You’re fucking with me.” You face him with a deadpan expression.
The creature rumbles in amusement. “Noisy human,” he chides. “I’m not having sex with you here. My ship is meant for one. We don’t wait, but this is unsightly.”
“Oh, so now you have decorum?”
Using context clues to put together the meaning of your retort, he straightens. “When have I not?”
“You call me annoying all the time!”
“I call you noisy. And I’m right,” he puffs his chest out as he crosses his arms over his chest as he continues your little tour.
–
The long-awaited day comes far sooner than Sukuna could have imagined. After countless temperature adjustments and endless suggestions from you that may have had him rolling his eyes weeks ago, the fresh Kerm stem cells attack the infected Alveolar cells, curing them.
He straightens, watching the immediate reaction under the duress of an exact temperature, and replicates it once more. Then again. And again.
You’re already watching, on the edge of your seat as you set aside the roasted turnip you were eating. You both wait with bated breath as the fifth experiment comes out as a success.
“It worked,” you breathe, getting to your feet. “You did it.” Disbelief coats your tone, the dimmed lab lighting reflecting off of Sukuna’s gloves as he discards them and steps back, staring at all five successes.
“A cure,” he states. His disbelief is plain, but there’s something far greater woven within the way his fists ball up at his sides and his shoulders rise.
He failed once and his species suffered for it. Maybe it’s not Simuria, but Earth means something to you. And this time, he didn’t fail.
As control weaves itself back into his grasp, he stares down at his hands, sucking in a breath. Blinking as tears prick his waterline, he stays put so as to not reveal his vulnerability to you.
But you’re already bounding towards him, practically whipping yourself around his immovable form to hug him with unmatched ardor. “You did it!” Your whole body trembles with relief at the thought that just maybe Shoko is still out there, and this might save not just her, but your entire home. Your family.
With a sharp inhalation, Sukuna’s arms curl around you, lifting you effortlessly, as he hides his relief in your shoulder. “We did.”
But as you put together instructions for cell breeding and duplication and prepare the cure to be sent to Earth, so too comes the day Sukuna has been dreading.
Staring out the window after sending off the cure, you lean over the control panel, wide-eyed as the stars twinkle back at you. You whip around to face your companion, but your question is met with a solemnity you aren’t expecting. “What now? To Simuria?”
Sukuna’s lips are drawn into a frown. It’s not unbefitting of him, but the dullness of his cerise eyes tells another story.
The pieces fall into place with every ounce of tension in his musculature. The gleam in your eyes burns out like a solar system’s light at the realization that faces you. “You’re gonna destroy the planet.”
Two slanted eyes turn to face you, followed by the two more humanoid ones, his arms crossed over his chest as his heart pangs at your disappointment. He’ll never fault your compassion, but this is something he can’t let go.
“It’s a sacrifice,” he admits. “A few to save many.”
“I know they’re the cause of so much destruction but… do you have to? It feels… wrong. Even if they’re artificial.”
The alien’s voice is a low rumble. “You’re kind, little human. I like that.” The warmth in his compliment echoes over hard stone lining the interior of the bridge. “I flew over the planet’s surface while you recovered,” he explains as he stares down at the stark green gas buildup around the planet that’s been increasing the longer the ship sits just outside of orbit. “There are no other species on the planet. No flora, no fauna. Where there were cities, there are now ruins. Trees are shredded. There’s nothing left. If I leave them, they will evolve. Someday, they will escape, or another unsuspecting species will do what Simuria or Earth did.”
When he puts it like that, you can understand his reasoning. After two hundred years of searching for the Kerm, you can sympathize with his need to follow through.
“This decision doesn’t need to involve you. This would have happened regardless.”
You turn to face him with your arms around your middle, hugging yourself. “I know, but after letting that one go on Earth, I feel like I’m involved now.”
“You had no way of knowing. Then or now,” he excuses your action, something you’re grateful for, as much as you’ll always harbor that guilt and the vision of a creature tearing through a crew.
After a moment of silence as he allows you to grapple with reality, he moves towards the control panel, sliding his finger along a series of sensors as his ship turns to move further from the planet while more systems come to life as he prepares a laser.
The planet looks beautiful from a distance. Pinks and blues scatter the surface, while a gaseous blue-green surrounds the planet. You don’t doubt Sukuna told the truth, but your heart pangs to know that the gorgeous sight will dissipate in mere moments at the hands of someone you care for. Hell, maybe even at your hands, if you think too hard about it.
Guilt bubbles in the pit of your stomach as the whirring of Sukuna’s ship ramps up, a bright light beginning to form somewhere from the side of the bridge where you can’t see. The brutish alien glides his hand over a few sensors, pressing something with finality before returning to your side. His palm settles along your shoulder, pulling you into him as his chest rises and falls, his own guilt palpable in the air between you.
The whirring of the ship comes to a sharp halt, the laser’s light suddenly brighter than the sight of the sunlit planet itself. Sukuna’s grip on your shoulder tightens as he moves deftly, pulling you face-first into his chest and wrapping you tightly in all four arms to prevent you from seeing the blast. With one hand on the back of your head, he prevents you from turning your head.
Even in your peripherals, you see the light. You shut your eyes tight, Sukuna’s grip on you increasing as the blast goes off. Some part of you expects to hear something, forgetting that space is a vacuum, and you’re met with nothing. But nothing is worse. An entire species eradicated, and you’re met with nothing.
Sukuna’s heart pounds hard as he watches the planet splinter. His curse to live with, but never your burden to bear. He won’t let it be. He holds you tight until the planet’s remains are little more than debris floating every which way. You’re far enough away that whatever else was blasted into space isn’t visible, and for that, he’s grateful.
He holds you so long that he isn’t sure whether it’s for him, or for you.
“It’s done,” he murmurs, allowing you at last to look out over the wreckage as his ship’s whirring slowly winds down.
“They won’t hurt anyone else,” you murmur as your brow tents when you look over the wreckage of stone and crystal that floats where Methalon–as Sukuna referred to it– once was.
“Let’s hope that’s true,” he murmurs in return, his body hunching over as he drops his face to your head, eyes shutting tightly.
–
It’s a wonder you make it to Simuria at all. Not because of any extenuating circumstances, but because you have so many questions and queries and noisy impulses that Sukuna seems to perpetually scowl at you. On equal grounds, however, you catch him with a longing stare when you least expect it.
In the midst of a full explanation on the reproduction of Scorpions. When you’re desperately trying to yank a Simurian radish’s roots from the ground while it protests you, sweat dripping down your spine. Even when you’re sifting through the remnants of your belongings from Earth. He trails after you with nothing short of zealous loyalty.
When you arrive on Simuria, you’re trapped on the ship as you expected, only able to experience the planet from the bridge’s window. Still, it’s more than you ever could have hoped. Not unlike Methalon, Simuria is primarily crystalline in nature with petrified trees growing crooked from mountains. You’re able to expand your diet to more vegetables, supplementing your vitamins with injections that Sukuna is damn-near overbearing about.
“Sukuna, I can do it myself!” You try to insist as he nuzzles you, intermittent with kisses.
“It’s my job to take care of you,” he insists into your neck, nipping at the sensitive skin to distract you before pulling back to inject your daily supplement into your thigh while you’re distracted.
“You’re a menace!” You insist through giggles, and the injection becomes nothing more than an afterthought.
Still stoic, you see his warmth within that familiar four-eyed gaze. “You chose me without instincts,” he points out in a teasing manner, pride held within his straightened back. “Now come.”
Rolling your eyes at his shockingly witty retort as he gets too good at your language, you let him lead the way through the ship until you reach the exit door. You’ve only seen the planet’s surface through glass as he promised you an oxygen tank to withstand his atmosphere someday. It had been taking so long that you figured he ran into a snag, but as you stand at the bay and watch his hand glide along the sensors, you realize just how foolish you had been.
For the first time, the bay opens up and you find yourself instinctively trying to search for a way to protect yourself from the sulfur.
“Sukuna, I–”
“Give me your trust, ange.” He holds your bicep as you begin to back away, his gaze insistent.
Ange. The syllables that, intermittent with clicks and growls, make up the word ‘angel’ in Simurian, and french–the language of romance– and his favorite nickname for you. He had explained that when he takes you to meet the rest of his kind, it would be helpful for you to understand more of his language, and that if you paid attention to– and spoke– in only the syllables of the words, you would largely be able to communicate with his kind without issue. The clicks and growls come out of necessity of Simurians having broadly low voices and living in craters. The second ears and extra sounds in each word allow them to communicate from longer distances without the necessity for the syllables, but the same is true for communicating without the clicks. The syllables can also stand, mostly, on their own.
Your jaw tightens as you stop resisting his grip, allowing him to lead you through a small bay door where you’ve often seen him leave through the pressurized chamber. When he leads the way through it, there’s shockingly no change in barometric pressure. Or oxygen.
Off to the side of the ship where you aren’t able to see from the bridge, Sukuna has built out a massive domed biome with oxygen production within, allowing you to touch the surface for the first time. Your lips part as your feet scuff over the crystal-threaded dirt beneath your shoes.
You take small steps at first, glancing to the left where petrified trees protrude from a cliffside within the barrier of the biome, hanging over the mild seafoam that coastal waves leave behind. You tread towards the beach, your shoes sinking into the sand as you take in the smell of the salt water, your mouth still agape at how massive the space is.
To your right is a cavern that you know to be partially artificial, Sukuna’s home held within. You turn to face him, the shock of it all pinning you in place, when you’re met with another surprise.
He’s not down on his knees, but in his hand is a ring crafted from metal with a gorgeous off-pink crystal in the center, clearly carefully procured. It’s simultaneously gorgeous and obvious. The jewel matches his hair. It’s romantic, but it’s claiming too, something you’ve realized of Sukuna over the months that you’ve resided within his ship.
Your hand raises to cover your lips as you stare down at it. “Are you…?”
He runs a hand through his locks. “My hair’s not long enough yet for a ceremony,” he states, the strands falling through his fingers, “but I think your traditions are different.”
“I–” You breathe, staring down at the stone. It’s not like you didn’t know this would all happen in time, but to wrap your brain around being proposed to by an alien who made a barometric dome of oxygen for you is still a feat. Slowly, you reach for the gorgeous stone. “Yes. I’ll marry you.”
His brow scrunches as though there was no need for an answer and he already knew such a thing, but he hands the ring over regardless, watching as you slide it down your ring finger with a gorgeous grin.
“This is beautiful, Sukuna,” you breathe.
He chuffs pridefully, four palms finding their place along your body– two on your hips and two your waist. He doesn’t hesitate to pull you in, his fingers kneading your skin as he nuzzles you hard. His hooked nose rubs against yours before he dips down to kiss you passionately.
Given that kissing in its Simurian form is so different from Humanity’s version, it’s almost unfair just how good he is at it. Your body goes warm as you grip the Simurian robes he’s begun wearing now that he’s home.
Kisses with Sukuna are never slow and sweet. There’s intention behind every swipe of his tongue as he invades your mouth, pleasantly flooding your mouth not with the usual herbal tea you’ve come to expect, but something more minty, like there was thought behind this kiss that makes you smile into it.
He swallows your smile as he deepens the kiss, tilting your head up. There was a point where you were convinced you would die alone in the darkness of a welded ship without feeling the warmth of the sun on your skin again, and by some miracle, the very man who held your life in his hands now holds your heart instead.
When he pulls back, his thumb brushing your waist softly, he inhales, long and deep. “It isn’t Earth,” he concedes, a rare vulnerability within his baritone voice. “But I hope you’ll be happy here.”
Reaching for his cheeks, your thumb brushes the plating along the side of his face. “Sukuna, this is everything I could have hoped for.” You smile softly, turning around in his grip to stare out at the ocean as you shed your shoes and wriggle your toes in the sand, his hands never once leaving you. “I could live here for a lifetime.”
“Good,” his chest rumbles behind you as he chuckles, watching the tide swim ashore to your feet. “Because you very well might, ange.”
You grin up at him, wading further into the warm water. The planet is so much warmer than Earth due to the heavily gaseous atmosphere that the water isn’t cold like much of Earth’s oceans, pleasant around your ankles. “I’m kinda like Sandy Cheeks, if you think about it.”
“What?” Sukuna’s nose wrinkles, perplexed.
You laugh heartily, staring down at the stone around your finger. “Don’t worry about it.”
–
“Are you sure I look okay?”
“You,” your fiancé heartily purrs, “look like my dinner for tonight.”
The worst part is that you can see the maw on his stomach grinning from under his white robes.
You whack his arm softly, earning a playful chuff in reply as he looks you up and down, already mentally undressing you of the traditional Simurian wedding gown that Sukuna had an elder Simurian make for you, giving your measurements and no further details as he perplexed the poor elder on just who his bride-to-be might be.
The robes drape over your shoulders elegantly, the pale green accents of the off-white robes complimenting your traditional makeup. The sweet young (in Simurian years, anyway) woman doing your makeup and using traditional natural skin dyes hadn’t stopped gushing the entire time about Sukuna finding a mate, something you had picked up through broken understanding of their language.
You had even caught on that as it would turn out, he was the only Simurian adult who lacked a mate of those remaining.
“Have you picked out your tattoos yet?” She excitedly inquires, sure to slow her speech down so you can piece together what you can.
In extremely broken Simurian, you reply, “Yes! He chose design and I chose placement.”
She squeals in excitement, going on to tell you about how a Simurian named Dura recently took up tattooing, and you two would be his first wedding tattoos. There’s a certain solemnity in knowing that, with dwindling numbers, you very well may be his last, too.
Your nerves hit hard as you grow closer to emerging from Sukuna’s home where you’ve been prepping.
“If you’re still worried,” Sukuna offers as the young woman heads off to prepare herself for the ceremony, “just remember you and I are the only ones that can breathe oxygen. They’ll all be in suits.”
You’re pretty sure he just told you to picture them all in their underwear essentially, but it helps ease some nerves regardless.
“You’ve got a point,” you breathe out a sigh of relief before sucking in a breath. “Remind me how this goes again?”
Sukuna steps towards you, lowering himself to a knee to speak with you. His hand raises, his fingers gliding along your palm as he takes a moment to stare at your palms pressed together. To think that glass once separated you feels like another reality now. His gaze moves from your hands to your eyes as he intertwines your fingers. “You will wait in a tent by the beach as I am readied,” he explains, referring to his own traditional makeup that needs to be applied, his hair shaggy and a complete mess now that it’s much longer and ready to be braided. “Dabura is to wed us, as he’s my closest ally. He’ll come get you. There will be a ceremony with dancers and a large bonfire, then Dura will tattoo us.”
“And then?” You chew on your lower lip eagerly.
“Then,” he nears you, his fingers delicately brushing your robes. “The night is ours.”
You let out a breath, biting back a smile at the thought given that you had chosen to wait to have sex after all when it took so long to get you out of the ship.
“Are you nervous?” He gruffs, tilting your chin with a calloused hand.
“For the sex, or the wedding?”
“Either.”
It takes you a moment to consider the thought. “Yeah, I guess so. Both.”
“No one can understand your language. If you need something, just say so. I’ll be here the whole time.”
“You know, you never would have had me thinking you were so sweet when we first met.”
His brow twitches, his gaze averting. “I’m not.”
Stubborn.
“Noisy.”
Your eyes narrow. “Just curious, can you hear my thoughts?”
“No, why?”
“No reason.”
The night carries out as he promised. Seventy eight Simurians gather from far and wide, of tribes from a bygone era, of all ages and appearances. A fire is stoked and dancers do what you’re sure was once a much more elegant dance without the added bulk of spacesuits beneath traditional outfits.
The Simurians are kind to you, regardless of your broken ability to speak their language. They pick up on the occasional word in your language too, not unlike Sukuna.
Once the grand part of the ceremony is over, the rest of the Simurians take their seats on the beachside surrounding you and Sukuna as you both take small portions of your hair and braid them for one another. Your husband’s fingers are surprisingly deft, and upon finishing the braid, he gets the rest of his hair cut back down to his preferred length. Once the ceremony is complete, you’re met with cheers as Dabura declares you officially wed.
The horned alien is somehow more aloof than your husband, and the largely disinterested looks he shoots everyone you come to realize is his neutral. Were you not surrounded by far more boastful Simurians, you might even think they’re all like this.
Following the cheers of the ceremony, as things begin to quiet down, you’re approached by a Simurian with long, flowing white hair tucked into his spacesuit. He has a friendly look about him as he grins at you. “Dura,” he introduces himself, extending his hand.
Your brow raises at the realization he’s given you his name in your language, keen to the fact that your ability to speak is broken. Sukuna seems to respect that, taking a step back from the protective shadow he’s been all night with so many people so close to you, wary that someone might disprove his choice to wed a Human. You shake Dura’s hand in turn, offering your name as though he hasn’t been hearing it all night.
“Have you chosen a design?” He asks in his mother tongue.
He speaks slowly, allowing you to keep up. “Sukuna chose design, I chose– um–” your brow furrows as you attempt to place the syllables for the word in Simurian.
“Placement?” Dura steps in.
In a harsh tone, Sukuna steps forward, his lip curled into a snarl. “My wife is talking,” he snaps, the growls and clicks far more bitter than you’re used to hearing.
Dura’s hands raise. “I was just helping with words, Sukuna,” he smiles easily, waving the white flag before anything breaks out amongst the Simurians still lingering from the ceremony. “I wasn’t interrupting.”
You exchange a sympathetic glance with Dura, setting a hand on your husband’s arm. “It’s okay, Sukuna,” you murmur. “I just didn’t know the word, he was helping,” you agree.
Your husband’s shoulders fall slowly into something less aggressive, his gaze immovable as it glues itself to Dura. The tension between the two men is brief, before Sukuna gives into your sweet touch and softens, describing the design and placement to Dura. The white-haired man proceeds to prepare a table for you, sanitizing everything and pulling out what, by Earth’s standards, would be traditional handpoke tattoo materials.
Once ready, Sukuna goes first. The design is small, two zigzags mirroring one another with a simple tear in the center right where you chose– on the ring finger. He’s completely still throughout the process without any complaint, and you find yourself embarrassed when you wince at the first tap of the stone tool. Dura does what he can to distract you, attempting to speak with you– though at you is probably more apt given how broken your Simurian is. Still, you’re proud of yourself for your proficiency with the language and your ability to sit through the tattoo, which isn’t so bad once the first few punctures are through.
Once it’s complete, you hold your hand up to Sukuna’s, comparing the ink to one another with a bright smile before Dura bandages them. Your husband leans down to nuzzle and then kiss you, succinct but meaningful.
As the night winds down and the attendees begin to take their leave in ships of varying sizes, you sit by the entrance to your now-shared home with Sukuna. The stars twinkle overhead as you marvel at how different they are from Earth’s. In spite of everything, you stare out at the same vast expanse of space as your family back home does. You wish they could see that you got married. Pulling your knees to your chest, you rest your chin on them as you stare up at the sky, only able to wonder.
A bulky shadow leans over you after saying his goodbyes to Dabura and shutting the dome for the final time of the night. He blocks your view of the stars, pulling your attention to his ever-intense gaze. His chest rises and falls evenly as he regards you fondly. “I’m sure that was a lot.” Sukuna doesn’t often apologize, and you’re fairly sure it’s what he intends when he speaks.
“I liked meeting everyone,” you shake your head, relaxing as you lean back on your splayed palms. “I just wish my friends back home could see.”
“See how well the robes compliment you?” He comments in a smooth tone, although his expression remains unchanged.
You scoff, shaking your head. “The ring. The tattoo. That I’m married. Here, Simuria. All of it, really.”
Sukuna’s fond smirk fades as the moment hangs. The waves washing ashore have an ambient white noise that barely manages to hide his small sigh. “I’m sorry,” he starts, kneeling down to your level in an act that reminds you just how big he is. “But Humanity doesn’t deserve my ange.”
You let out a breath through your nose, offering a lopsided smile. “Thanks, baby.”
It took him a moment to get used to that nickname, but now he fondly chuffs. “But,” he tacks on, a little more chipper than you’re accustomed to. “I do have something for you, too.”
“For me? Is that something we were supposed to do?” You worry. “Oh god, I didn’t get you anything– I don’t even know what I would–”
“Always so noisy,” he jeers, growling out what you recognize as a Simurian word for ‘mouthy’ even as he offers his hand to help you to your feet.
“Hey!” You smack him playfully, earning a grin as he casts a glance at you, his gaze dipping down to the portion of your leg that protrudes from your robes as he helps you up.
He’s quiet as he leads the way into your shared home, strings of lights and domed bulbs decorating the walls at your request given that your then-fiancé lived largely in the dark aside from bioluminescence, much like his ship.
It seems to be the Simurian version of when men just put a chair and a TV in a room and call that decorating. Despite living in a cliffside, the rest of the house is well-decorated, just not well lit. It isn’t largely personal by any means, something you hope to change with art and photos, but at least you can say he does have furniture.
When you reach your bedroom, the most expansive room in the house, decorated with plants and a small bug-like creature you found within the dome that you’ve been studying– to Sukuna’s dismay– he reaches within a closet and pulls out a large box. Blinking as you stare down at what you recognize as a device, you slowly approach the box as he sets it atop the bed that you requested he make plush, rather than the conforming stone he was accustomed to. With a glide of his thumb, a hologram comes to light.
“What is it?” You ask your engineer husband, nothing immediately giving it away as the light displays nothing.
“Your species uses frequencies to speak from long distances on Earth, right?”
You straighten, staring at the brute in disbelief as he continues fiddling with the machine. “Sukuna, you didn’t.”
It’s all you can manage as you watch Sukuna fiddle with a dial, tapping his nail along the smooth surface of the machine as he makes calculations to figure out how many parsecs the signal will need to travel and at what speed in order to allow you to speak to your friend in real time. Once he’s finished fiddling with it, he turns back to you like this is just another day, handing you what, effectively, looks like an old phone hooked up to the box.
“You use numbers, right?” He chuffs for the latter portion of the sentence, completely ignoring your slack-jawed expression.
“I don’t– I can’t– You did all of this for–”
“Ange.” He chuffs, nuzzling your nose as he pulls you close. “Dial the number.”
A lump sits at the back of your throat, but no amount of swallowing will rid the feeling as you stare at your husband. Tears prick your eyes as slowly you find yourself needing to set the device down in shaky hands, curling into his chest as warm tears trail your cheeks. “You did this for me?” Your voice is hardly a whisper, frail in its delivery into his chest as your makeup inevitably stains his white robes.
“Obviously,” he clicks in his mother tongue, positive you know the meaning.
“You didn’t have to,” you sniffle, muffled. “I brought a bug into our room and I know you think I’m loud–”
“Human,” he growls, his voice clipped as he pulls back. The ceremonial red makeup streaking across his forehead and nose has smeared with the day’s activities, a sheen of sweat over his skin as he lowers himself to your height, holding your cheeks. “You are loud. You are noisy. And you are my wife. I want you to be those and more.”
“Even the bugs?”
A pair of eyes swivels across the room to the beetle-esque creature in a large glass enclosure. A grumble begins in his chest. “I’m less fond of those,” he admits. “But, yes.”
You smile. Lopsided, but genuine. “At least you’re honest.”
“Put in the number for your friend.”
Given that it’s not common to memorize numbers anymore, you’ve never been more grateful in your entire life that you actually know Shoko’s off the top of your head. Your fingers betray your disbelief by trembling as you turn back to the remote of sorts that he gave you, typing Shoko’s number with no regard for what time it might be. It rings once, twice, three times, and a final fourth before your friend picks up.
“Hello?”
Your voice breaks into something between a sob and a gasp the moment you hear her. She sounds older. There’s a rasp to her voice that betrays the weariness of her trade, but she also sounds well. Not sick. Alive. “Sho?” You breathe her nickname in sheer incredulity.
The shuffling on the other end is immediate, a flurry of static as you can practically imagine her flailing out of whatever chair or bed she was slumped over in. “You’re alive?” More static follows, a distraught shout for someone, then, frantically, “oh my god, I thought you were dead, or– I mean after the cure got here, I just had to assume you had taken the drug and I just– where are you? Can you facetime or something?”
It brings a smile to your face to hear your friend again, tears continuing to silently trail down your face in disbelief as tremors ripple through your muscles like waves. You laugh airily at just how much she sounds like you, her mouth at least ten steps ahead of her brain. Turning to Sukuna, you wipe your tears with the back of your hand. “Sukuna? Is there a way to connect to video?”
Standing idly behind you, his gaze lowers to the glimmer of fresh tear trails, his adam’s apple bobbing as he steps forward. He lowers himself to nuzzle your nose first, undoubtedly wiping tears along his own cheek, before fiddling with the box. “What frequency are your videos run on?”
Shoko is practically vibrating on the other end of the line. “Oh my god, who is that?”
“I don’t think Facetime uses frequencies, I think it’s on like… internet. Or LTE, or something.”
Sukuna hums, though he doesn’t seem confident.
“Google says two point four gHz to five gHz!” Shoko much more helpfully adds on the other side.
“Tell Google that helps,” he gruffs as he fiddles with frequencies until the blank hologram gains static.
There’s a brief silence on the other end as Shoko attempts to process how strange that sentence comes across to someone on Earth, but she doesn’t have time to question it when at last a video is displayed for each of you.
It’s clear when the video connects that life has been harsh in far different ways on each of you. Neither of you are the spry twenty-five year olds finishing up degrees and putting out papers that put you at the top of your fields at young ages. Smile lines adorn the corners of her mouth and her eyes have an ever-lidded look to them that only time and exhaustion could bring about. To your surprise, you recognize another acquaintance in the background in Utahime Iori, Shoko’s biggest crush at the time and a big rock on her ring finger.
A wide smile crosses your face and if she were right in front of you, you would surge forward to hug Shoko. Utahime, too.
Shoko’s gaze flicks around your surroundings as she holds up her phone. “Where the hell are you?” She queries as Sukuna rises from where he was fiddling with the long distance radio, popping into the frame behind you.
“Simuria. It’s gorgeous, and the people are so kind, you would love it here.”
“What’s on your face?”
“Oh–! Right, it’s ceremonial makeup,” you explain as you hold up your ring finger to display both your engagement ring and wedding tattoo. “I got married like two hours ago,” you giggle, bubbly.
The sight has your husband closing in on you, unable to stand so far apart when the very sound of your happiness draws him in like a moth to a flame.
With her jaw already on the floor at the revelation of your marriage, she can hardly contain her next question. “Who is that?” Shoko exclaims again, her image a blur as she nearly drops the phone at the sight of your husband.
“This,” you hold a hand out to the brutish alien, “is my husband. Sukuna, this is Shoko.”
It’s not often that Sukuna greets others in your mother tongue, so as he leans into frame, revealing four arms and four eyes, he simply waves at your gawking friend.
“Nice to meet you!” She starts, before it devolves into that scientific disbelief programmed into her brain. “He’s– I mean–” Shoko shakes her head incredulously as she attempts to make sense of the situation. “Aliens are real,” she mutters to herself. “Not just beetle things, either.”
“I feel like you’re really breezing over the four arms and eyes part here,” Utahime comments, surprisingly calm given the situation. You were never particularly close, but the way she evaluates you both seems to anchor your best friend. “Also hey,” she greets you by name with an easy smile. “We’re married too.”
Before you can even congratulate them as well, Shoko is already continuing, too many things to catch up on in too little time. “Honestly after CRM-12, nothing comes as much of a shock.” It comes as an observation more than any kind of blame as she evaluates your towering husband behind you. When he hums, you note that his more talkative personality may be reserved for you only.
“Congratulations, by the way! Wait– Sho, did the cure get there?”
“THE CURE!” She cries out suddenly. You grin through a laugh as everything hits you both at once, over ten years to catch up on. “Girl, yes. You saved– I don’t know, billions of people. And you didn’t even need to send any of those fuckass beetle things back. The company was pissed at first, but I swear they didn’t actually want a cure.”
“They still spread the cure out though, right?”
“They didn’t have a choice. One of the pods landed with NASA. We got lucky.”
“Thank god. I was worried about that.”
“Wait, speaking of beetles–” The hologram flashes and flutters as Shoko moves about the room, a clicking noise followed by something snapping and at last the camera faces her again. “Look!”
You stare in disbelief at the Stag Beetle on her fingers. Sukuna curiously leans forward.
“There’s no way in hell Spike survived this long.”
“Meet Spike Thirteen!” She grins as the stag’s antennae reach for her phone, its mandibles curiously snapping together.
Barking a laugh, you lean back into Sukuna’s warmth. Under the dim lighting of the strung up bulbs, he relaxes into your touch as he instinctively reaches for your waist. “Thirteen makes way more sense.”
Changing the subject again with so many things she wants to go over, Shoko sets Spike on her shoulder. “Are you able to come visit?”
You knew the question was inevitable. The one you were dreading hearing, for there’s no easy way to say it. “I can’t. We’re about seven years apart. I’d be almost sixty by the time we get home.”
There’s a brief somber silence, but it surprises you when Shoko smiles, genuine and kind. “Home.” She repeats the sentiment. “Never thought you’d find one. I think I’m okay with that, knowing that you found a home.”
Your vagabond tendencies make her sentiment make sense, and a tender smile graces your features as Sukuna’s remaining two hands find your hips, like he’s grounding himself in his own home. “Yeah. I hope you did, too.”
“Yeahh, Hime and I are doing pretty well,” she agrees, mirroring the sentiment that perhaps home can be unconventional. For you, an alien in a dome (and just one little bug in a tank), and for her, a person.
“Good. That makes me happy,” you murmur softly.
Shoko’s lips part and it’s clear she has further questions and ten years’ worth of stories to fill you in on, but she shuts them with a smile. “I should let you enjoy your wedding night.” She sits back, Utahime’s hand barely in frame as it rests on Shoko’s shoulder, opposite Spike Thirteen. “Can we talk again?”
You swivel towards Sukuna for confirmation. He shrugs. “I built it for you. Use it as you wish.”
Your hand finds his, threading your fingers through the thick ones resting on your waist. “Yeah, I’ll talk to you soon, Sho.”
“You too,” she can’t help her grin as the line cuts out.
Leaning back into Sukuna, you bask in the thrill of seeing your closest friend again. It doesn’t quite compare to your old dinner and ice cream outings where you claimed dessert was for your second stomach and nearly threw up when that proved to not be the case, but it’s more than you could ever have expected. The lumbering form of your husband leans down slowly, nuzzling your neck from behind. His hooked nose nudges your chin. “Happy, ange?”
“Than I ever thought I could be,” you murmur, tilting your head as you allow him access to the sensitive skin of your neck. There’s a level of harshness to just how much he grinds his face into your neck, earning a giggle as he pulls you closer with ease.
“My wife deserves nothing less.” His lower arms anchor you to his chest as his upper hands trail delicately along the green accents of your robe. One hand dips between your breasts, resting on the tie around your waist. In Simurian, he mutters, “may I make you mine?” against the warm skin of your neck.
A shiver runs stark up your spine as you nod. He sets the transmitter aside, effortlessly lifting you onto the plush of the bed.
“I don’t know how you ever had sex on those stone beds,” you comment breathily as Sukuna parts your legs with a knee.
“My skin is denser,” he replies between nips and licks at your skin. “You’re weak.”
“Yet you married me.”
“Weak and noisy.”
“Whatever you say,” you hum when his lower palms press your hips into the mattress, his torso slipping between your thighs. It comes as a shock when he’s wet on his abdomen and you’re damn sure you’re not the reason. You instinctively search for the cause to find his stomach maw must be drooling under his own robes, more emotive than your husband is himself.
Eager to feel him, your hands slip to the tie of his robes where he leans over you, pulling one end until they hang loosely from his shoulders, revealing a toothy smile along his stomach. The maw’s grin widens, his tongue slipping from within teeth so jagged one would almost think your husband were a predator, not that he eats rocks. Along with his drooling maw, you discover something far more debauched that you had yet to come across.
Simurians don’t typically wear undergarments during wedding ceremonies given that it’s typical to give oneself to the other following the ceremony, hence why the party left at a reasonable hour.
So why on Earth– or in this case, Simuria– does this man have two massive dicks?
“Why do you have two?” You query in bewilderment as he deftly unties your robes.
His expression twists as he lifts his gaze to you, searching for an explanation to your perplexity in the fact that–
“Why don’t you?”
“Why would I need two?”
He points to his two throbbing dicks, each with a black band around the base. “Two,” he states plainly.
“Yeah, I–” You chuckle at the absurdity of it all. “I see that you have two dicks, Sukuna.” Covering your face as you can’t help laughing, you shake your head from behind your palms. “But why?”
“Twice the pleasure,” he states, letting out a throaty noise that you recognize as Simurian for ‘duh’. “Where’s your second one?”
“I don’t– Humans don’t have a second one, Sukuna!”
He hums, something of a grumble. “We’ll make it work.”
Left staring straight through your husband as he moves on while you’re still caught up on him having two dicks, on top of the fact that he’s almost twice your size, he returns to his musings. His nose trails the length of your neck, nudging your robes aside and kissing along the red dyes used to mark you for the ceremony, leaving new marks in their place.
“Gorgeous,” he clicks and purrs in his mother tongue, slipping his hands beneath the ceremonial garments as he pulls your mind to the present. Slipping your arms from the sleeves, you let your hands run along the tattoos that wrap over his shoulders, reveling in the way his rough skin still seems to get a rise from your touch, goose bumps following your fingers’ trail. Ten feet of alien bulk and a tiny human still brings him to his knees.
You let out a gasp as drool from his stomach drips to your abdomen, trailing down to your thighs, warm and wet. If he wasn’t already obvious with how hard he is, his stomach mouth gives him away entirely.
“You’re soft,” he comments, the words slipping from his lips like an idle thought unintended to be spoken. A large tongue swipes from the bottom of your slit to your clit, the sensation sending shivers up your spine as you breathe in a soft gasp.
The room is already warm with the anticipation of arousal, the musky smell of the night’s earlier activities pungent around you. Your husband drinks in the way your back arches for him when he gets a taste of you, a languid pace to his movements as he crawls further over you in spite of his eagerness. Once he realizes he has something, he’s not quick to let it go. The size difference between you allows him to lap at your entrance with his second mouth while he delves his tongue between your lips. Your fingers curl into his shoulders as your nails leave stark half-moons in their wake.
When he adjusts the way in which he laps at your dripping pussy, the flat of his tongue puts pressure on your clit as you realize that his tongue has a mildly rough texture as though it’s intended for your pleasure. Your back arches once more, separating your kiss. One pair of hands drives your hips further into the mattress, while the other pair steadies your cheeks, allowing him to swallow your moans once more.
It’s downright euphoric the way he uses his tongue to work you to the edge so quickly. You want to chalk it up to being over ten years since you’ve felt this sensation, but the only thing to blame here is him. Not unlike your language, he’s learning your body. Fast.
“Hah- fuck–” You breathe when he finally lets up for air, his chest heaving as you cling to him for purchase. “Don’t stop, Kuna.”
His chest rumbles as he lowers himself to one pair of forearms, continuing to knead the plush of your hips with the other pair. His fingers run along the imperfections of your skin, committing each and every stretch mark, scar, and beauty mark to memory without so much as pulling his gaze from your expression.
He drags his massive tongue slower against your clit, the barbed texture pulling you closer and closer to the edge and leaving you breathless altogether. Blood roars in your ears as he slows his pace to keep you right where he wants you, crimson irises mere rings as his blown pupils watch whimpers pour from your slacked jaw.
“I like you like this,” he murmurs, his nose nudging your cheek where makeup has already smudged. “At my mercy and begging me not to stop.”
“That’s because you have a superiority complex,” you mutter even through the haze, still mouthy at the worst of times.
His tongue pulls back, your head lifting in disappointment just in time to watch his stomach maw nip at your inner thigh. You yelp, clinging tighter to his shoulders as you undoubtedly leave behind marks. “I like you noisy during sex, but not mouthy,” he coyly remarks.
“You’re such a–” You sharply gasp when his tongue returns to your clit with another long drawn out stripe up your slit.
“Don’t be smart,” he chides in Simurian, although he speaks so fast he’s positive you don’t catch it. Your head’s already in the clouds, thrown back into the mattress as you cling to him for purchase when at last he gives you what you want.
Adding to the pressure of his tongue, he finally throws you over the edge with shorter, faster licks. Stars encroach on your vision, your nails digging into his tough skin as he nuzzles your chin affectionately while your body twitches with each jolt of static to your abdomen that could damn well be slowing time and you would never know.
When your vision begins to even out, you shift against your husband, suddenly very aware of just how much drool and cum has collectively pooled between your thighs. Your movement rouses his attention as he lifts his head to inspect you. The bliss lighting up your features has his chest puffing out, that stupid prideful and boastful purr that you’ve grown fond of rumbling his chest.
Your lips part as you catch your breath, pulling him back into your shoulder. He doesn’t protest, nuzzling into you so hard you might think he wanted to live there.
“I love you too, Sukuna.”
He lifts his head, his slanted eyes curiously narrowing. “Is that how humans express partnership?”
You smile as he picks apart your traditions so scientifically. “It’s one way,” you murmur softly, tracing a finger along his cheek. His left eyes flutter shut, only opening when your nails rake through his hair.
He chuffs his approval, returning his attention at last to your body with kisses to your breasts. He shifts you up the bed, spreading your legs over his thighs as he sits between them. His cocks are heavy against your stomach, twitching, and equally slick with his own drool and your cum.
As he leans over you, kissing you once more with ease given his extra height. Two thick digits gather the mix of cum and drool, bringing it to his mouth. He runs his tongue along his lips, bringing his wet fingers down to your core. Regardless of species, he clearly knows better than to try sex without adequately working you open for him. You’re small and he has no intention of hurting his wife.
One finger eases in without any friction, the saliva coating it acting as a natural lubricant. The second is met with little resistance too, and he uses the opportunity to pump them slowly. He moves his fingers not like a human might, but as though he’s searching. Like he knows, biologically, that you derive pleasure from a specific point. And god, does he find it. Your hips buck for him as he locates your g-spot, a devious smirk curling on his lips. Your nails rake down his back with each slow pump of his fingers, your arms trembling as you cling to him.
A third finger swipes up the amalgamation of drool and cum and slowly he slips it in to the first knuckle. He watches your shoulders tense, allowing you to pull him closer until your chests are slick with one anothers’ sweat. Your walls don’t clamp so tightly around his fingers as you adjust and slowly, he slides the third one in to the knuckle.
The stretch of three fingers from your massive husband is immense as-is. You both know he isn’t fitting the second of his dicks in you, but he seems satisfied regardless as he watches your expression with blown pupils.
“Fuck, that feels good,” you breathe as he works you open slowly but surely, picking up the pace until he’s got you damn-near at the edge again.
He hums, pulling his fingers away with a wet squelch just as your nails dig into his skin. “Keep that feeling going for me, ange.”
When he lines himself up with you, a shudder rocks your body. He’s always been big. From this angle, he looks massive and his cocks are no different. The upper cock is heavy as it rests atop your abdomen, leaking pre-cum and coated in saliva all the same, both of you equally a mess. When he pushes in the tip, you suck in a breath, a hand flying to his chest to stop him from pressing in too quickly.
He hisses at how tight you are, the size difference more apparent than ever. Swallowing hard, all four eyes turn their attention to you. “Relax, baby,” he coos, his voice dropping an octave as he uses your preferred pet name for him on you. Anything to allow you to anchor yourself. His gruff attitude flips on a dime, with no intention of causing you anything but pleasure and the knowledge that it’s not only been a long time, but you aren’t the same species.
He wets his thumb with his mouth, bringing it down to your clit to massage small circles into it. Your lashes flutter, the muscles in your arms slackening as the pain of the stretch twists into ecstasy, searing and hot. His body runs so warm that the sensation of him stretching you open all the while warming you up is nothing short of heady and intoxicating. Slowly, he sinks in past the black band around his cock until he reaches the hilt, heavy balls resting against your ass.
Your walls convulse, still short of an orgasm but grappling with his size, until they finally let up and he shifts his hips slightly, testing how you react. You throw your head back in a searing moan as you grab his shoulders again, the kind that rips from straight in your chest and to your surprise, your husband groans in response. “Fuck, that’s it,” he gruffs with a pleasureful lilt to his tone. He’s only ever heard you curse twice, but it seems he got the gist of its meaning quickly.
He pulls out to the tip, his breath hot on your sweat-slicked chest, gliding back in swiftly, though he watches you carefully. When he’s met only with a louder moan and your hands raking down his back, he takes the opportunity to dive in.
His hips rock slow at first, speeding up as he chases both of your highs. He keeps one finger perpetually on your clit, moving in calculated circles in spite of the fact that his hips now snap into you. Moans, pants, and the sound of his balls slapping against your ass fill the air as the scent of sex fills the room.
Your head is too hazy to look, but you’re fairly sure his stomach’s tongue is pleasuring his upper cock, if the feeling of pressure on your abdomen is anything to go off of. It’s like nothing you’ve ever experienced before, and just as his hands ball into fists in the sheets where they rest on either side of your head, both begin twitching. A heavy load of cum fills your pussy and coats your stomach all at once. He doesn’t stop once they begin jerking, chasing your orgasm and riding his own out.
The sensation of his cum filling you is enough to push you over the edge moments later like glass shattering as it rocks your body in ways you’ve never experienced before. You cling to him as your vision goes black, the world around you fading into an afterthought when all you can think of is your massive husband, hunched over and finally having stopped his movement. All four of his arms hold him upright and in one unsteady movement, he lowers himself to his forearms.
Both of your chests heave as you ride the highs, eyes lidded when he nuzzles the crown of your head. “I love you,” he murmurs into your hair, a hint of a question to the statement, as though he isn’t positive that he’s using it correctly.
Through pants, you chuckle at his uncertainty, lifting your hands from his back to the nape of his neck. “I love you too.”
He slowly pulls himself from within you, rolling to the side so as not to crush you. As you come back down, you give yourself a onceover, blinking at the mess along your stomach and thighs and coating the sheets.
“Sukuna, there’s drool everywhere.”
“That’s your fault,” he grumbles, eyes shut as he lays to your left.
“Literally how?”
With no words in your language for the matter, he replies in his mother tongue. “You feel too good.”
You can’t help a smile, but you do take the opportunity to turn and curl into him, coating him in every fluid you’ve shared.
“Mm,” he hums as you intertwine your legs, your head resting on his bicep. “You might be right.”
“Just a little bit.”
“I’ll clean us up,” he murmurs, leaning down to nuzzle the crown of your head. “Just give me one more moment of this.”
–
The tides are low as you sit with your bare feet in the wet sand. The water scarcely reaches your toes, coming up to your husband’s calves as he naps in the sun, a hat laid over his head. He stirs every so often as you read a Simurian romance novel with your legs thrown over him, the written text coming easier to you these days.
The couple in the novel are so young– relative to the species– that it has you feeling wistful for days long past.
“Sukuna?”
You know he’s awake, having recently adjusted his hat. His chest rises and falls in a content sigh before he chuffs.
“What will you do when I’m gone?” You wonder about your husband, a species that mates for life.
He moves lazily as he sits up, hunching over you to parse what you’re reading. When it isn’t of interest to him, he adjusts the hat back over his head to block the sun. “I’ll mourn you.” He stares out across the ocean of the dome he’s grown into a much larger space over the years. “But I’ll celebrate your life, too.”
The thought brings a smile to your face in spite of the somber tone of your conversation. “Will you take care of my bugs?”
“That’s what you’re worried about?”
You shrug. “Yeah, a little.”
He sighs. “Not the ones that sting. I don’t like them.” He wrinkles his nose at the thought of them. “But the rest, yes. I like the ones with extra legs.”
“Yeah, the tarantula-looking ones are pretty cool,” you agree, leaning back into his chest.
His gaze softens as he looks over your features. You’ve aged beautifully over the past several years of marriage, and he knows your reservations about the difference in your species’ lifespans, but he knows something else, too.
Your aging has slowed to a near-halt. At around forty in Human years, your body stopped showing the signs of age that you so often describe. He’s more than positive that you haven’t noticed, but every minute change in your features is something he categorizes mentally.
It was never on purpose, but by the will of some God, whether Human or Simurian, his injected cells have slowed your aging. He isn’t sure if he’s gained a lifetime with you, or simply a few more years, but he considers the action the sort of thing you might call star-crossed. Like the gene therapy that saved your life acted as a string of fate too, bonding you together not just for your life, but several Human lifetimes.
One pair of arms holds him up as he leans back on them, the other pair sliding around your waist as he pulls you closer, the feeling of your bare skin familiar and comforting to the lumbering man. His fingers curl into your skin as he watches you happily turn a page, content with his reply. His gaze lingers on the ink on your ring finger that matches his.
However many lifetimes it may be that you’re blessed with, he knows he’ll cherish each and every one.
☾⋆ a/n ; okay so i watched phm and between that, iron lung, and alien earth, i got alien sukuna brainworms. i didn't anticipate it being like 38k 💀 i hope you enjoyed though!! this one was a lot of fun and i'm proud of how it turned out. you may also notice a difference between the tumblr and ao3/wattpad versions of this fic which is because i found tumblr's post limit (1000 paragraphs) and had to do some quick combining/editing. forgive me for any strange pacing on this piece in the tumblr version <3
i also wanna take the time to thank you all for the patience while i deal with some medical issues, i promise my regular series should be coming back soon <33
☾⋆ taglist ; @lilrosyhaven @tiny-mimi @grimm3r @yujisredkicks @knittybritty98 @sukunahs @saezzi @epicderpface @ynishalee @pandabiene5115 @silibiliballs @ane5e @feyrinnn @jkslvsnella @maomimii @megumuro @beereadzzz @sukunas-one-n-only-peach @beaniesayshi @ryomeowie @suguusatoo
Waitress!reader, who's a new hire, working part time in a restaurant to make just enough money to support yourself through uni.
Youve been having the absolute worst day, from losing the assignment that you were supposed to hand in today and getting reamed out by your professor, to having dropped a tray of waters at the start of your shift, a preemptive sign that the rest of your night would be tough.
You're just trying to make it through your shift, when you get a table of crude, middle aged men, who make you feel anything but pleasant.
You do your best to cater to their needs and try be as polite and neutral as possible, despite wanting to give them to another waiter, but as usual, the restaurant is overwhelmed and understaffed.
Line cook!Simon who's been watching the pretty little new hire get progressively stressed as your shift goes on. His heart aches for you a bit. A pretty little thing, doing her best to make ends meet, whilst dealing with idiot customers.
Simon who feels his jaw tighten whem you come back into the kitchen, teary eyed, explaining to another server how one of the men at your table tried to hit on you and grabbed the back of your thigh.
Simon who tells you to sit in the walk-in for a bit, whilst he goes to deal with your table, he was needing some fresh air anyway.
Simon who soon comes into the walk-in pantry with a little plate of chips and hands it to you with his now-bruised hands. He pats your head softly, before gruffly saying 'take a break, yeah luv? Go' someone on yer tables'
...Line Cook!Simon who refuses to address his soft spot for you, telling the whole kitchen to shut up when teasing him about it. They can see the faint pink on the tips of his ears though.
summary: when you’re unable to sleep for the third night in a row, katsuki notices— and takes matters into his own hands.
( OR: your boyfriend fucks you to sleep. )
content: comfort / fluff + SMUT - mdni ! pro-hero!bkg. established relationship. domestic intimacy. implied insomniac!reader — can be read as simply having issues with sleep. some banter. clear consent. soft kissing. slight marking / hickeys. pet names (baby). breast play. spit (on ur clit). dedicated pussy eating. fingering. self doubt/insecurity + praise/reassurance. finger sucking. missionary to mating press. "i love you" during sex. multiple orgasms. overstimulation. cum eating. aftercare. emotional & soft smut with feelings, bkg is very much in love !!! and he doesn’t cum but he dgaf this is abt u. quite some build up before the smut lmao. wc: 6.2k.
note: thinking back to the days i would literally Not Sleep 🚬🚬 also this to me is veery soft dom bkg i like dat ^_^
masterlist. | fic based on this request ! ( thank u anon!! )
The glow of your phone was soft against the tired lines of your face. You scrolled through your feed mindlessly, dry eyes fixed onto the screen, barely lingering on anything for longer than a few seconds.
Dull frustration sat heavy under your skin.
You couldn’t sleep. Again. And it wasn't for a lack of trying.
You'd taken the medicine, made your attempts— many attempts. Setting your phone down, squeezing your eyes shut, wishing desperately for a soft, peaceful slumber to come find you.
But it never did.
So, you did what you had done the two nights before this: distracted yourself. Doomscrolled well into the hours of the early morning, when the faint, first rays of the sun filtered through your curtains and you could finally get up and not have to pretend anymore.
It was all you could do, really.
Your weighted gaze dragged over to the time in the top right corner. The bold numbers 3:24 stared back at you like a taunt. You exhaled quietly, temples throbbing.
You should stop.
You should’ve stopped hours ago.
But before you could berate yourself any further, a high-pitched squeak tore through the stillness of the room.
You clutched your phone over your chest in an instant breath caught dead in your throat as the mattress creaked. Your pulse hammered in your ears as the sheets rustled behind you, a tell-tale sign of your boyfriend shifting in his sleep.
With a grunt, Katsuki threw a heavy arm over your waist, turning so that his bare chest was pressed up against your back. The warmth from his skin seeped in through your shirt. He was all encompassing, enveloping you in his dizzying heat.
Swallowing, you prayed silently that you hadn't woken him.
He let out a sigh, the soft sound muffled into the nape of your neck.
You remained as still as you could, fighting to not squirm.
A beat passed, then another.
Your insides melted with quiet relief when he didn't stir, when the rise and fall of his lungs fell in sync with yours— his body giving no indication that he was awake.
With a quiet breath you picked up your phone again, going back to what you what had busied yourself with before he chose to get all cuddly. But when the brightness of the screen decided to assault you, your heart dropped to your stomach, that relief dying in an instant.
You grimaced at the light, fumbling to quickly get it back down to the lowest setting. It had been all the way down this whole time! You must've misclicked, or—
"You're a shitty fuckin' actor."
You could've swore your soul left your fucking body at the gravelly voice against your ear.
"What the fu—"
You didn't get a chance to finish. Katsuki was already reaching over you, guiding your hand with his to set your phone facedown on your nightstand before bringing it back over your middle, rough palm holding your hand over your stomach.
Your shoulders were wound tight as he spoke; voice tired, gruff as always. But, strangely, he sounded calm.
"Third night in a row. You're not sleeping right."
It was less of an accusation, more of a statement.
He gave it to you plainly, straight and simple. But you thought you had been discreet, the mere feeling of being caught was enough to have you opening your mouth, readying your defense, but his next words had it snapping back shut.
"And don't you fucking lie to me 'bout it."
You bit the inside of your lower lip, running over how you could possibly explain yourself without sounding pathetic.
The last few nights had been much the same: restless, spent tossing and turning.
Even when you did manage to fall asleep on the first try, you'd wake up at odd hours, left to stare at the ceiling with burning eyes, unable to quiet your mind, which was simultaneously ever-racing and absolutely empty.
When you thought about it too long, the corners of your eyes pricked. A quiet, defeated ache twisted in your chest.
You didn't want to cry, not over something so menial, so stupid. Not now, not with him watching— expecting an answer from you.
You swallowed back the lump building up in your throat, feeling the slow brush of his thumb over your knuckles.
"Not sleepy."
It came out tight, quiet. Like you were afraid that if you spoke too loud, your fragile attempt at keeping all of that built up frustration inside would fall apart.
You wanted him to give it up, let you be for once. But Katsuki Bakugou was nothing if not stubborn.
With a rumbling sigh, he rolled you onto your back, reaching an arm over you to pull at the chain of your bedside lamp.
You groaned at the sudden light washing over your bedroom, tugging your blanket up over the bottom half of your face as if it could protect you.
Annoyed, you zeroed your squinted eyes onto him, but that angry furrow between your brows weakened as you took in the image of him propped up on one elbow to look down at you.
The warm, honeyed lamp-light caught the ends of his mess of blond hair. It was unrulier than usual, sticking up in odd directions from sleep.
He was still tired— blinking slowly, as if his eyelids were too heavy. The usual harsh lines of his face looked almost uncharacteristically soft, but his gaze was weighted with something unspoken.
Guilt twisted inside your chest.
He was awake because of you. On a work night.
You looked away when he finally spoke up again.
"It's 3 AM. Don't bullshit with me."
"I'm not bullshitting, Katsuki," you reasoned, wishing you could just sink back into the mattress and not have to deal with this. "I'm… this just happens sometimes. Go back to sleep."
You tried to turn your head the other way, but he caught you by the cheek, pushed your face towards him with a firm hand to make you look at him again.
His jaw was clenched tight as he focused in on your face, took in your sunken eyes, the quiet exhaustion dampening your expression.
You knew he hated when you got like this, all dismissive and stubborn, a mirror of him.
"Don't do that shit." He bit out, his brand of harsh concern. "Not with me."
"I'm not doing anyth—"
"Don't be a fuckin' hard ass, alright? Talk."
"I can't sleep! Okay? Is that what you wanted to hear? That I can't fucking sleep? I just can't! I close my eyes, I try... but I can't! And it's—"
You came to a stop the moment you realized the increasing volume of your voice. You reeled back into yourself, embarrassed of your own outburst.
Turning from his hold, you opted to look up at the ceiling, dragging a hand down your face with a deep, shaky sigh.
"Sorry," you murmured. "This is so stupid. But seriously, I'm good."
You didn't spare him a look before turning your back to him with finality, knowing that if you met his eyes — so focused on you, attentive as ever — it would all come pouring over.
Your throat was tight as you spoke. You hoped he couldn’t tell.
"Sleep, Katsuki. It's late. Don't wanna keep you up, too."
Just when you thought he would give it up, let you deal with this miserable situation by yourself like you always did, he shifted— sat up, pulled back your blanket off of you with a single, harsh tug.
You groaned at the lost warmth, looking at him confused.
"Kats—?!"
He cut you off.
"You tried everything, huh?"
Something about the way he said it — rough and challenging — made your heart spike. He was up to something, but what? You were too exhausted to figure it out, so you offered him a weak answer.
"…Yes?"
"Right."
With one swift motion, he pushed your thighs apart. The outline of his broad shoulders rose from between your legs, thick biceps flexing as he brought your thighs around his waist.
Your legs tightened around him on instinct, bringing him closer as he hovered over you, supporting himself with two steady arms at your side.
You blinked up at him, wondering if he could feel the flustered heat radiating off of your face from being this close.
"W-What're you doing?"
"Helping."
When you continued to just blink back at him at that lackluster answer, a single brow raising slowly, he elaborated with a soft grunt.
"Said you're not sleepy, yeah?"
"… Yeah?"
"Cumming makes you sleepy." all blunt, matter of fact.
Your brows twisted.
"What?" The heat burning your cheeks crawled up to the tips of your ears as your eyes widened incredulously.
It was in his nature to say things as they were, crude and direct, but it still caught you off guard at times, especially over something like this. For someone who got flustered fairly easily, he sure had his moments.
"C'mon. Don't tell me you don't know it." His palm smoothed over your inner thigh, the rough callouses and scars familiar, warm against your soft skin. Careful in a way only you got to see. "Every time we fuck you're out like a light."
"Oh."
"Yeah." he murmured, a little smug. "Tried that?"
You shot him a look. "Obviously not, asshole."
He only chuckled softly, tilting your face up to meet his, kissing the glare right off of your face. His lips moved against yours, slow and intentional.
A soft warmth bloomed behind your ribs as you kissed him back tiredly, letting his movements guide you.
You brought careful hands to rest over his muscled chest, palms slowly sliding up, fingers brushing over the raised, jagged skin of the scar over his heart.
You wrapped your arms around his neck lazily, uncaring that they felt like lead, just wanting him closer to you as your fists curled into the soft hair at his nape.
He pulled back barely an inch, breathing a question against your lips, "You wanna try that?" before kissing you again.
Your brows creased, any semblance of an answer faded into a soft moan against him.
"C'mon, baby," he murmured, pulling back properly this time to kiss up your throat, mouth lingering against your skin.
Baby. He was calling you baby. Because he knew you loved it, knew it turned you to mush— hearing him, always so crude and unapologetic about it, refer to you so sweetly.
A shaky sigh slipped past you as he brought a large hand to the back of your neck, curving it toward him. His kisses turned to gently sucking soft marks and you shuddered, fighting a whine.
"Quit bein' difficult." he huffed, breathe hot against you. "Lemme take care of it."
He brought his face back to watch you like a hound, waiting for your confirmation.
Amidst catching your breath, you contemplated, pursing your lips in thought.
"I… I mean, it doesn't hurt to try?"
It was true, you hadn't tried this 'method' to sleep and part of you was curious whether it would work or not.
But, again, it was a work night, so despite your desperation and exhaustion, you knew that this whole ordeal would get in the way of and the strict schedule Katsuki kept to optimize his health and performance.
He ate well, took part in rigid physical training; mandatory for the powerhouse of a man that stood at number 5 in the pro-hero rankings.
Like clockwork, he woke up at 6 AM, went out there and worked himself to the bone, put his body on the line, and unless the circumstances were dire (either he couldn’t sleep because of dreams of the past or he had missions that demanded later hours) he turned into bed at 8 PM sharp without fail.
From all the years of knowing, you knew that Katsuki was particular about his habits.
But amidst your guilt, you were forgetting that he was also particular about you.
You had wormed into his heart, became something of an exception for him in many regards. But you couldn't see that now, not with worry and weariness eating away inside you.
Your half-lidded eyes searched his, a soft crease forming between your brows as you looked up at him.
"... Do you want to, though? I don't wanna keep you up, or… or like make you do thi—"
He cut you off with a scoff, cocking his head in disbelief as if that was possibly the stupidest thing you could have said to him.
"Don't be an idiot, alright?" he pushed closer, nose brushing yours. "If that's the shit you're worryin' about, don't."
His eyes darted down to your mouth, watching as you chewed on your bottom lip, voice lower; softer.
"Always fuckin' 'want to'."
You took in his words, blinking back the small sting in the corners of your eyes.
Katsuki didn't do pity, never did anything he didn't want to. And right now, he had nothing but undeniable want written all over his face.
There was something ravenous behind those irises, that fiery red sharp and determined in a way that had your stomach flipping.
"Okay," you decided with a slow nod, a small smile settling over your face. "We can try."
A self-satisfied smirk stretched across his face before he nodded back, eyes fluttering shut as he leaned down to peck your lips. His hands found your waist, sliding up your sides as he deepened the kiss.
You gasped slightly as they wandered up under your shirt, rough hands smoothing over the curve of your breasts, feeling the weight of them in his palms— giving them a firm, testing squeeze.
He kept your mouth parted with his, slipping his tongue against yours in a careful rhythm.
You made a muffled sound against his mouth when his thumbs brushed over your nipples, back arching just enough to tell him you wanted more.
Katsuki pulled back, the small string of saliva between your lips breaking as he began to lift up the fabric of your shirt.
"Arms up."
You complied, raising your arms over your head.
Those blazing eyes were narrowed, a subtle furrow forming between his brows— you always thought he looked gorgeous when he was focused, and being the center of that unwavering attention always had your mind spinning.
With a final tug, he pulled your shirt off, watching as your nipples hardened, exposed to the chill of your room.
His eyes locked with yours as he leaned down, pressed a wet kiss to your chest.
Your legs wrapped tighter around his waist as he cupped both your breasts with his hands, took his time pecking around the soft flesh. It was only when you huffed quietly that he chuckled, giving you a long, slow lick over your nipple.
He ran his thumb back and forth over the other, pinching the taut peak between his index and thumb as he sucked one into his mouth, the subtle scrape of his teeth drawing out a small, strangled sound from you as he nipped at your chest.
Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, keeping him in place.
An involuntary whine slipped past you when he pulled back from your chest with a soft pop, his hot mouth switching to the other, the whole process repeating until you were breathless— gasping incoherent strings of what vaguely sounded like his name, nails raking down the expanse of his broad upper back.
He drew back at last, taking in the picture of you; soft lips parted as you panted, a glistening sheen over your chest, dazed eyes blinking up at him— silently asking for more as they darted between his face and the obvious clothed bulge pressing against your core.
You thought he’d get straight to it, tug down his boxers and give you what he knew you wanted, but it seemed he had a different idea.
Pulling back between your legs, he lowered himself to your heat slowly, peppering sloppy kisses from your calf down to your inner thighs. When he finally pressed his lips right over your clothed clit, you groaned softly, head sinking back into your pillow.
His tongue peeked out to give your clit a little lick over your panties; warm and slow and wet.
You whimpered, thighs instinctively tightening around his head as you sighed out his name, wanting to melt.
"Katsuki…"
"You're always so pretty, y'know that?" he breathed out before kissing you over the cotton again, watching the damp spot grow darker under the soft amber lamp-light. "Shit drives me fucking crazy."
You drew in a shaky breath, ears burning.
You weren't exactly what you'd call pretty, right now. Your hair was very likely a mess, eyes red and heavy. And up until he had taken it off, all you had on was an old oversized shirt that had seen better days. Your panties weren’t much better; plain, save for the small bow at the center.
But the way he said it still made your heart flutter— as if, despite all of that, you were pretty to him.
You couldn’t gauge how your body looked, what he could see of you, and you were too tired to try and figure it out. But the uncertainty was enough to have you breathing out a small scoff.
"Don't just say that."
The corner of his lip curled back like you had just offended him to the highest degree.
"Y'know I never just say shit." he barked back.
Maybe you had, in a way. Because he really, really didn't. He never said anything he didn't mean when it mattered, especially not to you.
You bit your lip as his finger hooked under the hem of your underwear, his eyes asking you a silent question.
You nodded slowly, lifting your hips for him. He moved swiftly, slipping off the last piece of fabric shielding you from him.
He stared down at your bare heat shamelessly. Drank in how your wetness glistened under the soft light, the way your legs twitched slightly as if you were fighting the instinct to close them at his intense, unwavering gaze.
He traced a line down your slit with just a finger, relishing the small sound that drew out of you. His gaze met yours as he parted your folds with two fingers and leaned down, mouth hovering right over your pulsing core.
You watched with shallow breaths, eyes locked with his as he gathered spit in his mouth, letting a hot glob drop slowly onto your pussy. You groaned when he dragged the flat of his tongue over your clit, mixing it with your arousal.
He moaned into you, "Taste so fuckin' good…"
His tongue drew circles around your sensitive nub; so diligent, so thorough.
Like with everything, he gave it his all, didn't quit until he was satisfied. His method tonight was torturous, a slow pace that dragged out each sensation almost unbearably to ease you into that blissed out haze that'd surely knock you out.
He'd barely gotten started, and you were already panting, mind slowly slipping into that pleasure-drunk state.
Your fists curled around the sheets when he sucked your clit softly just to hear your breathy whines, smiling against you as you keened.
Katsuki Bakugou was known for his mouth. Snappy, explosive, unforgiving. It was what had drawn you to him in the first place, how he never held back.
But this mouth was the one only you got to know. Still relentless, unyielding, just a little mean— but it felt like devotion when he lapped at your leaking mess, fingers digging into your plush thighs to keep you in place as you squirmed.
You reached a hand down, let your fingers card through his soft hair before giving it a small tug. That earned you a groan, the deep rumble muffled against your dripping heat.
He licked a long stripe up your slit— wet, sloppy. Piercing eyes watching your face as he found your entrance, fucked you with his tongue before replacing it with two thick fingers, gathering your wetness before slowly pushing them in.
You groaned as he worked you up to the stretch, pushed them in knuckle deep.
Savoring the stuttering rise and fall of your chest, he slowly started to pump them in and out. Your eyes fluttered shut, head sinking back into your pillow as his fingers filled you up, curling against that familiar spot— a slow, deep pleasure building each time he hit it just right.
You wanted to cave, melt, maybe sob.
You were so close— you could feel it… just a little more…
But… there was this feeling sitting heavy in your chest, winding up tight around your heart.
You made a noticeable attempt to keep your sounds down as your mind began to race again, your focus drifting away from him as a question resounded your head— you should've already finished by now, right?
Katsuki was doing everything right, touching you perfectly, like he always did. He should be done dealing with you. But you hadn't finished yet, he was still going at it.
Your lower lip trembled. Maybe you were too tired, too caught up in your own exhaustion to cum. Whatever it was, something was holding you back. And If you really couldn't finish, then this would all be pointless, wouldn't it? You'd have wasted both of your time for nothing.
Before the worry could fully cloud your head, Katsuki gave your thigh a firm pat.
You looked down with a start; eyes half-lidded, unfocused.
"There you are." He muttered. "Eyes on me, got it? Hell’s the matter?"
Even when he was concerned, his brashness clung to him.
His care was rough around the edges, imperfect, but it was all his intent. He wanted to be careful with you, you could see it in his eyes, how they were just focused and just soft enough for you to detect.
Even if he didn't know exactly how to do it just right, he tried. Because you mattered. You meant something to him.
He lifted his face just enough for you to know you had his attention, stilled his movements and gave your thigh a small squeeze, a silent prompt to tell him what was wrong.
You couldn't look away if you wanted to, even as you felt your eyes sting— not when he was looking at you like that.
You gnawed at your bottom lip; embarrassed, ashamed.
"I can't."
He raised a brow. "Can't what?"
You let out an exasperated breath.
"Can't… can’t cum. I can't, feel like— I dunno, something's wrong with me, Katsuki, I'm—"
"Get outta your head." he cut off your babbling sharply. You whimpered when he started moving his fingers again, tongue coming down to drag over your clit at the same time. "Nothing's fuckin' wrong with you. I know you can."
His unshaken confidence in you was enough to draw out a soft groan, but his mouth and fingers working in tandem to build up that tightening warmth inside you again was what had your back arching off the bed, eyes screwing shut as the pressure above your belly wound tighter and tighter.
That heaviness in your shoulders slowly melted as he picked up the pace, the worry and doubt wrapped tight in your chest loosened and faded steadily, the sweet promise of eventual euphoria taking over your senses.
Quick, shallow breaths escaped your lungs as you brokenly mumbled his name, bucking your hips against his mouth, squeezing around his head with your legs. Your hands found his hair again, pulling without a care as he nearly doubled his efforts.
With a choked out sob, you finally came, the fingers curled in his hair tightening just a bit more one last time before going lax.
You could feel him smiling against your core as you came down; proud, a little cocky, but above all, happy to be lost in the taste of you.
He kissed you through it, mouth unrelenting against your pussy even as your thighs spasmed and trembled, working you down from your orgasm.
With a final kiss over your clit, he finally pulled back, wiping the mixture of his saliva and your slick off the bottom half of his face lazily, like he didn't actually care whether it was there or not.
Shifting, he hovered over you, crimson eyes locking with yours, reading you silently with the same rapt attention he had out on the battlefield.
A light sheen of sweat was cast over his muscled arms at your sides, the highs of his cheeks were flushed a soft pink, spikes of blond hanging messily over his forehead.
"Still with me?"
His voice was gravelly, a smoky rasp. Just a little breathless, but the satisfaction in his eyes told you he'd have it no other way.
You attempted a response, still panting heavily.
"Mhm…"
"Not an answer, baby."
"…Yes. Thank you."
He leaned down to kiss you, you moaned softly at the taste of yourself off of his lips.
Pulling back, he trained his serious eyes on yours. "Don't thank me for that shit."
"Sorry."
"Don't apologize either." You managed a snort at how impossible he was being, but he continued. "Feelin' sleepy?"
You hummed. "Yeah. A little."
He blinked once, scanning your face. Then grunted. "Not good enough."
"Katsuki, it's okay, you've done enou—"
"I told you, 'm gonna take care of it. Yeah?"
With his hands on the underside of your thighs, he pulled your legs around his waist, his hardened cock pressing over your still-drooling pussy, hot and heavy despite the single layer of fabric between you both.
Your heart picked up again; voice small, airy.
"Yeah…"
"Gonna let me, right?"
You whined. "But I just—"
"I know," he shushed you, slowly moving his hips, grinding himself against you agonizingly. "You can gimme another."
"Mh…”
Your lips pursed, brows pinched.
It could feel nice. It would feel nice.
You had warmed up to the idea, hips lifting just slightly to push against him as he moved, a quiet, nearly imperceptible motion.
He noticed, like he always did, but still, he wanted to draw it out of you.
"C'mon, gotta say it." his voice was a half-tease, low and coaxing, yet that mocking undertone never left. "Can only do it if you say it."
You groaned, embarrassed heat crawling up your neck.
He always did this—made you say it out loud, full-well knowing how it embarrassed you.
It was as though he lived to see you get heated, got something out of watching your lips curl and twitch in your attempts to fight your own discomposure.
"Can give you 'nother," you practically huffed out. "Jus' fuck me, please. Wanna feel you."
He smiled down at you, pleased with himself, and before you could even think to roll your eyes at that smug expression, he began to shuffle out of his boxers, freeing his aching cock.
He brought it to rest right over your pussy as he settled between your legs.
His eyes said look, and you did, took in his thick length, the angry flush of his leaking head, the precum dripping onto your navel.
He wanted you to see just how deep he would go, wanted you to really take it in.
You felt yourself get wetter, feeling empty at just the sight— he reached just below your belly button.
"You ready?"
Slowly, he dragged his tip between your folds. You let out a small, choked sound, nodding as your hips involuntarily bucked up to chase more.
"Uh huh. Please, please."
Katsuki’s abs tensed as he finally positioned himself just right, pushing into your tight warmth with gritted teeth, biting back the moan threatening to slip past.
He took his sweet time, going inch by agonizing inch, all the while your chest heaved as he stretched you out, filled the emptiness that had you aching.
When he finally bottomed out, panting, you clenched around him, whimpering slightly.
He let out a guttural sound; something low, ragged, already wrecked.
"Don't…" he breathed, voice cracking slightly. "Don't fuckin' do that."
"Sorry…"
"Told you not to do that either."
With a shaky breath, he began to move. Careful rolls of his hips, a hand splayed over your stomach as he eased himself in deep.
You stuttered out his name as that same hand moved lower, stopping right where your bodies met, the pad of his thumb slowly rubbing your clit.
His eyes fluttered as he watched your head fall back against your pillow, panting as he eased into a languid rhythm, angling his hips with each thrust in search of that spot.
When he found it, you keened, toes curling, lips parting as you let out a moan.
"Katsuki…" you dragged out the end of his name, practically whining.
He only grunted, something like a strangled whimper managing to slip past his gritted teeth. "Yeah, I know, I fuckin' know…"
He continued to thrust slowly, pull all the way back out before pushing back in, intense scarlet eyes watching your face twist upon each intrusion.
You didn't notice his thumb had been brushing the plush of your lower lip before he tapped it.
"Open."
That was all he said. He knew he didn't need much for you to listen. You looked down at his hand, then back up, parting your lips on command, the pink of your tongue peaking out on instinct.
"There we go…" He murmured, slipping his index and middle finger into your waiting mouth slowly.
The weight of his thick digits settled over your tongue and you groaned, sucking gently.
"You like that?" He asked, watching your mouth work around his fingers softly, voice low.
He already knew you liked it, knew that it lulled you into a fuzzy, brainless haze. But he loved to see you nod back at him; that pliant, sweet look in your half-lidded eyes as you offered him soft 'mhm' around his fingers.
He fought the moan crawling up his throat, instead letting out a tight a chuckle.
"Yeah, I know you do."
When he pulled his fingers back, you whimpered, but didn't get to dwell on it for long.
He moved to cage you down, supporting himself by the forearms, groaning into your ear as he bucked his hips deeper into you, pace noticeably faster.
You threw your head back. It was so good, perfect even. But you still wanted to feel more of him.
"Closer…" You asked, a quiet whine behind your words. "Closer, please, baby. Need you closer, Katsuki…"
Katsuki loved missionary, you knew this. He loved that it meant he could get close, actually see you— watch as your face twisted from being filled by him.
But on nights when close wasn't close enough, he folded you in half, pressed himself impossibly deeper, brought you closer than you thought you could ever feel.
The second he realized what you were asking for, he pushed the backs of your thighs, pressed your knees up by your head.
You hooked your arms around his neck, he kissed the the hinge of your jaw, breathing desperate words against your neck.
“Fuck, I love you.”
You bit back a groan, feeling him trail sloppy kisses down to your collarbone.
“Y’know that, right?”
You were shaking, letting out breathy moans as he began to suck soft marks into your skin, lost in the feeling— the taste— of you.
Your hands slid to hold the back of his neck, pulling him back carefully. Your nose bumped his as you held his face, felt the sharp curve of his jaw in your palms.
You pulled a hand back to find one of his by your head, you laced your fingers with his, gave his hand a soft squeeze before softly pecking his lips.
"I love you," you murmured the words against his mouth before pulling him back feverishly, moaning into the kiss. "I love you so much."
He picked up his pace at those words, fucking into you desperately, "Can't believe you thought I didn't wanna do this shit…" He panted out.
"Always fuckin' want you, don't y'get it?" his voice was already deep. But now— rough from sleep and want— the rasp made you impossibly wetter.
The sound of your creaking bed and the soft slap of skin against skin faded into the background as he leaned down to kiss you, all messy and raw.
"Tell me you get it." the words heaved out of him, hot and breathy, his lidded eyes met yours, the blistering need behind them setting your skin ablaze.
"I get it," you managed, tugging him closer, holding him against your chest. "I get it, Katsuki, please—"
He groaned by your ear, "Fuck, I know. I got you…"
Suddenly, nothing else seemed to matter. Everything that had weighed on your heart— the frustration, the doubt, the unsureness in yourself. it dissolved to nothingness in the back of your mind— because Katsuki Bakugou loved you. You loved him.
You could feel it all around you; he was everywhere, everything. And part of you felt that was all you might ever need.
With a broken sound, you came, burying into the crook of his neck.
He breathed with you for a moment, held you close, heated sweat-slicked skin against yours. He pulled out carefully, gritting his teeth to bite back a groan.
You were caught off guard when he hooked your thighs over his shoulders, leaned down to lap up your spend— his grip was a vice, absolutely not letting go of you— his fervent mouth moving against your sensitive heat to stimulate you past what you thought was bliss.
You nudged at his face half-heartedly, too tired to even whine; shallow, broken sobs heaved out of you as your thighs twitching around his head.
It was too much, you told him as much. At least, you tried to. You weren't sure if he could make anything out of your nonsensical babbling between whimpers, but you were certain he didn't really care.
When your hands found his hair, you twisted the blond tufts in your fists, letting out a final cry as he pushed you over the edge one last time.
He lifted his head back, lingering for a beat, careful eyes taking you in. Your eyes were shut, relishing the aftershock of your own high as your lungs raced to catch onto air, but more importantly: you were completely fucked out.
With a small kiss to your inner thigh, he got up.
"Where're you going…?” you managed between breaths, feeling his presence on your bed go missing, eyelids peeling back just enough to peek at him.
“Clean underwear. Water."
"Oh."
"Mhm."
You felt like you might pass out in the best way possible. Your eyes were so droopy, but you tried your best to keep them open.
You traced the line of Katsuki's back as he shuffled through your drawers. Something soft and warm branched out from behind your sternum, spread through your body.
Suddenly, you wanted nothing more than to hold him in your arms. Feel his body curve against yours.
He uncapped a bottle of water from your dresser and held it out for you, watching intently as you sat up shakily and took careful sips.
You handed it back to him, wiping at your mouth as he moved back onto your bed, tugging on a clean pair of underwear over your legs.
"You shoulda kept goin' Katsuki…" You tried to sound harsh, scolding. But it came out softer than you wanted. "You didn't… y'know…"
He pulled the blanket over your body and his quietly, settling at your side. You watched as he laid his head to rest on his pillow, taking in the familiar lines of his face.
"Don't care." He flicked your forehead. "Think too much and I might have to fuck you to sleep again."
Your lower lip jutted at that, a small flush settling over your face.
Reaching an arm out, you drew him closer to you. Your heart swelled at the familiarity of his warmth, that longing in you satiated momentarily at the feeling.
Your hand found his jaw, thumb brushing over the unscarred side of his face. You always loved that scar on his right cheek, thought it made him look handsome.
A small smile touched your face as you leaned in to press your lips over it, even though his other cheek was much easier to kiss. You liked to do that whenever you got the chance.
"Hey, Katsuki?" You hummed, brushing some of his hair back.
"What?"
Fondness curled inside your chest at his voice; it came quick because it was soft. Because he had softened himself, for you.
"Thank you."
He blinked back at you before, "Tch." then leaning forward to peck your lips.
"Told you to stop doin' that."
You could only chuckle, letting his large hand find the back of your head, pull you down to cradle you against the warm, solid planes of his chest.
"Sleep."
You yawned, smiling as you pressed your cheek closer against his skin.
"I'll make it up in the morning, 'kay?" You mumbled, the thrum of his heart easing your limbs, his strong arms curled around you tighter. "Promise."
Katsuki snorted softly, running a hand up and down your back, careful and soothing as he tucked you under his chin, adjusting the blanket around you to make sure you were properly warm.
"'M sure you will."
quick links: masterlist ★ taglist form ★ request info
may blabs: hellooo guys
second smut we up 😈 im still learning how to write ts so this was kiiinda stressful… (overthought a Lot) … but it ok we made it 🥹
im not even a petname bkg truther really so idk why i wrote that in but i did. playing with him like he’s my doll lalala
love me some acts of service solution oriented katsuki who’s soft in his own way ^_^ and i like emotions so this was quite fun to write! soft intimate smut… sighs dreamily
bkg not getting to nut lowk a recurring pattern now tho im dead 😭 (will he ever get to bust? stay tuned)
(btw title is from the marías song !!! #peak)
★ IMPORTANT — the amazing art in the header is not mine! unfortunately, i was not able to find the artist to give adequate credit, so this is my disclaimer !! all i did was edit the coloring.
PREMISE : sukuna ryomen is the university's undefeated boxing star, but his reputation might cost him the career he's been fighting for. you’re just a student trying to write the article that could make your name, until he offers you a deal : fake date him.
he gets the image he needs. you get the story of a lifetime.
it's supposed to be temporary. just an arrangement. just for appearances. but when the season ends and the cameras are gone… what happens when they have to figure out what's real?
PAIRING : boxing!sukuna ryomen x fem!reader
GENRES / TAGS / WARNINGS : modern college au, athlete!sukuna, boxer!sukuna, fake dating, senior sukuna, slow burn, enemies to lovers, banter, fluff, angst, smut, lots of jealousy, mutual pining, smau with written chapters, emotionally constipated sukuna, reader who talks back, competitive tension, campus drama
series masterlist song of the ep : snooze by SZA
PREMISE : sukuna ryomen is the university's undefeated boxing star, but his reputation might cost him the career he's been fighting for. you’re just a student trying to write the article that could make your name, until he offers you a deal : fake date him.
he gets the image he needs. you get the story of a lifetime.
it's supposed to be temporary. just an arrangement. just for appearances. but when the season ends and the cameras are gone… what happens when they have to figure out what's real?
PAIRING : boxing!sukuna ryomen x fem!reader
GENRES / TAGS / WARNINGS : modern college au, athlete!sukuna, boxer!sukuna, fake dating, senior sukuna, slow burn, enemies to lovers, banter, fluff, angst, smut, lots of jealousy, mutual pining, smau with written chapters, emotionally constipated sukuna, reader who talks back, competitive tension, campus drama
series masterlist song of the ep : snooze by SZA
