lmao

♡ kass, she/her, 23 ♡

[rnposluv]

⊹ ࣪ ˖ texts with your tutor Gojo Satoru (nerdjo). PT7

PT1 , PT2 , PT3 , PT4 , PT5 , PT6 & PT8 here!!

⊹ ࣪ ˖ before you read... 📖

featuring : female!user , nerdjo (aka toru) , geto suguru, fratjo (aka sato)

(implied) pairings : sorority!user x nerdjo

! ! : college AU , swearing , death threats (in a /joke way) , very blunt and kinda rude nerdjo , a bit of fratjo, slowburn , opposites attract, nerdjo HATESSS fraternities & sororities.

a/n : please take note that I am not sure if this is accurate to how irl fraternities and sororities work, so please do educate me and correct me if I make any mistakes whatsoever while writing this <3

taglist 🔖: @ex1acy @mrskamikazekaito @0-kry @hannahzg8 @shamelesslawyerdreamerauthor @engeneforever123 @luvgg3 @je-llly @ghost-noodles @undedin @sugurusdevotedlvr @sweetpapriikaa @nightmarenyxx @danlovestay @raicecakes-and-buldak @yversz @sunnyl1ght @ihe4rtme @jiyoonly @averagetheaterlesbian @celestialhvns @timelylovergirl @gem-xox @wqsrs @syerra67 @shroomyyyy @beepbeepimasheep123 @yvres @nightpoolpink @raccoonlover-11 @gojoful @sanniesfavoriteprincess @crescentmoonnn @snowstriper101 @gojojogo06 @keeponlovingyu @1cckedheart @kaldominusrex @starrgirlarchive @kaidostwin @icantbreatheeazie @looha @inumakiiisgf @rune1920 @kekaekeke

© all rights reserved! please do not steal, imitate, copy, translate or post any of my works anywhere else, I'm ONLY on tumblr. and DO NOT feed my works to ai, I do not use ai for any of my writings so if you support ai slop please kindly click off of my blog. thank you! ^^

dividers credit: @/pixopix !! ˚₊·—̳͟͞͞♡

[satoruslovey]

Frat!sukuna x soft!reader

synopsis: Sukuna doesn’t fall for people,he wins them, then gets bored. Frat king, reckless, used to easy victories, he notices you because you’re different,too quiet, too soft, too unaware of how pretty you actually are. So he turns it into a game,slipping into your days, earning your trust, getting you comfortable… until getting you is easy. And when he finally does, he leaves like he always does.

Only this time,you don’t chase. You don’t fight. You just… disappear,And for the first time, Sukuna realizes—he’s not done with you.Even if you’re done with him.

So will he learn to live with it… or do whatever it takes to make it right?

Wc: 5k!

Warnings: Sukuna is CRUEL, sukuna being a typical fratboy,reader insecurity, suggestive ,ANGST, sukuna gets close then leaves, reader catching feelings implied, heartbreak, ghosting behaviour, confrontation scene, soft reader, avoidance, Sukuna being verbally mean. Sukuna has unknown feelings which he realises late.

Ch 1 , Ch 2 ch3

The music was loud enough to feel before it could be heard.

It pulsed through the walls, through the floorboards, through the cheap plastic cups stacked along the kitchen counter. The music bled into everything, turning voices into fragments, laughter disappeared as quickly as they came. The frat house was already too full, bodies packed,heat clinging to skin, alcohol thick in the air.

And somewhere in the middle of it,

Sukuna stood like he belonged to it.

He wasn't lost in it...ever.

Part of it in a way that felt… intentional.

His back rested against the kitchen counter, one hand loosely wrapped around a bottle he hadn’t bothered to set down, the other braced behind him as people moved around without asking for space. They adjusted instead. Leaned away, curved around him, made room without thinking.

It had always been like that.

Effortless.

There was a girl pressed close to his side, laughing at something he’d said a minute ago or maybe a few. Her hand slid up his arm, fingers tracing over the ink that disappeared beneath the sleeve of his shirt, lingering there like she expected him to react.

He didn’t.

Not like he needed to.

He glanced at her, just enough to acknowledge her presence, the corner of his mouth lifting into that familiar, sharp-edged smirk that gave people exactly what they wanted without offering anything real.

“You’re not even listening to me,” she complained, though there was no real irritation in it.

You’re not even listening to me,” she complained, though there was no real irritation in it.

“I was,” he said, voice low, unconcerned.

“You weren’t.”

“Then say it again.”

She laughed, like that was charming.

Like that was enough.

It usually was.This was routine to him.

Upstairs, the air was marginally cooler, though not by much. The hallway lights flickered faintly, music muffled just enough to feel distant but never gone. A door slammed somewhere. Someone stumbled into the wall, laughing too hard at nothing.

Sukuna pushed into his room without knocking, not checking if anyone else was inside.

There was. Of course there was.

Another girl. Different face. Same expectation.

She looked up when he entered, already smiling, already shifting toward him like she knew how this would go. Like they all did.

There was no conversation that mattered.

No questions.

Just the familiar rhythm of something that started and ended without leaving anything behind.

For Sukuna, it was less about desire and more about habit.

A way to pass time.

A way to fill space.

A way to keep things exactly as they were, temporary, controlled, forgettable.

By the time he stepped back out into the hallway again, pulling his shirt back on with one hand, he had already moved on.

To him...nothing stayed long enough to matter.

By the time morning came, the house had quieted into something almost unrecognizable.

The aftermath of chaos. Empty cups scattered across surfaces, the faint smell of alcohol soaked into furniture, doors left half-open, bodies passed out in places they wouldn’t remember ending up in.

Sukuna stepped over someone asleep on the couch without looking down, grabbing his keys from the counter as he moved toward the door.

Rarely ever hungover, just another day to him

Campus in the late morning felt like a different world entirely.

Sunlight cut cleanly through the space between buildings, students moving in steady streams, conversations softer, more contained.

Sukuna fit into it just as easily.

Like he hadn’t been somewhere else entirely just hours before.

He walked through the courtyard with that same loose, unbothered posture, hands tucked into his pockets, gaze moving without really settling. A few people greeted him as he passed. He acknowledged some, ignored others. It didn’t make a difference.

Sukuna was bored of people easily.

And then—

His eyes caught something … or someone,

You were sitting at the far edge of the courtyard, where the noise softened into something manageable.

His steps didn’t stop but his eyes did stop as he looked at you.

You weren’t there in a hidden way,

Just… in your own space?

There were people around you, but not close enough to intrude. A small pocket of quiet in the middle of everything else. You sat beside Shoko, angled slightly toward her, your attention fixed entirely on whatever she was saying.

You weren’t trying to be interesting.

That was the first thing he noticed.

No exaggerated reactions, no careful awareness of who might be watching, no subtle adjustments meant to draw attention. You just stayed in your space.

Your hands were wrapped around a cup, fingers absently tracing the rim. Your posture was smaller than it needed to be, shoulders drawn in slightly, like you were used to taking up less space without thinking about it.

And your face—

Sukuna’s gaze lingered there a second longer.

Pretty.

Not in the way that demanded a reaction,or in the way that made people look and know immediately.

But in a way that settled in quietly.

The kind people noticed after a moment,then couldn’t quite stop noticing.

You were laughing at something that shoko said, just naturally not in a practiced way.

Sukuna didn’t realize he had slowed until someone bumped into his shoulder.

“Watch it,” they muttered, already moving past.

He barely registered it.

Because he was still looking at you.

Not with hunger just yet,something else which was sharper in a way that had him drawn to you,it was new.

“Don’t,” Shoko’s voice cut in, suddenly closer than he expected.

He hadn’t noticed her approach.

Sukuna shifted his gaze to her, one brow lifting slightly in question.

“I didn’t say anything,” he replied.

“You don’t have to.” She said with a humourless serious expression.

Sukuna glanced back at you, still sitting exactly where you had been, still unaware of the way his attention had fixed on you.

A slow, almost lazy smile pulled at his mouth.Interested.

“Yeah?” he murmured.

Shoko didn’t respond.

Because the look in his eyes had already answered her.

Across the courtyard, you shifted slightly in your seat, adjusting your grip on your cup, completely unaware of the way something had just… begun.

And sukuna didn’t look away for once.

Then it started , not even intentional, at first.

Just a thought that lingered a second longer than it should have.

Sukuna didn’t usually do repetition.

That was one of the few unspoken rules he followed without thinking about it. Faces changed, places blurred, nights overlapped into something indistinct. Nothing held his attention long enough to become routine.

And yet,

Three days after he saw you first time,

He noticed you again.

You were sitting in the same lecture hall as him.

You were already there when he walked in, head slightly tilted down, pen moving steadily across your notebook, in your own space. People were still settling, chairs scraping, conversations overlapping, but none of it seemed to touch you.

You didn’t look up when he entered,didn’t notice him,till he walked up to your seat and took a seat next to you.

Your hand stilled mid-sentence, your gaze lifting just enough to register him in your periphery before turning fully.

“…Hi,” you said,quietly.

He leaned back slightly in his seat, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, like this was the most natural decision he could have made.

“You always this early?” he asked.

You blinked.

“I like being on time”

“That’s boring.”

Your brows pulled together just slightly. “It’s practical.”

He huffed out a short breath that almost resembled a laugh.

“You actually care about this stuff?”

“I have to pass.”

“People pass without caring.”

You looked at him for a second longer this time, like you were trying to figure out if he was being serious.

“Then they’re lucky”, is all you said before turning to your notes.

And just like that,

You dismissed him.

Just… naturally.

__

It should’ve ended there,as a brief interruption. A passing interaction. Forgettable.

That’s always how it was with him.

People entered, overlapped for a while, and then dissolved into the blur of everything else.

But this—

This didn’t dissolve.

After that day, it was like Sukuna had quietly, deliberately woven himself into the fabric of your routine.

Not in a way that could be pointed out and named.

Just… consistently.

You’d step out of class and find him leaning against the wall across the hallway, phone in hand, looking up just as you walked past like he’d been there longer than necessary.

The next day, he’d fall into step beside you without asking, matching your pace like it was instinct rather than choice.

In the library, the chair across from you stopped being empty.

Then it stopped being surprising.You didn’t notice when it shifted.Not exactly.

There wasn’t a moment you could trace back to and say this is where it changed.

It happened somewhere between shared silences and small conversations, between him interrupting your focus and you no longer minding it.

Somewhere between—

“…you always write this much?” he asked once, glancing at your notebook, pages filled edge to edge.

“I have small handwriting,” you muttered, not looking up.

“That’s not small, that’s obsessive.”

“It’s efficient.”

He leaned closer, just enough to scan a line.

“You even organize your notes. Colors and everything.”

“It helps me remember.”

“Or you just like things neat.”

“…What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing,” he said, straightening slightly. “Just means you’re predictable.”

That made you pause.

Your pen hovered mid-air before you finally looked at him.

“I’m not predictable.”

He smirked, slow and knowing.

“You sit in the same seat every class.”

“That’s habit.”

“You order the same coffee.”

“That’s preference.”

“You reread your notes twice before closing your book.”

“…That’s called studying.”

His smirk deepened, like he’d proven something.

You frowned at him, but there was no real irritation behind it.

“Why are you even paying attention to all that?”

There it was.The question.

Unassuming.

But it landed somewhere deeper than it should have.

Sukuna held your gaze for a second too long.

And just said……”nothing better to do.”

You didn’t question it.

You should have.

But you didn’t

__

You found yourself smiling more when he was around, even when you didn’t mean to.

Laughing at things you probably wouldn’t have found funny before.

Saying things without overthinking them first, words slipping out before you could measure them, filter them, decide if they were worth saying at all.

And he noticed.

Of course he did.

He noticed everything about you in a way no one else ever had.

The way your voice softened when you got comfortable mid-conversation.

The way you looked at him when you were trying to understand something he said, brows slightly drawn together, completely focused.

The way you forgot yourself sometimes,

And just… existed.

“Say that again,” he said one afternoon, leaning back in his chair.

You looked up from your notes. “What?”

“What you just said.”

“I didn’t say anything important.”

“You laughed.”

Your lips pressed together immediately, like you were trying to take it back.

“I always laugh.”

“Not like that.”

You frowned. “Like what?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Just watched you.

Then, quieter—

“Like you forgot to hold it in.”

Something warm crept up your neck before you could stop it.

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“It does.”

You shook your head quickly, looking away.

“It doesn’t “

But your smile lingered.

After that, it stopped feeling like effort.

You were just… there. In the hallway, in the library, somewhere on campus where he didn’t have to look too hard. It became routine without ever being named as one. Your presence slipped into his days quietly, until it no longer felt like something he chose, but something that simply existed.

___

There was a part that unsettled him.

Not you.

Not the closeness.

But the way it lingered even when you weren’t there.

The way his attention didn’t shift as easily as it used to. The way moments with you stayed sharper than everything else, clearer, harder to blur into nothing like he was used to.

It didn’t fit into anything he understood.

So he refused to understand it.

Pushed it down. Flattened it into something simpler, something familiar, something he could control.

It didn’t matter to Sukuna.

Not when he had a goal in mind.

__

The party had already tipped past control by the time Sukuna started paying attention to anything.

___

Music thudded through the walls, heavy bass rattling the staircase, bodies packed shoulder to shoulder like the house was built to hold less than half of them. Someone had spilled something sticky near the kitchen, people stepped through it anyway. Laughter rose in bursts, cut through by shouting, by someone calling for another round that no one needed.

Upstairs, the balcony overlooked all of it.

And Sukuna stood there like he owned it.

One arm hooked lazily over the railing, a drink in his hand he hadn’t finished, half-listening to Gojo talking absolute nonsense beside him while a couple of girls hovered a little too close.

“—I’m telling you,” Gojo was saying, grinning like he always did, “if you had just listened to me—”

“I didn’t,” Sukuna cut in flatly, not even looking at him.

Gojo snorted. “Yeah, obviously.”

From the other side, Toji leaned back against the wall, watching the crowd below with the kind of disinterest that only meant he was noticing everything.

“Boring night,” he muttered.

Sukuna almost agreed.Almost.

Then his gaze shifted.

And stopped.

You.

It clicked instantly this time.

Not gradually or subtly.

Immediate.

The dress.

Tight enough to matter.

Soft enough to look like it wasn’t meant for a place like this.

Shorter than anything he’d seen you in before,way shorter,and it showed in the way you carried yourself. Not confident, not practiced. You kept adjusting it without thinking, fingers brushing the hem, shoulders pulling in just slightly like you were still figuring out how to exist in it.

Like you hadn’t worn it for this.

Like you didn’t know what it did.

Sukuna’s smirk came easy.

Slow and certain.

“Well, that’s new,” Gojo said suddenly, following his line of sight. “Didn’t know your type came to parties.”

Sukuna didn’t answer.Didn’t need to.

Toji huffed quietly. “She looks like she’s gonna leave in ten minutes.”

“Not tonight,” Sukuna said, already pushing off the railing.

That was all.

Decision made.

Downstairs, the air hit warmer, heavier, the noise louder the second he stepped back into it. People moved out of his way without thinking, someone called his name, someone grabbed his arm,he shrugged it off without breaking stride.

His focus didn’t shift.

You didn’t see him until he was already there.

Close enough that the space around you felt… different.

You turned,

And your expression changed the second you recognized him.

That softness again with that ease.

Sukuna stopped in front of you, gaze dropping immediately.Slow.

“…You’re full of surprises.”

Your fingers brushed your dress again, instinctively.

“I just-tried something different.”

“Yeah,” he said, voice low, amused, “figured.”

You hesitated under his gaze, but you didn’t shrink. Didn’t step back.

You stayed exactly where you were.

“Shoko make you wear that?” he asked.

Your brows pulled together slightly. “No.”

“Then what?decided to switch it up?”

“…Something like that.”

He leaned a little closer.

Not enough to trap you.

Just enough.

“Looks better on you than the whole quiet act.”

That caught you off guard.

Your lips parted slightly. “I’m not—”

“You are,” he cut in, not harsh, just certain. “Just don’t notice it.”

Heat crept up your neck.

But you didn’t argue.

Didn’t deflect.

You just looked at him.

“…Do you think it’s too much?” you asked, quieter now, almost like you weren’t sure why you were asking him at all.

Sukuna’s eyes flickered,just for a second.Then his smirk deepened.

“Nah,” he said, taking the cup from your hand like it was his to take, fingers brushing yours without pause. “Think you’re just not used to people looking.”

Your breath caught.

“People aren’t—”

“They are.”

You didn’t finish your sentence or look around to check.You just… believed him.

He set your drink aside without asking.

Your hand stayed suspended in the air for a second before dropping.

“Relax,” he added, quieter now, eyes still on you. “You look like you’re trying not to.”

“I’m not,” you said, but it came out softer than you meant.

He huffed a quiet laugh.

“Yeah, you are.”

There was a pause.

Not empty.

Just… close.

And then

His hand found your wrist.

His grip was not rough but firm.

“Come on.”

This time, you didn’t ask where but you knew because you felt it in the way he said it.In the way he was looking at you.

In the way the space between you had already changed.

Your fingers tightened slightly before you let him pull you forward.

You didn't resist it,just went along with it.

Upstairs, the music dulled into something distant, the noise fading behind you with every step. The hallway stretched quieter, dimly lit, the air cooler,but it didn’t settle anything.

If anything, it made everything clearer.You were aware now of where you were going,of what this was.Your steps slowed for half a second not to stop but just enough to take it in.

Sukuna noticed.

He glanced back at you, something sharper in his gaze now,not questioning, not checking but registering.

You didn’t pull your hand away or step back.

You met his eyes for a second and they didn’t look uncertain which was all he needed.

Inside his room, the door shut behind you with a quiet click.

The sound landed heavier than it should have.

The shift was immediate.

No noise. No distractions.

Just the two of you,and everything that had been building.

You exhaled softly, your hand brushing down the side of your dress again, smoothing it without thinking.

But this time,you didn’t look away.

Sukuna stepped closer.Slow and measured.

His hand came up to your waist again, firmer this time, pulling you in until there wasn’t space left to hesitate in. The fabric of your dress shifted under his grip, your breath catching as your hands came up to him,not unsure now, just… instinctive.

There was no teasing left or any need for it.

His hand moved higher, slower now, like he was taking his time for once,not out of care, but because he could. Because you weren’t pulling away. Because you were right there, letting him.

Your grip tightened in his shirt.Your breath unsteady.

And when he leaned in, his lips on yours, melting.

you didn’t hesitate.

Everything after that blurred into heat and closeness.The kind that built fast once it started.

Your back meeting the wall for a second, then the bed, the space shifting under you as the dress you’d been so aware of earlier became something in the way more than anything else.

Fabric pulled, pushed aside, slipping out of place under impatient hands.

His skin on yours.

Your breathing broke first.

Then steadied into something else entirely.

Sukuna didn’t slow down or stop to think.

Didn’t question the way this felt slightly different from everything else because to him—

it wasn’t.

It was exactly what he’d expected.

Exactly what he’d decided.

And he moved through it like he always did, like it would end the same way it always did.

___

The Morning came.

The room didn’t feel like the night before.

What had been loud and close and overwhelming was now still, the air cooler, thinner somehow. Light slipped in through the curtains in soft lines, cutting across the bed, across the floor, across you.

For a moment, nothing moved.

Sukuna was already awake.

Not fully out of bed, not rushing, just… there. Sitting at the edge, leaning forward slightly, phone in hand, scrolling without really looking.

Like he’d already stepped out of whatever last night had been.

You stirred behind him slowly.

The shift in the sheets, the quiet sound of movement,

He noticed. But he didn’t turn immediately.

“…You’re up early,” you said, voice softer than usual, still carrying the weight of sleep.

He hummed, noncommittal.

“Yeah.”

You pushed yourself up slightly, the sheets gathering around you, your eyes adjusting to the light, to the room, to him.

“Are you leaving?” you asked after a pause.

Not accusing....Just unsure.

Sukuna glanced back then, brief, almost distracted.

“Got stuff.”

That was it,you nodded like that made sense.

Like you weren’t expecting anything more.

The silence stretched for a moment after that.

He stood, pulling his shirt on without much thought, movements easy, familiar, like this was routine.

You watched him quietly, trying to take him in.

Trying to understand something you couldn’t quite name yet.

“You have class today?” you asked, quieter now.

“Maybe.”

A small pause.

Then—

“…I do.”

He didn’t respond to that or ask when and where. Perhaps, that was the first shift

So small it could’ve been ignored.

But it stayed.

By the time he left, it felt like the room had changed again.

Not empty.

Just… different.

You stayed a little longer.

Not because you had to.

Because leaving felt like acknowledging something you weren’t ready to name yet.

___

On campus, everything moved like it always did.

Classes filled. Conversations overlapped. People passed by without looking twice.

Nothing had changed.

Except what had.

You noticed it first in the lecture hall ,the seat beside yours, empty.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything,he didn’t always come early or come at all.

Still—

You found yourself glancing at the door.

Once...Then again.

He came in late.Of course he did like always.

But this time,he didn’t sit beside you.He took a seat further back.Didn’t look your way or acknowledge you.

Your fingers tightened slightly around your pen.

You told yourself—

It didn’t mean anything.

It kept happening.

In the hallway, you’d catch a glimpse of him,surrounded, laughing, moving through people the way he always did.

Effortless.

But not with you.

In the library, the chair across from you stayed empty.

Days passed like that.

And slowly,

That quiet, unspoken shift turned into something harder to ignore.

Because he wasn’t gone, he was just not there with you anymore

And Sukuna—

Sukuna didn’t think about it.

Not really.

Not when he was drinking again, laughter loud, someone pressed close to his side.

Not when the nights blurred back into something easy, familiar, forgettable.

It was back to normal.Exactly how it should be.

And yet—

There were moments.

Small ones.

A pause in the middle of a conversation when something didn’t feel as interesting as it should.

A glance toward a space before realizing why he was looking.

A flicker of recognition that didn’t settle into anything he could name.

It didn’t make sense or matter.So he ignored it.

Because whatever that was,it wasn’t enough to mean anything...just yet.

___

At first, it was easy to explain.

He didn’t sit beside you in class-fine. He was never consistent.He didn’t come to the library-fine. He never liked it anyway.He didn’t walk with you after lectures-fine.

It was all fine.

You told yourself that enough times that it almost sounded true.

But the problem was that it didn't feel the same.

Once, you caught his eye in the hallway.Just for a second.

And something in your chest lifted before you could stop it—

But he didn’t slow.

Didn’t stop.

Didn’t even acknowledge it.

Like it hadn’t happened.

That stayed longer than it should have.

You started leaving the library earlier.

Stopped sitting in the same place sometimes.

Changed your routes between classes without thinking too much about why.

It didn’t help. Because it wasn't about the place to begin with.

Shoko noticed but she didn't say much.

Just watched you a little more carefully, her expression tightening every time Sukuna’s name came up around you,even when it wasn’t directed at you.

___

And then—

there was another party,one you almost didn’t go,but staying in felt worse.So you did.

The music hit the second you stepped inside, loud and overwhelming, the same chaos as before,but this time, it didn’t feel unfamiliar.

It felt...distant.

You spotted him quickly.You always did.

He was cross the room.Surrounded.

A girl leaned into him, laughing at something he said, her hand resting too comfortably against his chest. Another stood close enough that their shoulders brushed every time he moved.

He didn’t push them away or look uncomfortable.

Didn’t look like anything had changed.

He looked exactly the same.

Your chest tightened, something sharp and quiet settling in your throat, making it hard to breathe properly.

You stood there longer than you should have.

Watching.

Waiting for something.

A glance,anything at all,but nothing came.

before you could stop yourself,you moved.

The crowd blurred as you pushed through it, your steps faster than you meant them to be, your thoughts louder than the music around you.

He noticed you before you reached him, ofcourse.

His eyes flicked to you briefly.Then stayed.The girl beside him said something.

He didn’t respond immediately.

Because now,you were standing in front of him.

Too close.Too exposed.

“What are you doing?” you asked.Your voice was quiet.

But it didn’t shake.

Not yet.

His brows lifted slightly.Not confused.Just… mildly surprised.

“What does it look like?”

You swallowed.

“That’s not what I meant.”

A pause.

The noise around you felt distant now.

Like everything had pulled back just enough to leave the two of you standing there.

“Then what did you mean?” he asked, tone lazy, almost bored.

You hesitated.

For the first time since you’d walked up to him.

“I mean—” you started, then stopped, trying to find the right words. “You’ve been… avoiding me.”

The word sat there.Between you.

He exhaled slowly, like the conversation had already tired him.

“I’ve been busy.”

“That’s not true.”

That slipped out before you could stop it.

Something in his expression shifted.Not much but just enough.

You pushed forward anyway.

Because now you couldn’t stop.

“You were there,” you said, quieter now, but more certain. “Before. You used to—”

You cut yourself off.

Used to what?

He watched you struggle to finish the sentence.

And something about that,

made his mouth curve.

“Used to what?” he prompted.

Your chest tightened.

“I just thought—”

You stopped again.

Because you didn’t know how to say it.

And he knew that.

He stepped closer.

Not gently.

Not harshly.

Just enough to take control of the space again.

“You didn’t let it get to your head, did you?”

The words landed softly.

Too softly.

You blinked.

“What?”

His expression didn’t change.

Still that same, easy, almost amused look.

“That night,” he said, like it meant nothing. “You’re not still thinking about that, right?”

Your stomach dropped.

“I—no, I just—”

“Good.”

He cut you off before you could finish.

Because then,

he leaned in slightly.

Just enough that only you could hear it.

“You’re not all that.”

It wasn’t loud.Wasn’t harsh.Wasn’t even said with anger.

Just,dismissive.

Like he was correcting something small.

Like you had misunderstood your place.

And that-

....that hurt more.

Your expression didn’t break immediately.

That was the worst part.

It happened slowly.

The way your eyes lost something first.

Then the way your lips parted, like you were about to say something,and couldn’t.

The way the words just… stopped.

Sukuna saw it.Saw exactly what he’d done.

And for a second,

something unfamiliar flickered in his chest.

Sharp and Uncomfortable, but he ignored it.

Because this,

this was how it was supposed to go.

You nodded,looking small.

“…Okay.”

Your voice was quiet.

Flat.

And then,you stepped back.

Not rushing or running but just leaving.

And this time,he watched you go.

Not because he wanted to...but because he couldn’t look away.

This is what he always did, what he always wanted, what was normal to him,

So what was this feeling creeping up in his chest as he watched you leave?

note: I don’t know if this turned out how i wanted , please let me know if you like it, then I’ll continue with the next parts, after this i NEED to post some fluffy sukuna drabble soon AGHH.

Also let me know if you’d like to be tagged when or if another part is released🫪😋

Taglist is now closed!🥹

[applefishcake]

childhood bestfriends caleb and nonMC!reader, who he's secretly in love with while she thinks he likes someone else

warnings. angst, fluff, rejection, she fell first he fell harder, caleb is down bad, groveling, miscommunication, caleb sucks at feelings, slow burn, childhood friends to lovers, he gives her a nickname adjacent to pipsqueak preview. "I love you," he says, pressing his forehead against yours. You want to tell him that it's not fair to treat you the way he does and expect you not to fall for him. That holding your hair when you vomit, falling asleep at your bedside when you're sick, and his eyes closing in on you in any room is not fair. "Then prove it to me." wc. 8.4k (she's hefty...)

You proposed to Caleb for the first time when you were nine years old, with a flower ring.

The winter air had nipped at your flushed cheeks as you stepped into ice, holding it out to him. Your breath had puffed into the air like a dragon, and you nuzzled your chin further into the wool of your scarf to keep warm. It had been the only flower left after fall had faded away, yet its white petals stood brilliantly in between your fingertips, weathering against the cold.

The child in front of you was closed off. Eyes narrowed, fists balled inside his pockets, and usually adorning a solemn look on his face. Though, it had certainly gotten better since you first met him as one of Grandma Josephine’s adoptive children. Back then, he hadn’t even spoken much—only keeping MC tight at his side, as if she might disappear if he didn’t. He wasn’t rude by any means…just, cautious. Too aware for a child of his age.

But without a doubt in your mind, he was the most handsome boy you’d ever seen.

He’d raised his brows. “You just met me last week.”

“It’s love at first sight.”

He rejected you, naturally, but it did little to make a dent in your childish heart. Not when his purple hues gazed into your own, with a softness that didn’t seem intent on hurting you.

The next two decades becomes a perpetual cycle of this encounter—in which you learn that Caleb is a very caring person.

In that time, you learn a lot about him, aside from his gorgeous face. You find that he’s fond of nicknames. Pipsqueak for MC. Splints for you, when you launched yourself off a swing and broke your wrist trying to impress him. Safe to say, it didn’t impress anyone but your doctor, who was baffled you managed to fly so high into the air with your 11-year-old legs. Caleb held your other hand tight in the emergency room as you wailed helplessly, waiting for the doctor to ease the pain. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t cry just a tad longer to keep your hand in his.

“This thing is so ugly,” you whine, picking at your cast as he walks you back home. “Do you think I’m gross now, Caleb?”

“It’s not ugly. You need it to get better.”

“I thought you’d fall in love with me if I went high enough,” you sniffle fake tears, which he reads in an instant. “I did go pretty high up, though. So maybe you like me at least.”

He laughs, and you scowl, insisting that you aren’t joking. So instead, he smiles and holds your free hand in his again. Your heart skips a beat. A childish, but innocent love fluttering in your chest. “Come on, splints. Let’s go watch TV, and I can sign your cast.”

The broken wrist is so worth it.

With MC being two grades lower than the two of you and thus having a different schedule, it doesn’t take long before you’re doing practically everything with Caleb. He’s your seatmate in class, the two of you walk to and from school, and there doesn’t seem to be a moment where you aren’t glued at the hip. Throughout all of this, you make sure you shoot your shot whenever the chance arises—even when it doesn’t arise at all.

“You get any chocolates for Valentine’s?” you ask as you plop down in your seat with your lunch, not-so-conspicuously eyeing his desk as his friends begin to crowd around the two of you. It didn’t take long for Caleb to adjust to ordinary school life. After his initial bumpy introduction where he seemed hesitant to get close to anyone his grandma would introduce him to, he was quick to adjust to a level of charisma even you haven’t gotten to. 

By now, he’s charisma personified. You, yourself, have no idea how quickly he adapts to things. Though, you do recall that after an exam measuring his intelligence, he was told he couldn’t lower his grade by two years to be with MC. So you suppose he’s rather bright—almost as much as his face.

“Too many,” one of his friends groan, dragging his hand down the side of his face. “Life’s so not fair, dude.”

“Just a few,” Caleb laughs, turning to feel me stare at him expectantly. “Most of them are obligatory. I just helped a couple people out during gym.”

You glance at his friends. “How many is a few?”

“At least five,” another one grins. He wiggles his eyebrows at you, and his friend snickers at his shoulder. “You jealous?”

It’s not like your crush on Caleb is new news. In fact, it’s practically common knowledge at your school, given how open you are with your affection with him. Asking him out with a giant poster on orientation day, sending him notes with hearts littered everywhere during class, and refusing to be subtle when you’re discussing it with your friends…it tends to add up. Most people believe your relationship to be strange, but those who matter thought of it as the norm, so it doesn’t really matter. 

“Jealous? I don’t think so, why?”

“Most girls would be if their boyfriend got a bunch of chocolates,” he responds, to which Caleb immediately reminds him that you’re not dating. Then his friend sighs. “It’s cute when girls get jealous, isn’t it?”

At this, your ears perk.

“Should I be jealous?” you ask Caleb, making his friends erupt into snickers. “Do you think it’s cute too?”

He rolls his eyes and flicks your forehead softly. “Do you ever ask normal questions, splints?”

Throughout your childhood together, everything involves him. Family dinners, graduation, holidays, all of it. Of course, this means that MC is there for all of it too. You’re helplessly in love, but you’re not stupid. You know what love looks like from the movies their grandma would play on their TV. He cares for her with a different look in his eyes. He protects her with a lovingness in his voice that he doesn’t spare for you. 

The same fingers that flick your forehead touch her arm gingerly, like she could crack in half if he holds too hard. He doesn’t touch her very easily either, whereas he often falls asleep with his head fully leaning against your shoulder on the bus ride home. He wakes up at the crack of dawn to make her lunch, while the two of you munch on sandwiches from the school cafeteria during lunch breaks. He scolds you when your clothes are tossed on the ground while he folds hers without her having to ask. He never enters her room to protect her privacy while he lounges in yours like he owns the place.

Your Caleb, you have found, is different from MC’s Caleb. 

MC’s Caleb is easy to depend on. Trustworthy, perfect, and never makes a mistake for the life of him. He never loses his cool in front of her, never has a hair out of place, lets her win at all the board games, and always has this clear but dazed look in his pretty purple eyes. Your Caleb has none of that. Your Caleb teases you mercilessly when you lose the card game for the fifth time in a row. Your Caleb passes out on his desk while studying for an exam, essentially drooling on his notebook to lie to MC that he’s naturally talented at math. Your Caleb sends you stupid videos about plane models and forces you to sit through a thirty-minute explanation about it.

You know he likes her. He knows you know he likes her. She doesn’t know anything at all. All jumbled up, like a wordless pact ready to crumble at any moment. 

Of course, this means that he prioritizes her over you at times. All the time. It’s to be expected. She’s family, you’re not. You’ve grown used to it, and so has he.

MC doesn’t notice though, because she doesn’t have to. Because to her, Caleb is just a slightly nagging but cool adoptive brother. Nothing more, nothing less. And you’re one of her childhood friends, and Caleb’s best friend. Nothing more, nothing less.

The first year after you graduate high school is a dramatic shift from your cozy hometown. You somehow manage to get into the same college as Caleb–and you attribute his tutoring to be the main culprit—though in different majors. It’s a lot to convince him to go so far from home given that MC is still at home, but after a lot of reluctant discussion, he agrees.

“Take off your shoes at the door,” he reminds you as you barge into his dorm room after a particularly difficult exam for one of your classes. You do as he asks, grumbling about how he has no mercy for the fallen, tossing them haphazardly beside the door and prancing past him. He takes the time to tidy them up, as if he’s expecting it. “How was your exam?”

“Awful. I went through war.”

Caleb grins as he sits down at the coffee table beside you, watching as you bury your face into your arms. “And whose fault is it that they didn’t want to study?”

“Yours.”

“Funny,” he snorts, and you feel his large hand ruffling the top of your head. “It’s alright, splints. I can tutor you a bit earlier on the next one.”

“Even you can’t save me for this class.”

“Is that a challenge?”

He ends up cooking up something quick in his makeshift kitchen (essentially just a rice cooker), while you laze around on his bed, scrolling aimlessly on your phone. Once he’s finished, you scarf down his food like a man starved, lips stretching widely. At times like these, you’re oddly grateful for his hopeless love toward MC. How else would he have learned to cook such good food?  “You should honestly be a chef, Caleb. Actually, no, that would mean other people would eat your food. I guess you can just be my personal chef when we’re married.”

Caleb remains completely unaffected, wordlessly cleaning the plate in front of you. “I didn’t realize I was engaged.”

“Well, now you know. Not sure if you remember, but I had fireworks for you and everything when I proposed. Plus an orchestra.”

He hums, looking up as if he’s in thought, and then nods. “Now that you mention it, that does sound familiar, splints. How could I forget?”

You shrug. “You tell me.”

His face falls as you pace to the door and begin to put your shoes back on. “Where are you going? Aren’t you done with class?”

“Going out. I deserve it after that exam.”

“With your friends?”

“No, with four guys,” you joke, but he doesn’t seem to find it very funny. “I’m just going to a club. I won’t be back too late.”

He’s already grabbing his jacket. “I can come.”

You push him back with your finger by the nose, and he blinks in surprise, making you laugh. “No need. You have exams too, y’know.”

“I’m done studying.”

“Liar.”

Though it takes some convincing, you eventually have him sit at his desk once more. He manages to nag a whole lot as you leave, reminding you to call him once you’re done so he can pick you up, but you just wave him off as you leave out the door. You take your time getting ready–dolling yourself up to hide the dark circles beneath your eyes. As you get ready, you video call MC, where she asks how you and Caleb have been doing in her absence. She rants about her days with her grandma, complaining about how quiet the house is when Caleb isn’t home, though she indulged in the beginning. She asks you to show her your outfit once you’re done, and she beams brightly in your screen, squealing about how you’d likely get a boyfriend soon that you can tell her all about.

You just smile, because you don’t know how to tell her that the only boy you want is wrapped around her unknowing hand.

The club is loud. Where the music rumbles through your feet to the tips of your fingertips, and the lights are flashing in a dimly lit room. Your friends flock to a table and order drinks while you let yourself feel the music and crack a joke or two once in a while.

A group of guys approaches you with easy smiles and louder voices than necessary—confidence sharpened by cheap cologne. One of them leans against your table like he’s done it a hundred times before, asking your name, where you’re from, if you come here often. The usual.

You answer, choking out a laugh to humor his unfunny jokes alongside your friends, while the swigs you take from your drink become deeper and deeper. 

He’s not bad at flirting, you think. Subtle, and not too glaring about it. But you don’t particularly enjoy humoring it, and it becomes gradually more apparent as your eyes keep drifting elsewhere and you keep having to ask him to repeat himself. You’re growing bored. Irritated.

Because he’s not Caleb.

It hits you in strange, inconvenient flashes. The way this guy stands just a little too far away. The way his voice doesn’t quite reach you over the music, even when he’s close. The way you don’t feel that familiar, grounding presence like an anchor holding you to the ground.

You find yourself glancing past his shoulder. Half-wishing to see Caleb there. Watching. Hovering.

But there’s only strangers. Blurred faces and flashing lights.

“You okay?” the guy asks, tilting his head.

“Yeah,” you say too quickly. “Long week.”

He grins, like that’s an invitation. Says something else—something about getting you another drink, maybe dancing, maybe getting out of here.

You nod again. Smile again.

Across the room, your friends are already disappearing into the crowd, dragged toward the dance floor by laughter and hands you don’t recognize. One of them glances back at you, gives you a look that asks ‘you’re good, right?’ before she’s gone.

You sit back down at the table when the guy steps away. Maybe to grab drinks, maybe because he senses your attention drifting. You don’t really care which.

The music swells in your chest. The lights flicker. You wish you could enjoy yourself, but it’s particularly hard today.

You take another sip. Then another. Your phone rests face-down on the table, but you flip it over anyway.

No messages.

Of course not. He cares, but not like that. Not in the way that he would spam MC’s phone whenever he didn’t know where she was or how she was doing. No, not like that at all.

Another sip. The glass is nearly empty now.

And suddenly, you’re pressing send before you can even register what’s happening.

[you]: hi

The answer comes immediately, the grey bubbles popping up on his end of the screen.

[futre hubs <333]: do you need me to come pick you up?

[futre hubs <333]: i can

You’re not sure why you feel like shit, but you hate it. In moments like these—moments where the alcohol lets you lower your walls and truly think—it hits you like a truck, like a deeply sinking feeling in your chest. The years of rejection after rejection that the two of you frame like a bit—as if your feelings have become so miniscule that it no longer even phases him. 

It hurts, a bit. More than you let yourself feel.

You’re not sure how much time passes. Maybe minutes or maybe an hour. There’s buzzing throughout your body. The grip on your waist belonging to the man you’ve been half-heartedly entertaining suddenly becomes harsher, snapping you out of your trance. It feels unlike Caleb, but you let it sit anyway. However, the hand moves to your wrist, and you’re being pulled out of the crowd towards the wall.

Too touchy. He’s saying something into your ear, and you feel his breath against your skin. You don’t like it. Too close. The buzzing feeling feels more like an alarm now.

The words either go unheard due to the music or don’t deter him. You want to go back. Back to Caleb. In the moment, you begin to think—almost as if the world is in slow motion. Perhaps the drinks, you think. You wonder if Caleb will leave you. You wonder if he’ll leave to go be with MC. You wonder if the years you’ve spent expressing your love to him meant as much to him as it did to you, or if he just found it plain annoying. You wonder if now that you’re in college, he’d want to explore other people, and he’ll finally find an outlet to get rid of you for good. 

But you know he wouldn’t. Because he cares for you. Just not as much as he cares for her.

You wonder if he’s ever looked at you with the same softness he does with MC.

Someone pulls you away from the man and into their chest, and the worries dissipate in an instant. His scent. His warmth. You knew he’d come. He always does. It only takes a warning glare from Caleb before the man disappears into the crowd again, and you feel the grip on your wrist loosen. Caleb stares down at you, your back still to his chest as you blink wearily, almost in slow motion, and he sighs. He doesn’t give you the same smile he gives to MC when she’s in trouble. 

A part of you wishes he wasn’t always there for you—not when it’s so different from how he’s there for her. 

You sit idly in front of a convenience store parking lot while Caleb fetches you some water and ice cream. You have your knees to your chest, arms pulling them close as you shiver against the cold autumn breeze. You should’ve brought a jacket. The buzzing, hot feeling of the alcohol is subsiding too quickly.

“Drink.” You feel a water bottle press against your cheek from behind, and Caleb plops down beside you with a plastic bag. He notices how you’re holding yourself together and frowns. “Are you cold?”

“No.”

“I told you to grab a jacket.”

“You nag too much.”

He snickers and twists open the cap of the water bottle for you to drink, which you sip carefully. He strips his jacket off and drapes it over your shoulders, and you immediately bury yourself in it. It smells like him.

“What kind of woman do you like, Caleb?”

“You and your questions.”

“I want to know.”

He shifts to face you, motioning for you to lift your arms. He grabs either side of his jacket and pulls it shut, fumbling with the zipper until he manages to zip it to your chin. You can barely claw your hands out of his sleeves—the fabric almost engulfs you—but he just laughs. “My type? A woman who brings jackets when it’s cold.”

You scowl, making his laugh echo louder. “Other than that.”

“A woman who goes to class in the morning.”

“...Other than that.”

“A woman who doesn’t leave her clothes all over my floor when she feels like sleeping over.”

“Something else.”

“A woman who eats healthy, balanced meals. A woman who doesn’t steal all my pens and then still ends up asking me for more. Maybe someone who doesn’t pass out drooling on my pillow. Or someone who doesn’t let half the world know that they like someone—hell, maybe even the entire world.”

Caleb glances at you, chuckling to himself, but stops the moment he sees that you’re not laughing with him. Your head hangs low, your feet shuffling anxiously. His face twists, and suddenly the air thickens.  “Splints?”

You pick at your sleeves. “So just not me?”

“I was just kidding around.”

“Jokes have some truth to them.”

“Not all of them. I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay, Caleb,” you finally meet his eyes again, and shrug. “I know you like someone else. I’m not an idiot.”

Silence commences, like a bell dropping on your head.

Caleb shifts his weight, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. It’s a nervous habit you’ve seen a hundred times—usually followed by some half-joke, something to smooth things over.

But nothing comes.

The space between you suddenly feels too small and too big all at once. You try to act normal. You really do.

You fiddle with your sleeve again, smoothing it down, then pulling at it, then smoothing it again. Anything to give your hands something to do, so they don’t reach for him out of instinct. 

Caleb glances at you. Then away.

Then back again, like he’s trying to solve something written across your face but can’t quite make out the words.

“Hey,” he starts, softer this time.

You hum in response, not trusting your voice yet.

Another pause. God, it’s awkward.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he mutters again, quieter now. Not defensive. Unsure. “You know I think you’re amazing.”

Just not enough.

“I am pretty great,” but it comes out too soft.

Neither of you knows what to do with another stretch of silence. So you opt to drink some more water instead.

“Why do you like me so much?” He eventually mutters out as he bites his bottom lip, eyes falling to the ground like he can’t bear to watch your expression. “You could do a lot better.”

You smile, but it’s half-hearted. “How could I not?”

He pauses, as if choosing his words carefully before his voice comes out in a soft whisper. “You mean so much to me. You’re smart, beautiful, and everything good in between—whoever gets to call you theirs is the luckiest person I know. And you know I’d do anything for you.”

Despite their sweetness, his words feel like judgement wrapping around your heart in vines, squeezing just before it’s about to pop. You wish you could block your ears out for what comes next.

“But it can’t be me.” Caleb’s lips purse, brows furrowing as he looks away. “I can’t give you what you want.”

The rejection hurts more than you realized it would. You want to tell him that it’s not fair to treat you the way he does and expect you not to fall for him. That holding your hair when you vomit, falling asleep at your bedside when you’re sick, and his eyes closing in on you in any room that you’re in is not fair. 

Instead, you nod. And you swear to yourself that you’ll swallow this sickening lump in your throat that makes you want to hurl and sob at the same time. That you’ll bury it deep in a graveyard within you that even the closest person to you would never know of. Especially him.  

“I don’t want it, either,” you snort back, immediately perking up to slap his back in what results in a jolt. His shoulders tense as he blinks wide at you, unsure of the sudden shift in atmosphere. “I don’t want feelings that belong to someone else, dumbass.”

Once it sinks in that you mean it, a smile finds its way onto his face, though something flickers beneath it, like a flash of something you don’t want to look too far into.

Not because you still had hope, but because whatever existed between you had never been something as simple as a crush. It had roots—tangled deep into your souls and impossible to pull free without tearing something open. You wanted to keep what was left. Even if it lingered just a little longer, and even if you pretended not to see the splintering strands in the string tying you together.

So you let it settle. Let it rot somewhere you couldn’t feel it.

The two of you fall into the kind of closeness that you’ve always had, and time passes as if it was always meant to be this way. It’s easier this way. For a while, it does work, but nothing ever really stays under wraps. Despite your incessant protests in telling yourself it’s fading, the scars he’s inflicted on you are just that. Scars. Unmoving yet subtle.

The thinning thread finally snaps a few years later, when MC develops feelings for a coworker in the Hunter’s Association. The day the cracks in the glass bridge holding you together shatter beneath your feet into a million different pieces.

“When’s the last time you’ve slept?”

He’s sprawled shirtless on the couch of his apartment in Skyhaven, freshly out of the shower after you arrived to visit him for the first time in months—only to see that he’s nearly overworking himself to death. Despite him going off to the DAA after college, you’d kept close contact, the connection between the two of you never wavering regardless of your restricted time. It only changed after news of MC broke out. Worried, you’d rushed to Skyhaven to make sure he was doing okay, which you’re clearly glad you did now. You’d practically had to drag him to the shower to keep him from passing out next to the front door in his gear.

Caleb, clearly, is off. You suppose you don’t blame him. The woman he loves is yearning for another. Almost poetic, really, but you don’t like seeing him this way. Especially when you know what it feels like yourself, even if you’ve gotten used to it. Gotten over it. He looks like a kicked puppy. Hurt, like a dog who’s just been scratched by its owner. 

“I dunno.”

You peer into the empty abyss that is his fridge and frown. There’s a few measly apples sitting inside, and a half-eaten protein bar that’s been there for god knows how long. “What the hell have you been eating?”

He responds with a grunt, letting his head fall back against the sofa. You decide to make do with the instant noodles he has stashed in one of the cupboards and bring it over to him once it seems mostly done. With a fork, you stick out a few noodles to his face, urging him. “Eat.”

“Not hungry,” he mutters.

“Don’t care. Sit up.”

He opens one of his eyes to peek at you, which somehow urges him forward. There’s darkness beneath his eyes—even stubble littering his chin from a few days worth of not shaving. You want to reach out and poke fun at him, but the state he’s in deters you. Instead, you silently feed him, watching him chew his food while staring at your hands. It makes you wish you put on a fresh set of polish before you came.

You twirl another small forkful and hold it out. He leans forward this time without being told, taking it quietly. His shoulder brushes yours as he settles back against the couch, and you can feel his skin through your shirt.

“Thanks,” he mutters, voice rough from disuse more than anything. “For coming.”

“Yeah,” you say, quieter now. “Someone had to make sure you didn’t rot in here.”

He huffs a faint laugh, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Probably would’ve. Dramatic way to go out, huh?”

You nudge his knee with yours. “Starving to death in your own apartment? Real heroic.”

A ghost of a smile flickers across his face. It makes your heart flutter. Stupid feelings.

“…thanks for coming, splints,” he says.

Your chest tightens—sharp and sudden. It feels like it’s threatening to feel something that’s not yours to feel. So instead, you look down at the bowl, pretending to focus on separating another bite. You twirl your fork, more carefully this time. “I had to. You weren’t responding, so I thought you died, or something. Open.”

He rolls his eyes, but obeys anyway. “Bossy.”

“Learned from the best.”

His lids flutter shut, voice dropping to a lower hum. “I missed this.”

Your hand stills. “What?”

He shrugs, eyes still closed. “You being here.”

His hair is sticking to his forehead, still damp from the shower. Before you realize what you’re doing, you brush a stray strand of hair off his forehead. You speak quietly. “You look like shit.”

“Wow,” he mutters. “You have a way with words.”

You frown, and without thinking, your hand lingers at his temple for just a second longer than it should. His skin is warm, still hot from the shower.

“Idiot,” you whisper.

He catches your wrist. Not tight, not stopping you. Simply holding it there for a moment that feels too long and not long enough at once. Your eyes meet for a fleeting moment, and then you’re looking away, setting the mostly finished bowl of noodles onto the coffee table to pull away.

“Don’t make this a habit. I’m not flying out here every time you forget to eat.”

“Could,” he murmurs. “You would.”

You don’t respond to that, because he’s not wrong.

“…Is she okay?”

It slips out of him like instinct. Like breathing. And just like that, everything shifts. You don’t answer right away—instead, your fingers tighten slightly around the fork.

“She’s fine,” you say eventually. Leave it, you plead in your head.

“Did she say anything?” he asks, sitting up a little more now. There’s something in his eyes, like he’s searching. “When you talked to her.”

You shrug, trying to keep your tone even. “Just normal stuff.” Stop, you think. Please stop talking.

“Like what?”

“Like her job. Her grandma. Nothing serious.” Shit.

He frowns slightly. “She didn’t mention him?”

There it is. It’s always about her.

You know he’s in a vulnerable spot right now, but it does nothing to ease the sudden flame roaring in your chest. Whether it’s from years of repressed hurt or shame, all it amounts to is a relentless ball of rage inside of you that leaves your nails digging crescents into the palms of your hands. You stare at him, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you inch away from him. 

“Does it matter?”

Caleb’s face relaxes. “What?”

“Why does it matter what she thinks about him? She likes him, end of story, no?”

“I just want to know if he’s a decent guy.”

Your ass. “That’s not really your business, Caleb, but sure. He’s a great guy. Amazing, honestly. He’s really gentlemanly and checks every single box. He lives above her apartment, so they’re right next to each other. He treats her gently, too. I’d bet every girl would jump at a chance to date a guy like that.”

You’re not sure where the words are tumbling out of, but it’s too late to go back. Neither do you want to.

“I wonder if he has a brother. Maybe MC could set me up or something.”

“Oh. Is he…” Caleb’s back straightens, and you notice his fingers digging into his thighs. “...handsome?”

“Didn’t you hear me? I’m telling you, he’s perfect. His face could pay for the Linkon rent by itself.”

He suddenly stands, and you glare up at him through your eyebrows. “Why are you talking like that?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you scoff.

He narrows his eyes. It’s something you haven’t seen in a while, since Caleb rarely gets upset at you. “You know exactly what I’m talking about, splints.”

“Can you just spit it out? What am I saying differently?”

“You’re angry.”

You stand, following suit. He looms over you to have his shadow essentially engulf you, and you wish you could kick his ankle so he falls to the ground. “Maybe if you weren’t so irritating, I wouldn’t feel so annoyed right now.”

“What?”

“It’s hard to watch, Caleb,” you hiss out in exasperation, throwing your hands into the air. “It’s always pipsqueak this, pipsqueak that, pipsqueak what. Seriously, we’re not kids anymore, you need to get over it!”

You’re not sure if you’re talking to him or yourself anymore.

“Can we calm down and talk? If I’ve been talking too much about it, I can stop, so—”

“We haven’t seen each other in months, Caleb! And all you want to ask me about is how she’s been? Why don’t you ask her yourself, if you’re so curious? Oh, but you can’t, because you always have to be perfect in front of her. So instead, you dump all of this on me. Your goods and bads, all of it, just for me to get kicked to the curb like I’m some dispensable object.”

“What?” his balks. “Dispensible? Are you serious? As if I haven’t gotten you out of every little thing you’ve gotten yourself into the past decade of our lives? As if I haven’t picked you up every weekend from your friends’ places at three in the morning? Like I haven’t called you every single week—”

“Well, I want you to stop that!” your words spit at him like weak knives, growing louder by the second. 

“You didn’t seem very against it the last forty times.”

“I am now.”

“What has gotten into you, splints?”

“Don’t call me that right now,” you glower, and you try to ignore the hurt flashing across his expression. “I’m just sick of seeing you follow her around like some wet dog. She doesn’t see you like that, can’t you see that?”

Your breathing begins to stutter, and you suck in a deep breath through your nose. Your chest stings, and you pray that you don’t lose composure so the tears threatening to bubble at the corners of your eyes remain hidden.

“You told me that you couldn’t give me what I wanted. Well, she can’t either,” you bore holes into his chest, too afraid of what you might see if you look up. “If I can get over my stupid feelings, so can you.”

But you’re not over it. Not at all.

He opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. For the first time in a while, you’ve rendered him speechless, and it feels even worse than what it felt to be rejected years ago. You’re not sure how your nails haven’t drawn blood at this point. You’d rather that they do, so you have some excuse to use the restroom.

“It’s not fair what you do, Caleb,” you try to will your tears to stay at bay, but you can’t help them. They sting, blurring your vision as you drop your head in some pathetic hope that he won’t face them head on. “How you treat me when you don’t like me like that is not fair. At least MC doesn’t know, but you—you know, and yet you—”

The rational part of you says that it’s not entirely his fault. Sure, you insisted on staying by his side. Sure, you insisted that you could push down your feelings. Sure, you’ve promised a lot of things, but it’s his fault too, for being the way he is—so kind, so thoughtful, just so him. 

You wipe desperately at your tears. It was a lost cause from the start.

“Please don’t cry.” His face drains of color, apparent even against the dim lighting in his apartment. He steps towards you, and you take a step back. “Please don’t cry, splints, just not that.”

But when your tears refuse to cease dripping down your cheeks, your face flushing in humiliation, you feel both his hands cupping either side of it. He tilts your gaze up, and you realize that he’s only inches away from you, so much so that you can feel his breath against your skin. It’s moments like these that you lose yourself in his beauty. The deepness of his eyes that seem to peer into your very soul is one of the first features that you fell in love with as a child, and it hasn’t changed since. Damn him. You blink, eyes wide while his own flicker to your lips. 

“Be as mad as you want. Hit me, hate me even,” he whispers, his nose almost touching yours now. His thumb pad smooths your tears away. “But don’t waste your tears on someone like me.”

You think you might be imagining things. Because with the tension that nearly suffocates you and his lashes almost fluttering against your skin, you think he might be about to kiss you.

A sharp pain jabs you in the chest. Is it pity? A consolation prize dressed up as something softer? Is it to smooth things over, to make this moment easier for him to leave behind? Or is it rebellion? Something reckless from the fact that he can’t have her? Your tears have dried up, but the rest of your body seems to weep, as no excitement, no butterflies course through your veins. 

Why is it always something else? Why is it never you? It only hurts—because even now, you’re just the place he empties everything he feels for her.

Instinctively, you press your palm into his lips to push him away, and it feels like the air itself has stilled.

His breath lingers against your skin. Yours stutters like it’s forgotten how to exist in the same space as him. The air is so thick you could slice it with a knife.

Eventually, he pulls away. Caleb stares at you with an expression you haven’t seen before, though you don’t look long enough to analyze it. Wordlessly, you gather your things, stuffing your jacket into your bag and stumble over to the door—all while he stays locked in a petrified state, like he’s processing what he just did. Your gaze remains fixated on the wooden panels of the floor while you pack, refusing to look any higher in case you might see anything other than his feet.

“Don’t follow me,” you tell him as you leave. 

You don’t wait to see if he hears you.

The journey home feels like there’s a gaping hole in your chest, and all you can do is stare out the window as you feel the vibrations of the train through your fingertips. Outside, the world blurs past in streaks of dim lights and shadowed shapes, and you wish that your feelings were as fleeting as the buildings blurring by. 

You try to count the number of trees you see. Not on the warmth of his breath against your palm. Not on how close he’d been. Not on the fact that, for a second, you almost let him.

If you hadn’t pushed him away, would it have meant anything? Or would you have just been a mistake he’d regret in the morning?

Your phone buzzes frantically in your pocket, and you pull it out to see his name in big bold letters. He’s texting you simultaneously, apologizing in so many different ways that they all start to blend into one message you don’t plan on reading. You refuse to give into what your heart wants. It’s hurt you too much in the past. So instead, your thumb hovers above the ‘mute’ button.

You press it and shut your eyes.

Even if it’s difficult to adjust the first few weeks without him, you can’t bear to face him either. He shows up at your door. Nearly every day for some time, knocking softly and asking if you’d be willing to talk. When you simply plug in your earbuds and bury yourself into your bed, he apologizes through the door and leaves you something to eat. You tend to throw it out at first, but after a while, you figure it’s just a waste. Just like that, a month goes by. And then another. Then another. Until you can’t count them on one hand anymore. He comes by once every two weeks or so now, likely busy with his work.

Despite how much your body seems to miss his presence, you wonder if you should distance Caleb permanently. It’s a daunting idea. One that you never would’ve thought just a few years ago, but the embarrassment runs deeper than you want to admit. The feelings you’ve tried so hard to hide clearly aren’t hidden. Is this sustainable? 

Regardless of what you think, he comes around like clockwork.

“Are you in there?” He knocks gently on your door, voice soft. He probably knows you are.

“No.”

He chuckles from the other end. “Right. Happy birthday, splints.”

You glance at your phone calendar. He’s right. 

As usual, he begins to talk about random events in his life that he hasn’t had the opportunity to tell you, and while you usually muffle it out, you decide to quietly shuffle over to the door today. To tell him, maybe, that you don’t want to keep doing this. Or maybe just to hear his voice, you don’t know. Either way, you slide your back down the door where he’s on the other side, pulling your knees into your chest.

“I don’t know if you’ve read my text, but–”

“I don’t read them.”

Caleb stops, and you can almost hear his breath hitch. You usually don’t give him more than a few words, much less a full sentence, so it seems to have taken him aback. After the brief remission, you hear him clear your throat. “Splints, can you open the door? I want to talk—apologize to you.”

Silence.

“Or I can do it out here. That’s fine,” he sighs. “I want you to know that it’s okay if you want to hate me forever after this. I won’t keep clinging to you if you at listen to what I have to say, but I really just—I need to say that this is my fault.”

You half-heartedly hear his words drone on, his confidence wavering every so often while you pull up his chats on your phone. You have no idea how you hadn’t folded and read his chats until now, though it might’ve been more so for your own peace than anything. There’s too many to scroll up to, so you read the most recent messages, squinting in the dark against the light of your phone. 

[1:41PM]

[caleb]: are you eating well?

[caleb]: i made this today

[caleb]: [image attached]

[caleb]: your favorite dishes :) i’ll drop them off at your place later

[caleb]: i hope you’re not just throwing them out…wouldn’t blame you tho

[caleb]: at least take care of yourself :)

[8:13AM]

[caleb]: hi splints :)

[caleb]: you probably watched it already but that movie you wanted to see came out a week ago. I went to go see it

[caleb]: i still think it’s kind of bad…but it was entertaining

[caleb]: unless you wanna argue about it ?? :3

[5:32PM]

[caleb]: ranked first today

[caleb]: i was excited to celebrate it with you and then remembered :/

[caleb]: it doesn’t feel as good when i can’t tell you lol

[caleb]: hope you’re okay

[11:23PM]

[caleb]: i wish i hadn’t been so stupid

[caleb]: i didn’t deserve you back then

[caleb]: i still don’t

[caleb]: i shouldn’t have lost my cool when you were over here. didn’t like hearing you talk about that guy like that

[caleb]: im sure he’s a good looking guy, and i know you’re particularly weak to good looking guys…

[caleb]: i was being childish and i wish i could’ve explained it to you then

[caleb]: i know you don’t owe me anything and you don’t have to listen to what i have to say

[caleb]: but i never wanted to make you feel used, and i never did. if that even sounds believable lol

[caleb]: it was never about her

[caleb]: there’s so much more i want to say but i’ll say it in person

[caleb]: miss you a lot

[caleb]: sleep tight

You wish the tightness in your chest would go away. You wish you didn’t feel his sorrow through him. And you wish you didn’t care about your own feelings for him.

“I love you, splints,” he murmurs, and your attention tears away from the chats, your phone nearly clattering onto the floor. Your eyes widen, suddenly regretting that you missed the first half of his speech. 

“Not in the way you say it to your friends, or the way you say it to family. You’re my life, and you’ve been my life since the day you gave me that ring. I care for MC, but what I feel for you is different. It’s always been different. I realized that years ago, but I was afraid that it wouldn’t be fair for you. I thought you deserved someone better than someone who doesn’t know how to understand their own feelings.” Your throat dries. “I thought it wasn’t fair because I’d already put you through so much.”

“At the same time, I’m a selfish guy, you know? I couldn’t let you go either, because I couldn’t bear to see you with someone else. I wanted it to be us, and the only way I could think of existing without feeling like I was ruining you was to stay how we were. Stagnant, I guess,” he chuckles, but it feels sad. Weak. “I’m an idiot when it comes to you, you know.”

You don’t respond.

Not because you don’t have anything to say—if anything, there’s too much. It crowds your throat, every word scraping against the next until none of them can make it out. Your fingers hover uselessly over your phone, screen still lit with a conversation you can’t even remember reading.

‘I love you.’

The words echo, but they don’t land the way you once dreamed they would. They don’t bloom or soften or fix anything. They just sit. Too heavy. Too late.

Your chest tightens, aching outward like it’s trying to break free. Because you’ve wanted this—God, you’ve wanted this—for so long that you stopped letting yourself imagine it could ever actually happen. It should feel like relief. Instead, it feels real, but fragile.

Because you remember too much. The almosts. The waiting. The way you learned how to swallow your emotions when he built a wall between the two of you—and that doesn’t disappear just because he finally found the words.

Your hand curls slightly against the door, fingers brushing the cool surface.

Even with all that, you still miss the warmth of his skin. How his hair felt through a towel as you dried it. How he’d flick your forehead when you’d get a question wrong during one of his tutoring sessions. How he’d tease you about your grades or interests, and learn more about them anyway. How he’d message you throughout the day about random endeavors. How he’d always be there. How with just a call of his name, he would’ve crossed the continents for you. His eyes. His lips. His face. His painfully handsome face.

You remember him in all parts of your life—and not a single moment you’ve spared has gone without him. You remember how he held your hand when you’d broken your arm, and the way he’d lifted you into the air and embraced you when you were accepted into the same college as him. You remember how he’d pet your hair as you complained about him going too far for the DAA, promising he’d visit often. And he did. He always kept his promises.

Your body moves on its own, as if this was how it was always meant to be. The door slowly creaks open.

“…We’re a mess.”

A faint, tired smile is all you can give him. Still, when he sees you, the world seems to stop for just the two of you, and it takes him a moment to fully register that you’re really there. That you’re not just a figment of his imagination, and he hasn’t truly lost you forever as he’d feared. “This doesn’t mean you’re completely out of the woods. I’m still mad.”

“You should be,” he whispers out, nearly breathless.

Hesitantly, you step towards him. He reaches his arm out, brows furrowed cautiously like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to even blink right now. The tips of his fingers twitch towards you. You raise a brow, and he swallows the lump in his throat, retracting back until you nod. 

Realizing you don’t have shoes, you step onto the fronts of his shoes one foot at a time, taking his hand until you’re flush against him and he’s already engulfing you into a crushing embrace. His arms wrap around you, strong and warm. He smells good. Though you can’t confidently say the same for yourself given the state you’re in, he drops his chin into the crook of your neck and inhales deeply, like a man starved.

“Note to self,” you mumble. “Don’t propose to any handsome guy you see.”

Caleb laughs, airy this time, and you feel it against your collarbone. “I thought you were going to leave your husband out here to die in the cold.”

“I should divorce you. We’re not even married yet.”

He grins, lopsided. “You should.”

“I won’t.”

“I know.

You bury your face into his chest, fingers digging into the fabric on his back. “I don’t want a version of my life without you, Caleb. As annoying as you are.”

He pulls away for a brief moment and places a kiss on your cheek, his own dusting red. Flowers feel like they’re blooming on the spot he pecked, but somehow, it feels natural. You’ve always been close to him physically throughout your upbringing, even if it never involved lips–that was new territory. You cross your arms, relying on his hands around your waist to keep you upright. “Tell me more.”

“You nag too much.”

He kisses your nose. “Hm?”

“You’re emotionally repressed.”

“Ouch.” He kisses your temple.

“You’re too good at things you don’t try at.”

Your jawline.

“You’re unstable. You’re too protective. You’re stupid.”

“I love you,” he says, pressing his forehead against yours. His lips hover above your own, just centimeters away.

Your lashes flutter against his. “Then prove it to me.”

“I will,” he whispers, just as his mouth slots against yours, and a warmth blooms throughout your chest. You melt into him, like you always have and you always will. “I’ll prove it to you for the rest of my life.”

[kashun]

━━━ HIS LOVE LANGUAGE WAS FLORAL.

𝓲𝗻 𝘄𝗵𝗶𝗰𝗵 ♰ sukuna spends six months confessing his love through flowers and their hidden meanings, only to realize you’d kept every single one without ever knowing why he gave them to you.

✿ ◞◟) ryomen sukuna 𝓍 gn!reader

𝓬𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 fluff, college!au, nerd flower!sukuna, yearning, acts of service as love language, friends to lovers, idiots in love, a lots of flower symbolism / hanakotoba, hand holding, kiss, sukuna is blushing!!, secretly romantic sukuna.

the campus greenhouse had always been sukuna's favorite place, which was something most people wouldn't expect if they only knew him from his reputation.

people only saw the sharp jawline, the permanent furrow between sukuna’s brows, the way his broad shoulders seemed to take up more space than any one person deserved. they heard his dry humor, his quick wit, the way he could cut someone down with nothing more than a glance and a few carefully chosen words. they didn't see him here, elbows braced against a worn wooden table, fingers gently tracing the petal of a peony like he was handling something sacred.

you watched him from across the table, chin propped in your palm, half-listening to the lecture he'd launched into about fifteen minutes ago; something about victorian flower language, about the way people used to say things they couldn't speak aloud through carefully arranged bouquets.

sukuna’s voice was lower than usual here, way softer, as if the greenhouse demanded a certain reverence that even ryomen sukuna couldn't ignore.

"—and the thing is," sukuna said, gesturing with the hand that wasn't currently cradling a potted orchid. "people think it's all just romantic bullshit, but it's not. it's practical, really. a way of communicating when the words won't come out right."

sukuna’s tattoos shifted when he moved, those dark lines that crawled up his forearms and disappeared beneath his sleeves. you'd always liked that about sukuna; the way the boy never bothered to hide them even when professors gave him pointed looks on the first day of classes.

he was all sharp edges and hard lines, but then he'd show up at your apartment with a sprig of lavender tucked behind his ear like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"you're not listening," sukuna said, but there was no accusation in it, just a statement of fact, accompanied by the faintest quirk of his lips.

"i am," you lied, sitting up straighter. "you were talking about... flowers saying things."

his eyes narrowed, but the corners of his mouth twitched.

"i was talking about specific meanings. symbolic language. there's a difference."

sukuna set down the orchid and reached for another pot, something small with delicate white blooms that you didn't recognize. his fingers were careful, deliberate, the same way they were when he rolled a cigarette or tied his shoelaces or did anything that required even the slightest bit of precision.

it was hard to reconcile this version of sukuna with the one who'd shoved his way through a crowd last week just to get to the front of the coffee shop line, all elbows and impatience and barely concealed irritation.

"this one," sukuna said, holding the pot up so you could see. "is stephanotis. it means marital happiness, but also a willingness to be led. which is stupid, honestly, because why the hell would anyone want to be led anywhere? but the victorians were weird about a lot of things."

you laughed, and something in his expression softened just enough that you almost missed it.

sukuna had been leaving you flowers for months now.

not in a romantic way, or at least you'd assumed it wasn't romantic because this was sukuna, and sukuna didn't do romance. he did late-night study sessions that turned into ordering pizza at two in the morning. he did stealing your clothes and pretending he hadn't noticed they were yours. he did showing up at your door with a single yellow tulip tucked behind his ear and then plucking it out to hand to you like it was nothing, like he hadn't just walked across campus with a flower in his hair and dared anyone to say something about it.

you'd kept all of them, pressed between the pages of textbooks you never opened anymore, tucked into the frame of your bathroom mirror, dried and hanging from string tacked to your bedroom wall. there was something about the way he gave them to you; casual and offhand, like he'd just happened to find them and thought of you.

but sukuna never said why, he never explained the meaning behind any of them.

well, until now.

"so then you've got your roses, obviously," sukuna continued, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest.

the movement pulled his t-shirt taut across his shoulders, and you looked away before he could catch you staring.

"red for love, white for purity, yellow for friendship. but that's way too simple. anyone knows that. the real interesting stuff is the obscure ones."

the afternoon light filtered through the greenhouse glass, casting everything in a warm, golden, and beautiful haze. dust motes drifted between the two of you, slow and lazy, and a bee hummed somewhere in the corner, drunk on something sweet and pink that you couldn't name.

sukuna's voice washed over you like honey, and you found yourself sinking into it despite your best efforts to stay alert.

"like gardenias," he said, and your heart did something strange in your chest because he'd given you gardenias. three weeks ago, tucked into a mason jar on your desk after a particularly brutal exam week. you'd thought they were just pretty. "they mean secret love. the kind that can't be spoken aloud. which is dramatic as hell, but victorians loved drama almost as much as they loved repressed emotions."

he said it like a joke, like he was mocking the very concept, but his fingers had gone still on the table with no fidgeting, no gesturing; just stillness, and the way his gaze darted away from yours for a fraction of a second before snapping back.

you thought about the gardenias, pressed between pages 87 and 88 of your ancient history textbook, still faintly fragrant when you opened them.

"and peonies," sukuna went on, reaching for the plant he'd been touching earlier. "they've got a few meanings. shame, anger, but also romance and prosperity. it depends on the context, really. the victorians loved context, too."

a little pause.

"mostly, though, they symbolize a happy marriage. or a wish for one, anyway."

sukuna had given you peonies on your birthday. a whole bouquet of them, pink and lush and ridiculous, shoved into your arms with a gruff 'happy birthday, idiot' before he'd disappeared into the kitchen to make you dinner. you'd cried a little, though you'd blamed it on allergies.

your throat felt tight now, but you weren't sure why.

"basil is hatred," sukuna said, ticking off on his fingers now, counting down some internal list. "which is funny because it's also a cooking herb, so who knows what that says about italian grandmothers. ivy means fidelity. rosemary is remembrance. lavender is devotion, but also distrust, because again, context matters."

lavender. he'd left a sprig of lavender on your pillow last month after you'd fallen asleep on his couch.

you'd woken up to the smell of it, and to sukuna making coffee in the kitchen, humming something tuneless under his breath. you'd kept it tucked behind your ear for the rest of the day, and he'd looked at you differently after that; softer, maybe. or maybe you'd imagined it.

"what about camellias?" you asked, and sukuna’s hand paused mid-gesture.

your voice sounded strange to your own ears, thin in a way that had nothing to do with volume and everything to do with the way your heart was suddenly trying to escape your ribcage. because he'd given you camellias too. pink ones, tied with a bit of twine, left in your backpack after a study session two months ago. you'd found them while looking for a pen and spent the rest of the night trying not to overthink it.

sukuna's jaw tightened for just a fraction, just for a second, but you saw it because you were looking, because you were always looking, even when you told yourself not to.

"camellias," sukuna repeated, and the word came out rougher than the others. he cleared his throat. "they mean... longing. desire, mostly. but specifically the kind that's acknowledged and accepted. not secret like gardenias, not hopeful like peonies. just... wanted."

the silence that followed was heavy and thick with something unspoken. a bee buzzed, a leaf drifted down from one of the hanging plants, landing softly on the table between the two of you like a tiny green question mark.

you thought about all of it.

the tulips and the lavender, the gardenias and the peonies, the camellias and the stephanotis sukuna had given you just last week, white and fragile and tucked into your coat pocket. you thought about the way he looked at you when he thought you weren't paying attention, the way his voice softened when he said your name, the way he always, always made sure you ate even when you forgot, even when you were too tired or too stressed or too something to take care of yourself.

you thought about the yellow tulips he'd given you first, and what he'd just said about them meaning friendship, and how maybe that had been the beginning. maybe sukuna had started there on purpose, testing the waters, seeing if you'd accept something small and simple before moving on to gardenias and secrets and things left unsaid.

"why are you telling me this?" you asked, and your voice barely trembled at all.

sukuna's eyes met yours, and for once, there was nothing sharp in them. there was no challenge, no defense, no carefully constructed walls. there was just him, just ryomen sukuna, the biggest flower nerd you'd ever met with his flower meanings and his pressed specimens and his soft spot for things that grew from the dirt.

"because," sukuna said, and his ears were turning pink, actually pink, the color creeping down his neck and disappearing beneath his collar. "i've been leaving you flowers for six months, and you haven't said a single word about it. and i thought maybe you didn't know what they meant, and i couldn't decide if that was better or worse than you knowing and not saying anything anyway."

sukuna's hands were shaking slightly.

you'd never seen sukuna's hands shake before, not once in all the years you'd known him. he was always so steady, so sure, so infuriatingly composed, but now, his fingers were curled into loose fists on the table, and the faint tremor in them made something ache behind your sternum.

"so which is it?" sukuna asked, and his voice cracked on the last word. just a little. just enough. "did you know?"

you thought about the gardenias pressed in your textbook, the lavender behind your ear, the peonies on your birthday, the camellias in your backpack. you thought about the way you'd told yourself it didn't mean anything at all, that sukuna wasn't capable of meaning anything, that this was just something the boy did because he was strange like that and unpredictable and full of contradictions.

you thought about how badly you'd wanted to be wrong.

"i didn't know," you said, and something in sukuna's expression flickered, dimmed.

you reached across the table before he could pull away, before sukuna could retreat back behind whatever wall he was scrambling to rebuild. your fingers brushed his knuckles softly, and he went very, very still.

"i didn't know the meanings. but i kept all of them. every single one. they're in my apartment, sukuna. pressed into my textbooks and taped to my walls and stuffed into my jewelry box. i've been sleeping with lavender under my pillow for three weeks because i didn't want to lose the scent."

sukuna's breath caught; you heard it, the tiny hitch that he tried to disguise as a cough.

"that's—" sukuna started, but stopped, and then he swallowed. his throat worked around words that didn't seem to want to come out. "that's really fucking weird, actually. keeping flowers for months."

"you're one to talk," you said, and your lips curved into a smile that felt wobbly and fragile and too big for your face. "you're the one who gave them to me."

"yeah, well." his ears were still pink, spreading now to his cheekbones, and you'd never seen anything more beautiful in your entire life. "i'm in love with you, so it's different."

the words hung in the air between you, simple and devastating. there was no fanfare, and no dramatic pause, simply sukuna being sukuna, saying the thing he'd probably been trying to say for six months through petals and stems and carefully chosen blooms.

"you could have just told me," you said, and your voice was shaking now, but so were your hands, and so was he, so it didn't really matter.

"where's the fun in that?" he asked, but his voice was rough, and his eyes were bright, and when you squeezed his fingers, he squeezed back like he was afraid you'd disappear.

outside the greenhouse windows, the afternoon was fading into evening, gold bleeding into amber bleeding into the soft purple of early dusk. the bee had gone quiet, the leaves had stopped drifting, and the only sound was your breathing and his, mingling in the warm, humid air.

"i'm in love with you too," you said.

because it was true, because it had probably been true for longer than you wanted to admit, because sukuna was a nightmare and a softy and the biggest flower nerd you'd ever met, and you'd spent six months tucking his gifts between the pages of your life like pressed flowers of your own.

sukuna closed his eyes just for a moment, just long enough for you to see the way his shoulders dropped, the tension draining out of him like water from a cracked vase. when he opened them again, sukuna was smiling. a real smile, not the sharp-edged thing he showed the rest of the world, but something small and private and almost shy.

"good," sukuna said, and then, quieter; "i have more at my apartment. flowers, i mean. i was going to give them to you tomorrow, but—" he shrugged, one shoulder lifting and falling. "seems like a waste to wait."

your heart turned over in your chest, sweet like honey.

"show me," you said, and when he stood up and offered you his hand, you took it without hesitation.

sukuna’s palm was warm against yours, calloused from god knows what, steady now that the worst part was over.

he led you out of the greenhouse and into the cooling evening, and neither of you let go, not even when the campus paths grew busy with other students, not even when someone whistled and sukuna flipped them off with his free hand, not even when you reached sukuna’s apartment and he had to fumble for his keys because he simply didn't want to release you long enough to find them.

his apartment smelled like him, like cedar and something floral you couldn't name.

there were flowers everywhere — on the kitchen counter, on the windowsill, in a vase on the coffee table that was definitely too small for the arrangement it held. you spotted roses and tulips and something dark purple you didn't recognize, and sukuna followed your gaze and went pink again.

"i might have gone overboard," sukuma admitted, finally letting go of your hand so he could gesture vaguely at the chaos. "i wasn't sure which ones you'd like best, so i just kind of... got all of them."

you walked over to the windowsill, running your finger along the edge of a potted plant you didn't recognize. it was green and leafy, unassuming, nothing like the showy blooms scattered around the room.

"what's this one?" you asked, turning back to look at him.

sukuna was standing in the middle of his own living room like he'd never seen it before, like he was seeing it through your eyes and finding it lacking. he rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous gesture you'd never seen him make, and when he spoke, his voice was barely above a murmur.

"basil," he said. "it means hatred, remember? i got it as a joke. thought it would be funny to have something that meant the opposite of everything else."

you laughed, and the sound seemed to break something loose in sukuna. he crossed the room in three long strides and stopped in front of you, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off his skin, close enough that you had to tilt your head back to look at his face.

"i meant it, you know," sukuna said, and his hands hovered near your waist like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to touch. "every flower. every single one. i meant all of it."

"i know," you said, and you reached up to cup his face in your hands, feeling the slight roughness of his jaw beneath your palms. "i know now."

he kissed you then, soft and careful, like you were something precious he was afraid of breaking. his lips tasted like coffee and something sweet, and his hands finally settled on your hips, and the basil sat on the windowsill behind you, tiny and green and full of meaning.

when you pulled back, sukuna’s eyes were closed, his lashes dark against his flushed cheeks. he looked sweeter like this, softer, like all the sharp edges had been sanded away by the simple fact of being wanted back.

"i'm still mad you didn't look up the meanings," he said without opening his eyes. "six months. i could have just told you in the first week and saved myself a lot of anxiety."

"but then i wouldn't have gotten the flowers," you pointed out, and sukuna snorted, and you felt the vibration of it all the way down to your bones.

"i would have given you the flowers anyway," he said, finally opening his eyes. they were darker than usual, soft with something you were learning to recognize. "i probably would have given you flowers even if you'd laughed in my face. it's a problem, really. my therapist would have a field day."

you laughed again, and sukuna smiled again, and the evening stretched out before you both, full of possibility and pressed flowers and the quiet understanding that some things didn't need to be spoken aloud to be true.

but it didn't hurt, you thought, as sukuna pulled you toward his couch and wrapped his arms around you like he'd been waiting his whole life to do it.

it didn't hurt to say them anyway.

masterlist.

[heartkaji]

ⵌ LOVE OVER LOBLAWS ! 𝖿𝗍. 𝗍𝗈𝗃𝗂

AITA FOR POSING AS A RICH MAN TO PULL A RICH GIRL..?

sum. when toji falls for the hot lady that frequents his shifts at the local grocery store, can his frat brothers help him pose as a rich hot bachelor ? or will you discover his kid & true identity first ? [n]sfw

cast : nerdjo (‘toru’ gojo) + frat! jjk men (‘sigma chi’) : fratjo (‘sato’ gojo) ◞ geto ◞ toji ◞ sukuna ◞ nanami 𓏲 gallery here !

BROKE BOY TACTICS #1: BUMS DON’T GET THE GIRL !

taught by: sato, suguru, sukuna

“brokie and a baby daddy but you wanna pull y/n? don’t even joke, lad.”

ΣΧ

toji zenin is pretending to stack boxes in the third aisle of the local loblaws.

well, not exactly. toji zenin has his biceps flexing under the weight of crates but his eyes don’t lift to the shelf he places them on. instead his pupils flit to the automatic entrance doors, thick & glass-heavy, before he glances at his watch & back to the door again. 12:30 PM sunday. toji knows you should be here by now.

but you’re not, so toji’s lip twitches as he stares at the box of freezies in his arms and sighs. it’s pathetic, really. he’s got five more boxes of who-knows-what to arrange before the end of his shift but he can’t fucking focus. his mind’s on your short skirt & pretty laugh & the way your voice goes sweet whenever he pretends to help you look for items while holding your hand between the aisles. toji grunts, shakes his head. focus focus focus.

“toji.. can you help me reach the olive oil? the cold-pressed one with the pretty label?”

toji’s head snaps up so fast he almost drops the box of freezies.

it’s you—oh god, it’s you, and you’re looking down at him with those pretty lashes & short skirt & your hands holding a basket behind your back. you’re in those cute kitten heels you had on the first time he saw you—did you get your nails done? so pretty. you’re so pretty, you’re always so pretty, and toji’s mouth dries.

he doesn’t say anything because he can’t, because your perfume smells like honey & has his lungs sticking to his throat—but he slowly stands up anyway. you’re humming to yourself as you pad closer, getting in his way, heel clicking against the tile as he traps you in the aisle.

he reaches up to the glass bottle, and he can see your lashes fluttering up at him. your chest presses against his, and his lip ticks upward.

“you want this, princess?” he mumbles.

you playfully swat his chest, but your palm doesn’t slide off. you’re caressing his pecs now, teasing. “toji, give it to me. i have a pasta to make tonight. i’m busy.”

toji chuckles, slipping the bottle into your basket and letting his palm sneak over your waist instead. your hands are still on his pecs, lightly squeezing as you laugh when he tugs you closer. he nuzzles your jaw, murmuring, “only if i get an invite, sweetheart.”

“we’ll see,” you tease as his tongue licks your earlobe. you’re running a thumb over the silver tag on his chest: TOJI. “if you’re good, maybe i’ll let you wash the dishes.”

he kisses your neck. “m’always good for you, baby.”

you’re giggling now, shoving him away with flushed cheeks & a laugh too bright. toji catches your hands, tugging you back with a smile on his face before squeezing your hips. your lips are so glossy. is that the new gloss you bought last week? can he kiss it off?

he’ll never know, because he’s holding your hips while you tug at his collar and whisper something he doesn’t care about in his ear. his manager calls his name.

fuck.

toji gives your hips one last squeeze. “go pay, princess. i’ll bag your stuff.”

“you better.” you huff, spoiled & sweet, and toji can only watch the sway of your hips as you make your way to the register.

you’re a pretty girl with a posh life who will never know lack. toji’s a 24-year-old who’s still in college, working odd jobs with a son waiting at home.

in the third aisle of the local loblaws, toji zenin has his hands on his hips and his eyes on the ground. toji zenin will never say it out loud, but he knows he will never, ever, get the girl.

ⵌ AT THE FRATHOUSE !

“you can’t pull someone like y/n, no offense.”

toji wishes suguru wouldn’t spell it out. he already knows, for christ’s sake.

in sigma chi’s living room, toji zenin is sprawled out on the center rug while suguru and sato eat on the floor beside him. sato is between geto’s legs with his back against geto’s chest & his toe tickling toji’s jaw through his socks. suguru is tilting his shawarma for sato to bite from before taking a bite of his own.

sato’s about to dish out an insult of his own when the door swings open. in comes ryomen sukuna, standing in the doorway with bags in his hands and his limbs stretched out like some sort of clown. he bellows, “therapy fucking sucked today. i still don’t think i need therapy, by the way. watching porn and jerking off is completely normal—fuck you, suguru.”

“maybe it is,” suguru’s lips are sticky with shawarma sauce, “but having your dick out in the same room as other people is not.”

“a young man can’t be an exhibitionist? suck my dick, man.”

“oh, i’m not hungry..”

sukuna trudges over toji’s legs, then plops on the ground opposite sato and suguru. sato throws him the middle finger with a grin. sukuna throws it back. “i brought drinks. toji, why’re you on the floor? ya need therapy too?”

sato snickers. “toji’s fallen for a rich girl.”

sukuna snorts, “don’t even joke, lad.” but suguru and toji aren’t laughing. his brows scrunch. “wait—“ he turns to toji, “you’re serious?”

toji eyes him. “mind your own business.”

sukuna doesn’t believe in complex schools of thought like ‘minding your business.’ so instead of picking a shawarma for himself and eating in silence, he joins sato and nudges his foot against toji’s cheek. “does she know you’re poor?”

“hey, hey,” geto bites his cheek, “not too much on him.”

but sukuna continues. “what about the kid? does she know you have a son?”

toji’s jaw only tightens.

sukuna looks at toji in disbelief. then at sato, then suguru—then shakes his head, laughing. “jesus christ of jollof rice,” he cracks open a beer, “you’re fucking cooked, bro.”

toji drags his hands over his face. his eyes are hot, for some reason.

suguru sighs, resting his chin on sato’s head as sato munches happily underneath him. “i hate to suggest this, but there’s a way you can get her to give you a chance.”

sukuna and toji both perk up.

“if she doesn’t know about meg—or your, uh, economics,” suguru clears his throat, “then you keep it that way. she thinks you’re some hot older uni student who works at loblaws for beer money. lean into it.”

sato frowns. “this sounds like something i’d suggest. so not good, i think.”

suguru pokes his cheek, making sato’s pout grow deeper. “i’m just spit-balling here. it’s obvious you really like her, toji. and megumi needs a mommy.”

“i don’t like her because i want her to play housewife.”

“we know,” suguru’s smile is affectionate. “that’s why we’ll help you.”

sukuna grunts in agreement. “sounds scummy but it makes sense. if she finds out you’re a baby daddy with no money, she’ll just run back to her range rover.” he takes another swig of his beer. “we’ll help you hide your true identity. you just get her hooked enough that when she eventually does find out, she won’t leave.”

sato nods. “we’ll babysit. lend you money. heck—you can drive my porsche to your dates.”

on the floor, toji zenin is staring towards the ceiling. it’s a stupid plan, his frat brothers are even stupider, and there is no way in hell whoever is up there will actually let things work out in his favor.

but toji’s desperate. he has been for a long time. so before he can let himself think about it, his lips part to respond.

“alright,” he grunts. “let’s fucking do it.”

SIGMA CHI’S REMARK : DON’T WORRY BRO, WE GOTCHU !

BROKE BOY TACTICS #2: WHO’S YOUR DADDY ?

taught by: sato, sukuna, suguru

“babysitting a five year old brat. how hard could that be?”

ΣΧ

megumi zenin is tufts of black hair, sleepy blue eyes & a tiny fist in a jar full of gummy worms. he’s slumped against his dad’s thick leg, shoving fistfuls of gummies in his mouth with candy-smeared cheeks & a bored expression on his face.

sato, sukuna and suguru are side-by-side on a straight line.

hands tucked behind their backs & chests puffed out like soldiers. toji clears his throat. “listen up. i’m going to be gone for exactly two hours. if i come back and the kid has a single scratch on him, i’m throwing all of you into a pond.“

suguru shakes his head, stepping forward to crouch down to megumi’s height. he wipes megumi’s cheeks with a smile. “don't worry, toji. we've got him. right, little man?”

“hi, uncle sugu,” megumi’s voice is flat but he leans into geto’s palm on his cheek. “are we going to draw today?”

“of course, kiddo. i bought some new crayons just for you.”

toji scoops his son up in his arms, ignoring the way his tiny body writhes towards the gummy worms abandoned on the floor. suguru lifts the jar back to megumi with a smile. sukuna, however, is frowning. “why is his face like that.”

“sukuna, do not fight my kid.”

megumi points towards him. “my daddy calls you a pervert.”

sato bursts out in laughter. suguru’s snickering too, though he’s doing a better job of hiding it. toji drops his son to the ground and crouches to his height. megumi offers him a soggy, wet gummy worm. toji eats it off his palm & pokes his belly.

he rises to his feet. “suguru is in charge. rest of you, keep your hands off him. i’m leaving.”

megumi waves a sticky hand. “bye, daddy. bring me a cookie.”

“will do, brat.” and the door shuts with a thud.

——

“we should go to wonderland. you like amusement parks, ‘gumi?”

megumi zenin has a crayon in his hands, scribbling furiously with a focused expression on his face. he’s seated in geto’s lap, occasionally having suguru hand him a crayon as he perfects his artistic masterpiece. to his right, sato gojo is leaning over the table and talking a mile-a-minute.

megumi answers, scribbling a drawing of what looks like him and his father—DADDY AND ME. “i’ve never been to an amusement park.”

“what?” sato slams his palm on the table, distraught. “what kind of kid has never been to an amusement park?!”

“my father is poor.”

“oh,” sato shrinks. “fairs.”

suguru lets out a fond huff, burying his nose in megumi’s hair to hide the fact that he’s shaking from laughter. sato looks crushed by guilt. “i can’t take this anymore, suguru.” he clutches his chest. “we’re going to the apple store and getting him an ipad pro right now.”

suguru raises a brow. “toji said no screens. and either way, i won’t let you turn him into an ipad kid.”

megumi slumps against geto’s chest. “i want a blue gatorade.”

“i’ll get it for you, buddy,” suguru smiles before kissing his cheek, easing him off his lap. “don’t let sato teach you about investment and stocks while i’m gone, okay?”

sato has his chin on the table, defeated. and just as suguru’s back turns into the kitchen, sukuna saunters in, steps heavy, palm curled around a blue bottle of—is that the last gatorade?!

sukuna cracks the plastic seal, taking a slow, heavy swig of the drink while staring right at the five year old. megumi’s tiny brows furrow. “that’s mine. uncle sugu said i could have it.”

“well,” sukuna licks his lips, slow. “uncle sugu’s not the king of this house.” he takes another gulp, throwing his head back with a refreshed ahhhhhh. megumi frowns, lips tight.

and then he screams.

“uncle sugu! mister pervert’s being mean again!”

sukuna chokes on his gatorade. “who the hell are you calling mister pervert, you little brat—“

sato jumps over the table to hold back sukuna before he can strangle the five-year-old. suguru runs out of the kitchen in alarm, quickly scrambling to hold back sukuna’s wrath alongside sato.

megumi only blinks at the display. three grown men bickering and shoving over gatorade. hell, he’s not so sure he even wants it anymore.

he sighs, reaching across the table to pick up sato’s iphone. he dials his dad’s number, palm smushed into his cheek as he watches suguru smack sukuna for his bad behavior.

ⵌ AT THE DATE !

in the local coffee shop, your lashes are fluttering & the sunlight kisses your skin as you stare out the window.

toji zenin has his heart in his throat. his hands are in his pockets but his ribs are cracked against his chest, and the sight of you pouting out the window has his mouth drying with want. he strolls over regardless, posture lazy, steps cool, because toji zenin is a man who can only have pride when he pretends.

“hi, princess,” he slides into the booth seat—next to you, not across, because he’s been thinking about the feel of your waist in his hands since last thursday—and his ankle hooks around yours on autopilot.

“hi,” you smile, leaning into his side as he kisses your hair. toji takes your palm in his. your fingers are so dainty. fuck.

“you look nice today,” you hum. “who are you trying to impress?”

your lashes are batting up at him, but toji manages to keep his cool. his smirk is lazy & gorgeous. “you, obviously.”

toji wonders how you can let him touch you so casually. even now he’s nibbling your ear as you talk about something from class—a lazy professor or something else, it’s hard to listen when your thumb brushes his jaw while you speak—and toji’s mind wanders. he’s kissing your neck now, thumbs rubbing circles on your thighs as your breath hitches between words, and toji wonders why you haven’t yet flinched in disgust.

he doesn’t dwell on it too long, though. he knows the topic will only get him down.

so he kisses your neck as you laugh and swat him away, telling him he’s distracting you from your story. you never push him off, though, and your thigh’s on his lap now.

but all good things must come to an end.

toji’s phone buzzes.

loud & obnoxious. SATO, his screen reads. he quickly swipes it away. “sorry…just spam.”

“spam?” you poke his bicep, grinning. “or is your little side piece getting impatient?”

“don’t have a side piece, baby,” he murmurs into your cheek. “only want you.”

1 NEW FACETIME AUDIO CALL : SATO 🤡

his phone has been buzzing for ages now. you sigh, crossing your arms & clearly annoyed. “toji, just answer it. what if it’s an emergency?”

you’re right, he should answer it, because if anything happened to megumi, he’d fucking flip. he bites his lip, “one second, princess.”

he presses his phone to his ear, but megumi’s voice greets him instead.

“daddy! uncle kuna’s trying to kill me because of blue gatorade!”

toji’s eyes widen. from the corner of his eye, he can see you inching closer, brows furrowed in concentration as you try to listen in.

in the background of the call he can hear sato shrieking. “suguru—! use the spatula! use the spatula! sukuna stop—“

you’re blinking at him, inching closer to his bicep on the table. “daddy? who’s calling you daddy?”

toji’s soul leaves his body.

“daddy, are you coming home soon? uncle sugu’s spanking him now. it’s very loud—“

he ends the call before you can hear any more.

“do you have a son?”

toji’s breathing stutters. you’ve inched away from him now, lips bent in a frown, brows furrowed, expression curious—or cautious, toji can’t really tell. and it pains him to lie to you, but what else can he say when you’ve already shifted your thigh off his lap?

“nah,” he answers too fast. “it’s my nephew.”

toji reaches out to thumb your cheek, but you don’t relax into his palm. “think he meant to call my brother, not me.”

he tugs your bottom lip as you speak. “i didn’t know you had a brother…”

“there’s a lot you don’t know about me, princess,” he leans in to kiss the corner of your lips, because he knows he doesn’t deserve any more than that. your pout deepens.

“we can change that though,” he lies, smiling. “wanna get dessert?”

SATO’S REMARK : NICE SAVE, TOJI ! AND MY BAD—HAHA !

BROKE BOY TACTICS #3: BLEACH !

taught by: geto suguru, toru gojo

“inviting her over already? we’ve gotta scrub this place clean, then.“

ΣΧ

toji zenin has one hour to make it seem like megumi doesn’t exist.

geto suguru is scrubbing the bathrooms. toru gojo has somehow been roped into this predicament and is scrubbing away in the kitchen. in the living room, toji zenin is picking up cheerios from the rug, phone in his ear with sukuna on the line.

“hi daddy,”megumi’s voice is flat through the speaker. “uncle kuna’s being nice to me today.”

“that’s great, kiddo. can you put him back on the phone?”

“yo,” sukuna’s voice crackles through.

“if anything happens to my son, i will spread your ass cheeks and sprinkle paprika in the hole.”

“oh.”

“yeah,” toji shifts the phone in his neck. “make sure he has a good time at that amusement park. and don’t let sato spoil him too much.”

“heyyy toji!” sato’s voice crackles through the speaker. toji sighs before grunting back a hello. “keep megumi safe, got it?”

“yes, sir!” / “we got it, boss.” / “bye, daddy!”

toji says his goodbyes. just as he clicks the end button, toru gojo pads into the living room, glasses tilting off his face & slipping rubber gloves off his hands. “all done in the kitchen. remind me why we’re deceiving this poor lady again?”

toji picks up a gummy worm tucked under the rug and cringes. “because she wouldn’t look twice at a broke guy with a kid.”

toru softens, adjusting his glasses. “you don’t know that. have you tried telling her?”

“no.”

“why not?”

"because,” he picks up another gummy worm hidden under the couch, glaring at it before throwing it away. "because every time someone finds out about megumi, they look at me different. like i'm a burden. like he's a burden."

toru purses his lip. he’s watching as toji ducks under the couch, picking out stray bits of cereal and snacks and other things that make toji’s nose scrunch up in disgust.

toru shakes his head, taking off his glasses to set them on the counter. “but you don’t know if she’s like that.”

“i know i can’t lose her before i even have her.”

toru purses his lip. toji’s voice came out too tight.

ⵌ SHOW TIME !

when toji opens his front door, you’re in a too-short dress and there’s moët & chandon in your hands.

god, you’re gorgeous. and toji really needs to stop thinking that. needs to stop saying it in his head before he slips up and says it out loud with a tone he can’t take back.

“hi,” you tilt your head, batting your lashes in that way that makes him stupid. “you gonna keep standing there? or are you gonna take this bottle off my hands?”

ah, right. toji reaches for the bottle but you pull it back. he raises a brow.

“say ‘please pretty girl, may i have the wine?’”

you’re still peering up at him, hugging the bottle of wine to your chest, teasing smile on your glossy lips. toji leans against the doorframe. arms crossed, dark eyes raking over your hips, plush thighs, pretty waist. fuck.

his lips twitch, “i’m not saying that.”

“aww,” you pout, glossy and spoiled. “guess i have to turn back home and drink this expensive wine all by myself.” you turn, and toji bites his cheek because your dress has ridden up to give him the perfect view of your ass. so soft. he can’t wait to squeeze it.

“i’m gonna be so lonely…” your back is still turned to him, voice wistful. “and i came all the way over here, too. i’m so upset.”

toji doesn’t let you take another step.

you squeal as he scoops you up with a grunt, arms snaking over your waist & under your thighs to lift you bridal style. you squeeze the bottle of wine in your arms, eyes shut tight as you giggle while he kicks the door shut. “toji! put me down!”

careful what you wish for.

toji drops you to his couch with a thud. you land with a breathless laugh, dress bunched up to your hips & he can see the print of your panties. your hair is fanned out, and the bottle of wine is pressed to your stomach. you’re giggling, eyes bright, and god. you look so fucking gorgeous all laid out for him. toji’s jaw ticks.

he climbs over you, pressing his warm body down until the wine digs into your stomach. his eyes are dark. hungry.

“please, pretty girl,” he murmurs, breath hot, lips teasing your neck. “may i have the wine?”

oh.

your breath hitches. you stare up at him, cheeks hot, eyes wide, thighs squeezing together in anticipation. but you’re a bad girl, so you don’t give toji zenin what he wants just yet.

your smile falters, but you tilt your head. “thought you weren’t gonna say it?”

he grins, pressing a hot kiss underneath your ear. “and i thought you were leavin’.”

you let out a shaky gasp as toji licks a hot stripe up your neck. he’s filthy—big hands gripping your hips to keep you pinned to the couch, squeezing you hard each time you moan and buck yourself into him. his breath is hot against your neck, sucking and kissing and teasing, the occasional nip when you whimper just the way he likes.

his weight presses the wine harder into your stomach. you gasp, “toji, the wine—“

“hold it, baby.”

your eyes squeeze shut as his kisses trail further down your neck, tummy fluttering as heat pools between your thighs. his thumb on your hip sinks under the silk of your panties, and you whine his name before he shushes you with a sweet kiss to your cheek.

toji doesn’t kiss you on the lips. the lips are too honest, and toji is not.

you’re still clutching the bottle, chest heaving as toji presses your hips deeper, deeper—

“ow!”

toji freezes.

in truth, toji zenin has never been a gentle man. his body is too big and his hands are too rough, and life itself has never treated him gently, nor given him much reason to be gentle towards others. but as toji hovers over you, limbs frozen in alarm, his stomach can’t help but twist with disgust. said body and rough hands have crushed something soft yet again.

“did i hurt you?” his voice comes out weird. “doll—look at me. you okay?”

“i’m fine,” you wince, cheeks flushed as you try to steady your breathing. you twist your leg slightly, sliding your fingers down into the sofa cushion where something sharp poked at you. “something... something poked my leg.”

you pull out a tiny, red brick.

you blink. “a lego?”

for the second time this evening, toji freezes.

he takes it from your hand, flicking it away. he lifts your arms to wrap them around his neck, and lowers himself back to your chest. “that what you stopped me for, princess?” he mutters coolly, like his heart isn’t beating in his throat. “had me so worried, baby.”

“toji, why do you have a lego?”

he kisses your jaw, “my nephew’s.”

ah, that makes sense. you hug his neck tighter, giggling as he slips the wine off your belly & onto the floor. he presses yet another kiss to your neck, warm & sweet, and you let your chin rest on his shoulder as he loves you with gentler hands.

but then you see it.

on the metal door of the kitchen fridge, past a jar of gummy worms and a poorly placed broom, a banana-shaped magnet is there.

and right under it, a scribbled drawing. the messy figure of a man with spiky hair, and a smaller, more spiky-haired boy.

DADDY AND ME.

your body goes still.

toji’s hands are on your hips, thighs, waist—but his touch suddenly itches. the warmth has gone cold.

“toji,” you whisper. “who drew that?”

toji doesn't move. his eyes slowly follow your gaze to the fridge, and the panic in his eyes is unmistakable. the lie slips out of his mouth before his brain can even catch up to it.

“sociology project,” he breathes. “developmental regression. drew it with my left hand.”

“your left hand…”

your voice trails off as toji sinks his lips back to your neck.

toji zenin does not study sociology.

TORU’S REMARK : YOU CAN’T FOOL HER FOREVER.

BROKE BOY TACTICS #4: LEAN INTO THE LARP !

taught by: sato gojo

“you can’t pull up to a date in an uber. take my porsche—you’re a rich guy now.”

ΣΧ

it’s late, and three floors down, toji zenin has his hands on his hips, staring at sato’s sleek black porsche in disbelief while his tie itches at his neck. three floors up, in toji’s crappy apartment, the gang’s all there.

megumi has a blanket pulled up to his chin, seated on the couch next to suguru. sukuna is lounging on the floor with his back against said couch. sato is flipping through TV stations. the light in the room is dim, and sato snickers at something sukuna says before tossing him the remote.

“why does everyone always leave me?”

the trio freeze.

megumi’s expression is flat. he’s staring into the tv’s glow, but his eyes are soulless and empty. suguru hesitates—but then he rests a hand on megumi’s hair. “what do you mean, kiddo?”

“daddy’s always leaving now,” megumi closes his eyes, rigid against the couch cushions. “he never spends time with me anymore. he’s acting like my mommy did.”

the three boys’ hearts crack right down the middle.

they’re staring at each other now, the weight of megumi’s words on their shoulders. how do they tell a little boy that the reason his father has been less present—and is also not present tonight—is because he’s currently trying to hide his child’s existence to impress a woman? and that they’re all helping him?

sato speaks first. too quick, too fast.

“he’s just been busy,” he croaks out. “he’s been picking up new shifts. he’s working really hard.”

“yeah,” sukuna agrees. “he’s working hard. to take care of you, meg.”

megumi stares into the tv screen. geto’s hand is still heavy on his head, and his body is limp and his eyes are heavy.

“i know.” megumi mutters. “he’s my hero.”

suguru bites his lip. “you know what, meg? why don’t we draw something? a new picture for your dad?”

megumi’s eyes flit to the kitchen fridge. DADDY AND ME. the picture is still there, but the paper is crinkled and damp now. as if someone threw it away with heavy eyes, then somehow thought better of it.

megumi nods, “yeah.”

“okay, buddy. i’ll go get the crayons.”

“i’ll get the paper!”

“and i’ll… uh. you want a gatorade, kid?”

the three adults go after the various items. megumi takes one last look at his drawing on the fridge, and then he slips off the couch and pads away.

ⵌ SHOW TIME !

toji zenin is a man who can only have pride when he pretends.

so today, he pretends the sleek black porsche parked outside your house is his. he pretends he’s not wearing sato’s luxury cologne, that his tie isn’t secondhand, that the cuff of his suit isn’t too tight on his wrist and that the guilt in his mouth doesn’t taste like his blood.

he’s gripping the wheel so hard his knuckles turn white.

when you open the car door, you look like a dream.

your lips are glossy, always glossy, but it’s a different shade of shimmer tonight. your hair is loose all over your shoulders, heels clicky, dress black and matching the shade of sato’s car. toji stares, jaw slack as you slide into the passenger’s seat. the words in his throat have turned into bile.

“Hi.” you blink at him.

“Hi.”

he can’t say much else, and he really ought to but he can’t, so instead he only watches as you huff and click your seatbelt in place. toji licks his lips, turns back to the wheel. says a quick prayer to a god he doesn’t believe in. “you look gorgeous.”

you don’t respond.

the car starts with an expensive growl. it makes toji wince, and he hopes you don’t notice. he’s practiced starting the car three times so he can pretend he’s used to it. he isn’t, and he’ll never be.

he pulls onto the streets, eyes frantically scanning the road as his pulse drums in his teeth.

“toji?” you say, eyes trained ahead of you, voice flat.

“yeah, baby?”

“where are we going?”

toji’s fingers drum on the steering wheel. he turns right at the fork. “somewhere nice,” his voice is strained. “somewhere you deserve to be.”

he lets his right hand shift to the center console, trying to bridge the gap. his hand is sweating, maybe. you glance at it. glance away.

you peer out the window, head against the edge, watching the lights blur through the glass. “i feel like i’m sitting in a museum,” you murmur, quiet. “everything feels curated. including you.”

he swallows. “i’m trying to make tonight special.”

“special…” you trail off, lashes fluttering as you stare out the window.

“i don’t know who you are, zenin.”

toji’s head aches. and so does his chest, violent and sharp and stabbing. he’s a liar, a con artist, a selfish man with rough hands and a son waiting at home. oh—megumi. his phone’s been buzzing in his pocket for a while now. how’s megumi?

“i’m just a guy,” he chooses to say. “a guy who likes you.”

“do you? or is that just part of the exhibit?”

maybe there really is a god watching, because before toji can respond something makes a sound.

he’s not sure what, honestly, but he’s quick to capitalize on it. he needs the air. toji turns into an empty street to park. he unbuckles his seat belt, leans over a bit. “stay in the car, okay?”

you only nod, and toji’s throat curls with guilt.

the night air is cool on his skin. he opens the car bonnet—careful, as careful as a man like him can be—pretending to scan the engines for a possible source of the noise. he doesn’t find anything wrong, and he knew he wouldn’t, but he holds up the bonnet and pretends to check anyways.

three minutes pass before he returns to the car.

three minutes of toji zenin teaching himself how to breathe. the same way he does when megumi shuts down even though he thinks the steps are corny. having a kid really changes you, doesn’t it?

megumi. he looks at his watch, 9PM. his boy should be in bed by now.

the buzzing from his phone has stopped. he should check it now, but you’re still waiting. still beautiful. still hurt.

so toji slams the hood shut. sucks in a breath and slides back into the driver’s seat. you’re staring at him as he buckles his seatbelt.

“toji,” your voice is careful. “do you have anything you want to tell me?”

yes. i work three jobs and i’m drowning in student loans. i got a girl pregnant when i was eighteen, and she left me when i turned twenty-one. i have a boy who’s five-and-a-half and he’s the only good thing i have left. and i’m sorry i lied, but i didn’t want you to leave me before i could love you and i’m sorry, and i’m sorry again, and you deserve better, and i’m sorry.

“no,” toji lies.

you purse your lips. “okay.”

the engine roars back to life. and toji is sweating, and the date feels over before it’s even started, and his pulse is too loud and—

“daddy?”

toji’s blood runs cold.

in the backseat of sato’s porsche, megumi zenin is there, body tucked under a blanket and rubbing his eyes. he slips off the seat and stumbles towards the console, still rubbing at his face. “hi, daddy.”

toji zenin can only stay frozen as megumi wraps his smaller arms around his neck.

he tries to speak, fingers twitching as they hover over his son’s back. “megumi—hey, buddy—what’re you doing here?”

megumi buries his nose into his father’s neck. “i didn’t want to be alone again.”

toji bites his lip. he can feel your eyes boring into him, and he nervously scrambles. “hey—you’re never alone, buddy. where are your uncles? come here.”

he lifts megumi into his lap, avoiding your gaze.

“is this your son?”

toji’s mouth dries.

he could say it’s his nephew, make up some lie about him referring to both him and his ‘brother’ as dad, but god. you’re already looking at him with something he doesn’t have the vocabulary to name, and toji’s jaw aches.

“yes,” he sucks in a breath. “this is my son, megumi.”

he brushes megumi’s hair back, taking his little fist away from his face so he stops rubbing at his eyes. “meg, say hi to the pretty lady.”

“hi, pretty lady.”

megumi waves a small hand, then collapses against his father’s stomach.

you force a smile and flick your eyes back up to toji.

“i think you should take me home.”

???’s REMARK : YOU CAN’T LARP YOUR WAY INTO BEING LOVED !

BROKE BOY TACTICS #5: EMBRACE YOUR ECONOMICS !

taught by: nanami kento, megumi zenin.

“maybe she doesn’t hate you. maybe she hates that you thought so little of her you felt the need to live a lie.”

ΣΧ

it’s a new day, and toji zenin is laden with old burdens.

he’s slumped against his bedroom wall, phone pressed to his ear with megumi on his stretched out legs. megumi has a red & green colored hand in another jar full of gummy worms. toji makes a mental note to hide it better next time.

“you didn’t just lose the date,” nanami’s voice cuts through the speaker, flat and professional as always. “you insulted her intelligence. made her out to be a shallow woman who’d only care about you if you had money in your bank account.”

toji stares at the ceiling. then at megumi, who’s about to eat a gummy worm off the floor. he flicks it away. “she looked at me like i was trash, nanami.”

“she looked at you like you were a liar,” nanami corrects. “which you are.”

nanami sighs, breath sending a crackle through the speaker. all he wanted to do was spend his afternoon reading his new favorite BL, doukyuusei, but once again the shenanigans of his friends have interrupted his peace.

“toji, you’re a smart man. and she sounds like a smart woman. i doubt she’d lose interest because you have a son—i believe she hates that you lied to her.”

megumi takes a worm and makes it crawl through toji’s lips. it’s cold, but toji chews and swallows anyways. “i need to apologize.”

“yes,” toji can hear a page flip. “and quickly. i have to attend to other matters now, but say hi to megumi for me.”

the line goes dead, and toji drops his hand to the floor.

megumi chews a gummy worm. then he takes it out of his mouth, frowns at it, then eats it again. “daddy, are you mad at me?”

toji frowns. “for what?”

“i ruined your date,” megumi looks into the jar of worms, frowning, then back at his dad. “with auntie.”

toji looks at his son. at his candy smeared cheeks, sticky hands, black spikes of hair and sugar in his teeth. megumi looks just like him. he’s always known it, but he’s growing to look more and more like his father every day.

“you didn’t ruin anything,” he murmurs, pulling his son into his chest. “you’ve never ruined anything in your life.”

he pats megumi’s hair, head thrown back. “i’m sorry, meg.”

five-year-old megumi zenin has already lost interest. he’s more focused on getting the red and blue gummy in the sea of yellow-green ones, small hand grabbing fistfuls of worms before dropping them back. he doesn’t know his father is sorry, sorry for everything, for trying to erase his existence to impress a woman and for bringing him into this world knowing he will never be able to give him the future he deserves.

megumi retrieves the red and blue gummy worm. his favorite flavor. he blinks at it once, twice.

then he turns to his dad. lifts the gummy worm on his palm to his face.

toji zenin eats it right off.

ⵌ SHOW TIME !

megumi zenin is in his best clothes: baby blue button-up from suguru. a white top with a red race car that sukuna had got him for his birthday. light up skechers from uncle sato. toji had tried to get him to wear normal shoes, but megumi shut that down quickly. he wanted to be seen.

you no longer frequent the local loblaws.

and it breaks toji’s heart, actually. you haven’t blocked him just yet, thank god, so toji thinks you might not yet hate him completely. that he might still have a chance.

call him a weirdo, but he’s been to almost every grocery store nearby.

no frills, sobeys, you name it. and now, at 12:30PM sunday, toji zenin is in his car with his son, watching you load groceries into the backseat with a pout on your lips. like you’re above this. like you need a big, strong man to offer his help. and toji’s chest aches. because he could be that man, you know. if you’d let him.

toji slips out of the car. megumi hops out too.

he stops just a few feet behind you, watching you mutter curses as you haul a carton of juice. toji’s lip twitches. then he pulls megumi along.

“let me help.”

you blink as toji comes out of seemingly nowhere to save the day. he lifts everything out of your cart and into your car, never breaking a sweat. truthfully, your groceries aren’t even that heavy. he’s not sure why you were struggling, but he thinks it’s so fucking cute.

he lets you click your remote to close the boot shut. then he turns to you: “i owe you an apology.”

you tilt your head. “do you?”

he squeezes megumi’s hand in his own to ground himself. “i lied because i was scared,” he admits, and you never thought you’d hear toji and ‘scared’ in the same sentence. “you’re a pretty girl from a nice family who spends my rent money on groceries,” he breathes. “and i want you, bad. and i thought if you saw me—the me who lived paycheck to paycheck and has nothing except this little brat,” he raises megumi’s hand, “you’d leave before i even got a chance.”

he shifts his hand to megumi’s head. “it’s fucking stupid, i know. but this is my son,” he ruffles megumi’s hair. “say hi, kid.”

“hi, auntie.”

your gaze shifts away from toji, and drops to the little boy beside him. megumi is apple cheeks, dark, messy hair and nervous feet shifting on the pavement. he looks like his dad, and the sight makes your heart melt.

“hi, baby boy.” you crouch down to his height. “i love your shirt. do you wanna come here?”

megumi nods. he abandons his father’s side to let you scoop him up in your arms.

toji frowns.

megumi’s a shy kid. or not shy—awkward. he can’t make eye contact with kids his age, his tone is too flat, and his eyes are always bored. he doesn’t like to be touched by people he isn’t familiar with, and he’s very quick to say no to what he doesn’t like or want. so toji can only watch, brows knit in confusion, as megumi’s fist curls over your necklace and he lets you press a kiss to his cheek.

“hi, auntie,” megumi collapses into your shoulder, fist still gripping your necklace. “i did a very good job.”

“so good, baby,” you kiss his hair, grinning. “i’m gonna buy you all the gummies in the world.”

megumi blushes from the affection. he shifts his head over your shoulder so all you can see is his pink chubby cheek.

“what the hell is happening?”

“daddy’s a big dummy,” megumi mutters into your shoulder. “the biggest,” you agree.

toji’s frown deepens, and you laugh. “i’ve already met megumi, silly.”

toji blinks. he’s about to ask how, but you beat him to it: “remember when you got out of the car? megumi woke up in the backseat,” you kiss his ear softly, and megumi’s blush deepens. “we had a long chat about you, toji. and i asked him to pretend we’ve never met, and go back to sleep in the car.”

you watch megumi, fond. his fingers curling deeper into your necklace, his eyes shy and staring behind you. “i can’t believe you’ve been keeping this little angel from me. you’re a monster, toji.”

“dummy monster…” megumi mutters. you kiss his cheek again and he hides.

toji thinks about it. to megumi referring to you as auntie back in the apartment. fuck. he didn’t think too much of it, but perhaps he should’ve.

“so? you two were testing me, or some shit?”

you shift a hand from megumi’s back to your hip. “no attitude, mister. i’m still mad at you,” your frown, and then your shoulders drop. “did you really think you had to fake having money to impress me? picking me up in a porsche when i’ve already seen your crappy apartment?”

you stroke megumi’s hair. “and lying about meg,” your expression goes soft, sad. “have you apologized to him?”

“yeah,” megumi tugs your necklace. “he told me sorry.”

you smile at him, then kiss his little fist. “that’s great, baby. you deserve an apology. and i’m sorry as well, for taking away your time with your father.”

megumi pats your face, voice flat. “i forgive you.”

you giggle, pinching his cheek, and toji can only stare in disbelief.

megumi’s cheeks are pink from your kisses, little fingers curled tight around your necklace while you sway him absentmindedly against your chest. his light-up skechers blink every time his feet kick against your thighs. you’re smiling at him like he’s heaven as a boy, and megumi—quiet, awkward, megumi—is hiding his face in your shoulder because he’s shy.

how greedy.

how greedy of toji zenin to pick out cheerios from between couch cushions like trying to erase evidence of a crime scene. how greedy of him to scrub crayon off his walls, peel gummies off his floors and hide away his son with other people he can’t truly call family. how greedy of him to rip his son’s drawing off the fridge, only to put it back again later because he can’t even be greedy right.

how greedy of toji zenin to hide the only good thing in his life away; all because he wanted yet another good thing: you.

he wanted your pretty laugh in his apartment. wanted your heels by the front door, wanted your perfume in his sheets and your voice mixed with megumi’s cartoons on saturday mornings. toji zenin wanted everything.

now his everything was shoving his chubby hand in the face of his other everything to keep from getting attacked by kisses. but he was smiling. megumi zenin was smiling, and blushing, and laughing—and toji thinks about how he hasn’t seen megumi this childish in a while.

his heart aches.

“i’m sorry.”

sorry for what? he knows what he’s sorry for, but the words have failed him again, so he can only watch. watch as you tilt your head the way you always do, before megumi glances at you and tilts his head back at him the same way. oh god.

“‘gumi, do we forgive daddy?”

“yeah,” megumi’s feet kick. his shoes light up, red and blue. “if he stops hiding my gummies.”

toji won’t hide his gummies anymore. hell, he’ll never hide anything again in his life.

and maybe megumi senses the guilt on his father’s shoulders, because he squirms his tiny body for you to set him down and dashes so hard into his father’s legs that he knocks his forehead against his knee. “ow…”

toji snorts, crouching. “what are you doing, kid.” but he’s scooping megumi into his arms anyways. you pad closer, grin cheeky, and poke megumi on his side.

“how about we go shop for some gummy worms?”

BONUS — Y/N AND MEG’S FIRST MEET !

“who are you?”

the voice makes you jolt. you’re staring at your hands in the passenger’s seat of toji’s rented—no, probably borrowed—porsche, blinking away tears in your eyes when a tiny voice speaks behind you.

you whip your head around so fast your neck aches.

and standing there is a little boy, tiny, maybe four or five, rubbing away sleep from his eyes. his hair comes in tufts of black, and his eyes are blue, and oh my god he looks just like his father.

toji.

megumi is rubbing his eyes harder now. your heart melts.

“hi, baby,” you coo, patting away your own tears on your lashes. “i’m friends with your daddy. what’s your name?”

“i’m megumi,” he sniffles, yawns. “my friends call me meg. but i don’t have any friends.”

oh. “hi, meg. what’re you doing here? did your dad leave you home alone?”

you hope he says no, because you know toji’s been hiding something—someone from you, but he wouldn’t go that far. at least, you hope he wouldn’t.

“no, my uncles are at home,” he says sleepily. and you hover your hands over his face in silent permission. he blinks at your hands, sniffles again, before nodding to let you brush his hair back from his face. “i wanted to see daddy. he left for work.”

work? no he didn’t. toji zenin is outside, lifting the bonnet of a car he knows is too good to call his. “did he tell you he was going to work, meg?”

“no, but i know he is. he works for us. he wears the tie and he goes away.”

“oh, baby…”

toji zenin is a liar. a liar with a handsome face, and warm touch, and words that make your head dizzy. and you should be mad, really. you are, but the sight of this little boy with a face like his father’s only makes your heart ache.

you want to ask questions: who are your uncles? where were you when i came over? is your mother still in the picture?

but megumi zenin is blinking sleepily as you caress his cheek, leaning into your touch with a sigh.

“megumi, do you wanna make a deal?”

“what kind of deal?” megumi tries to rub his eyes, but you ease his fist away.

“a super simple one. your daddy’s been acting really strange, right? to you and me,” you pat his cheek. “all you have to do is act like we’ve never met, and i’ll give you anything you want.”

megumi thinks very hard. then he asks, “are you the lady daddy wants to impress?”

you blink. “what do you mean?”

“i heard him on the phone with uncle sugu,” megumi rests his head against your leather car seat. “he said he likes a nice lady. said he wants to be a better man for her.” he rubs his eye. “then he started leaving me. where’s daddy? i wanna talk to daddy.”

“oh, meg,” your heart breaks. “come here, baby.”

megumi hesitates, but then he lets you pull him into a hug. his hands are limp by his sides, but he pats your back once before his tiny hand slips away. “auntie, why are you crying?”

your shoulders shake over him. you sniffle, “don’t worry about it, meg. and your daddy’s gonna come back soon, okay? and he won’t leave you alone anymore. i’ll make sure of it.”

megumi pulls back. “you promise?”

you cup his cheeks. “i promise. go back to sleep, okay?”

EPILOGUE !

on the couch of toji’s crappy apartment, megumi zenin is curled into his father’s side, gummy worms in his mouth as he presses his sticky hands to the screen of his brand new ipad pro. a shiny gift from his loving uncle sato, who bought him the device despite suguru and toji’s wishes.

megumi offers his father a gummy worm. “when is auntie coming?”

toji eats it off his palm. “soon, kid,” he clicks his tongue. “swear you like her more than me now.”

megumi picks out five gummy worms from the jar, then lines them up on his ipad screen for convenience. “nah, i like daddy the most.”

toji softens.

all toji can see right now is the top of his little boy’s head, his tiny nose poking out and his chubby little cheeks. the ipad screen is sticky and candy smeared—much like megumi’s hands—and on the screen is a video of a teacup in a ballet dress—ballerina cappucina?—getting married to a little espresso man wearing a ninja bandana. toji frowns. the video gives him flashbacks to his days of working as skai jackson’s personal AI prompt writer. he shivers.

toji shakes his head. “meg, you know i’m never leaving, right?”

“i know,” megumi groans. “you told me a billion times yesterday!”

“quit whining,” toji murmurs, pulling his son into his lap. megumi reaches for his jar of gummy worms, and toji tugs it closer. “just wanted to remind you.” he mumbles.

megumi slumps against his father’s chest. soft, distracted, satisfied. “you don’t need to say sorry anymore. i forgive you.”

toji kisses his hair, burying his face in the dark strands. he sighs, “thanks, kiddo.”

———

when the doorbell rings, toji zenin is already half-asleep.

the sound—and megumi’s accidental jab of his elbow against his stomach—wakes him right up. toji smooths his hair, rubs the sleep from his eyes. then he turns to tell megumi to go wash his sticky hands, then decides not to.

he sucks in a breath and opens the door.

“hi, pretty.”

“move. i’m not here for you.”

you shove at his chest and push your way into the apartment, and on the couch to the right megumi zenin is there, ipad in hands and cheeks sticky and looking up at you with big, blue eyes.

“auntie?”

“oh, my baby!”

you scoop him off the couch and into your arms, and megumi clutches your shoulders tight as you attack him with kisses on his forehead, cheeks, everywhere. toji’s eye twitches in disbelief. “are we serious?”

“oh, you’re still here,” you glance over at him, bored. “meg and i are gonna make cookies today. mind being a doll and fetching the ingredients from the car?” you toss him your car keys.

toji looks at the keys in his hands. then you, who is cooing silly things that make megumi blush and bury his head in your neck.

toji pads over to you, slow. “i wanted to see you.”

you ignore his hands snaking around your hips. you turn your nose up at him, “and now, you have.”

“you still mad at me?”

of course you’re still mad. maybe not as mad as you were a week ago, but still upset. that he lied. that he thought so little of you that he went out of his way to sculpt a whole other life and hide away the little angel in your arms. but toji’s hands are still heavy on your hips. his voice is warm in your ear. and he apologized, you know. in the parking lot that day. at your house on monday, holding a bouquet of half-dead flowers and wearing a rented suit that went to waste because you refused to go out with him anyway. he sent you an hour long voicemail apologizing. you listened to it all on the way here.

toji zenin is such a sap.

he acts like he isn’t, though. but he is, and you feel it in how he presses his lips to your neck, over and over and over again. i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry.

megumi shoves his father’s lips away. “daddy stop.”

you laugh, nuzzling megumi’s cheek. “he’s such a dummy, isn’t he meg? do you think i should forgive him?”

“yeah,” megumi mutters, collapsing into your neck. “he said sorry a billion times to me yesterday. daddy’s really sorry for everything.”

“aww. daddy’s so cute when he’s sorry, isn’t he?”

toji is glaring at you. you can only giggle and press a kiss to his jaw, and his eyes widen a bit in surprise. you cup his jaw and press another one to his cheek. just one more, because you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t missed him as well.

“i forgive you, mister. now go get those groceries—shoo!”

toji nuzzles your neck before leaving the apartment.

megumi is still on your hip, clutching your shoulders for balance as you pick out pans and trays from the cupboard. he grips your hair in a tiny fist. “auntie?”

“hm, gummy?”

megumi hides in your neck—shy, nervous. “are you gonna be my new mommy?”

you freeze.

megumi clutches you tighter. his face is buried in your throat, and he’s gripping so tightly his little nails bite into your skin, but you soften. toji had already confessed everything in his voicemail. his mom isn’t in the picture anymore. how a mother can let go of a little angel like meg, you don’t know, but who are you to judge and conclude?

“i don’t know, meg, it’s too soon,” you hum softly, setting a pan on the tabletop. “but i know i’ll be here, baby. for you.”

“will you be at my school, too?” he peers up at you, big eyes glimmering with hope. “all the other kids have mommies except for me.”

“oh, megumi—of course i’ll be there!”

it’s taking everything in you not to carry this boy and run! you attack his face with kisses, and megumi squirms in your arms but he’s giggling. his hands are sticky on your face, neck, everywhere, but you kiss him over and over again, because you’ve only known him for a little over a week but you’re already ready to give him the world. “auntie, stop!” but he’s laughing. “there’s lip gloss all over me!”

when toji walks in, he can’t believe his eyes.

there are too many shopping bags in his hands, because everything about you is too much, even down to your shopping, and toji is staring in disbelief. the woman of his dreams in his kitchen, holding his son, and his son is laughing. laughing the way he used to before his mother left him two years ago.

and he doesn’t really deserve the warmth curling in his chest, or the strange feeling coursing through his veins, but who is toji zenin if not greedy?

so he drops the bags to his feet (gently, because you’d curse him if the eggs broke), and pads over to the kitchen where you’re showering megumi with affection, and he snakes his arms around your waist and drops his head into your neck. you turn, grinning, and you don’t push him away when he presses a quick kiss to your lips. the lips are honest, and now toji is too.

“aww, look at you getting all sappy.”

“auntie made my face all sticky..”

toji squeezes you both tight. a little greed never killed a man.

MEGUMI’S REMARK : CAN I HAVE SOME GUMMY WORMS…?

#SIGMA CHI STORIES !

LOVE OVER LOBLAWS, end.

© HEARTKAJI. do not steal, copy, edit, translate or reupload.

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[matriarchisis]

"Weekends With You"

“I loved you so much that I stopped knowing what to do with it.”

synopsis: You and Suguru were high school sweethearts turned young parents, married before either of you knew how not to break the dishes when you were angry. Now divorced, you co-parent your daughters with a fragile truce that splinters whenever you’re in the same room too long. It’s been two years since the divorce, but the past won’t stay dead. The weekends are where it all unravels and comes back together, over and over again.

content/warnings: divorced parents au, suguru x reader, modern au, suburban setting, cosy messy lives, angst, slow burn, second-chance trope, family drama, fluff, hints of mental illness, eventual smut, chapter six: mentions of bullying, lonely childhood, childhood emotional neglect , kissing between exes, discussions of depression/burnout, divorce angst, yearning so intense it could qualify as a medical condition

a/n: so sorry it took this long, scenes are pretty short, but i wanted to give an insight on why reader is pretty much the way she is! hope u enjoy <3

wc: 9.1k

06 - “what love couldn’t fix”

The dining room smelt faintly of bergamot. The scent lived in the lacquered mahogany beneath your elbows, in the beeswax rubbed painstakingly into the long table every Sunday morning by house staff who moved through the estate like ghosts in pressed uniforms. It lingered in the velvet drapes, in your mother’s perfume, in the crystal glasses gleaming under the chandelier light. Even now, as a child, you understood the room was built for spectacle, not comfort. 

You sat halfway down the table with your spine pulled painfully straight, staring at a medallion of seared duck growing colder by the minute. A slick amber glaze shone across the skin beneath the lights. Beside it sat pomme purée into an elegant spiral you were almost afraid to disturb. You hated pomme purée. The fork in your hand scraped softly against porcelain. Across from you, your mother’s eyes shot upwards immediately. 

“Not like that,” she scolded. 

You flinched and paused. “Sorry.”

“The angle of your wrist.” She demonstrated delicately with her own fork, graceful as a swan gliding over water. “You look tense.” 

“Yes, Mother.”

At the head of the table, your father continued speaking without interruption, one hand folded beside his wine glass whilst the other thumbed lazily through emails on his phone. The blue-white light from the screen illuminated the planes of his face. “The Singapore investors are becoming obstinate,” he muttered. “If they continue stalling, we’ll move the meeting to fourth quarter.” 

Your mother hummed thoughtfully. “Mm. you anticipated that, though.”

“Of course I anticipated it.”

He always spoke to your mother like that. You turned one foot, rubbing your ankle against the other. The fabric of your tights itched maddeningly behind your knees. You wanted to peel them off. You wanted to unbutton the stiff little collar of your dress. You wanted—more than anything—to stop sitting like this. 

At school, Yumi once told you her father drove them through McDonald’s every Friday after piano lessons. My mom steals half my nuggets, she’d complained. And my little brother cries if we forget the sweet-and-sour sauce. 

You had thought about it for days. Not the food itself, though you dreamed salty fries and fizzy cola tasted infinitely better than duck glazed in orange reduction. It was the image that lodged itself in your foot like a splinter. Laughing in a car, grease stained paper bags crumpled between people who loved one another enough to be ugly together. 

“The market in Hong Kong is volatile right now. We either expand aggressively or pull out before the fiscal—”

You picked up your water glass with both hands, took a careful sip, then set it down too quickly. The soft click echoed. “Gently,” your mother corrected.

Heat crawled into your cheeks. “Sorry.”

Your appetite had long since evaporated, but you cut another microscopic piece of duck anyway, chewing slowly whilst your parents discussed stock trajectories. Their words floated through the room in fragments. Acquisition. Currency. Credit. Negotiation. Risk mitigation. 

Adult words. 

You swallowed. “Yumi said her family goes to McDonald’s after school...sometimes,” you said quietly. 

Your mother’s knife paused midway through cutting her sea bass. For a moment, nobody spoke. Then she gave a small, breathy laugh through her nose. “Processed filth,” she cringed. 

Your father did not look up from his phone. “Mhm.”

You stared at your plate and shrugged. “She said it’s fun.”

“Fun?” Your mother dabbed the corner of her mouth with her napkin. “Darling, there’s nothing glamorous about eating fried chemicals.”

“No, I just meant…” Your fingers tightened around the fork. “They go together.”

Your mother’s eyes lifted. “You shouldn’t speak with food in your mouth.”

The words struck. You closed your mouth immediately, cheeks burning hot enough to ache. “Sorry.”

And just like that, the conversation moved on without you, seamless as silk slipping over skin. “The Kyoto branch called earlier,” your father said. 

“Did they?”

You lowered your eyes to your plate again. The duck had gone cold. Fat congealed along the edges in pale golden streaks. You cut another piece anyway, though your stomach now felt strange and tight. Nobody noticed you barely ate. Nobody noticed the way your shoulders curled inward by imperceptible for the rest of dinner. Only the chandelier watched you. Only your own distorted reflection staring back at you from the curve of your spoon. 

———

At fourteen, your mother declared you had become temperamental. It was said the same way one might remark upon poor weather or a crack spreading through expensive china. Mild irritation…You used to be a pliant child once. Piano lessons every Tuesday and Thursday, Ballet on weekends. Calligraphy every second Wednesday beneath the watchful eye of an elderly woman with nicotine-yellowed fingertips and exacting standards. 

Then, shamefully, you developed opinions. 

“I’m auditioning,” you’d announced one evening.

Your mother glanced up from her tea. “For what?” 

“For a school play in my school.” 

Your father continued reading the financial section of the newspaper. 

“Drama productions are rather frivolous,” your mother said at last, smoothing one manicured thumb along the porcelain rim of her cup. “You already have piano commitments.”

“I can do both.”

“Youll exhaust yourself, dear.”

“I won’t.”

Your mother exchanged a glance with your father over the table. One of those silent marital conversations rich people perfected over decades. Entire verdicts delivered through eye contact alone. And then:

“If your grades decline,” your father murmured without looking up from the paper, “you’ll withdraw immediately.”

You had nearly smiled from relief. That was the thing about your parents. They denied emotion more often than permission. So you auditioned.

And somehow, impossibly, disastrously—you were chosen to play Princess Kaguya. For weeks afterwards, your life becomes rehearsals and hastily memorised lines scribbled into the margins of notebooks. Cheap stage makeup dusting the collars of your uniforms. The theatre room smelt of sawdust, old curtains, and adolescent perspiration trapped beneath hot lights. You adored it. 

It was the first thing in your life that felt wholly yours. The night of the performance arrived swaddled in cold autumn rain. Backstage buzzed with frenetic energy. Students darted between curtains clutching props and costume pieces, teachers whispering urgent instructions through headset microphones whilst mothers in the audience snapped photographs from the front row. Your costume sleeves hung heavy from your arms, pale silk embroidered with silver thread. Your lips had been painted a delicate crimson by one of the third-year girls backstage, who clicked her tongue afterward and declared you ‘ethereal enough to make boys stupid.’

You laughed nervously because you didn’t know what else to do.

Then the curtains opened, the lights blinded. There was no room left for fear. You stood beneath a painted moon whilst the audience dissolved into darkness beyond the stage, delivering Kaguya’s farewell. You recited your lines perfectly. Because that’s what you were. Perfect. 

Your chest swelled with hope, you guess, when everyone applauded. It was deafening enough to make your pulse stumble. You bowed alongside your castmates, heart hammering so violently you thought it might bruise your ribs from within. Instinctively, your eyes searched the crowd. Left side first, then centre, then the balcony. You searched for your mother’s pearl earrings. Your father’s dark suit. The familiar silhouettes you had imagined there for weeks. Nothing. Just strangers applauding politely. Your stomach dropped with sickening velocity. 

It couldn’t be. You looked again, once, twice, three times. Finally, near the middle row sat your maid, hands folded politely in her lap while she clapped beside the chauffeur in his black suit. A bouquet of lilies rested awkwardly across his knees. Something hot climbed your throat so abruptly it frightened you. Around you, your classmates grinned breathlessly beneath the lights, waving toward families already rising from their seats with flowers and cameras and open arms. 

Your vision blurred. No no no no—no you can’t. Because fourteen years of training snapped into place before the first tear could even fall.

You smiled as if your heart had not just split quietly down the middle. You smiled because there were still people watching.

Backstage dissolved into jubilant chaos the moment the curtains closed. Students shrieked and embraced one another. Someone grabbed your shoulders excitedly.

“You were amazing!”

“You sounded like you were actually crying!”

“You looked so pretty under the lights—”

You thanked them automatically. But your mind lingered elsewhere. Surely, they were simply late. Traffic, perhaps. An emergency meeting? You lingered near the dressing room longer than necessary, fingers twisting anxiously within the heavy silk sleeves of your costume. One by one, classmates disappeared into the arms of waiting families until the corridors grew quieter. Emptier.

Still you waited. Eventually, the chauffeur appeared in the doorway.

“We should leave soon, miss.”

That awful little shred of hope inside you finally died then. Your maid approached carefully, holding out the lilies with both hands. “You performed beautifully tonight.”

The flowers smelt sweet enough to make you nauseous.

“Oh,” you snivelled softly. “Thank you.”

———

By fifteen, you had become adept at crying quietly. It was a humiliating thing to excel at. 

Some girls shouted when they wept. Some shattered glasses or slammed doors or telephoned friends in hysterics. You had once witnessed a classmate fling her entire schoolbag into the corridor after failing an examination, papers fluttering everywhere like startled doves.

You envied girls like that sometimes. Your grief had always been a furtive, shamefaced thing. The bullying itself had not begun dramatically. No singular catastrophe. No cinematic cruelties worthy of sympathy. Merely the slow, methodical erosion adolescent girls specialised in. Whispers behind manicured hands. Group chats you were excluded from. Rumours mutating through hallways like mould creeping along damp walls.

Too stiff. Too strange. Too pretty. Too quiet. Too rich.

A girl in your literature class once smiled sweetly before asking whether your mother hired people to love you. The others laughed. You laughed too, several seconds late. That afternoon, you arrived home with your stomach twisted so tightly you thought you might retch.

The chauffeur opened the car door beneath the estate awning whilst rain pattered softly against stone. You muttered a faint thank you and hurried inside before anyone could properly look at you, fingers gripping your schoolbag strap hard enough to ache.

Your reflection caught briefly in the foyer mirror. Mascara smeared faintly beneath your eyes. You looked awful. Upstairs, your bedroom door shut with a soft click behind you. And then finally, you broke.

A sob tore itself from your throat so violently it startled you. You dropped your schoolbag carelessly beside the bed and pressed both hands over your mouth as though trying to shove the sound back inside yourself. Tears blurred your vision almost immediately, hot and humiliating and endless. Your shoulders shook beneath your blazer.

You hated crying. Hated the ugliness of it. You stumbled toward your vanity anyway, collapsing onto the velvet stool before it. Your reflection swam before you in fractured pieces through tears and smudged mascara. Your nose reddened when you cried. Your lips trembled pathetically. Wet black streaks stained the skin beneath your eyes.

Hideous. A knock sounded at the door. You inhaled sharply, trying to steady yourself, but before you could answer, your mother entered anyway. She wore cream silk and diamonds at her wrists. She always looked immaculate in the evenings, as though she emerged each dusk freshly painted into existence.

Her gaze settled upon you. “Oh,” she said softly. You looked down immediately, ashamed of being witnessed like this. “What happened?”

The question alone nearly unravelled you again. “They…” Your voice cracked horribly. You swallowed hard. “There are girls at school and they keep saying things and I—I don’t know what’s wrong with me because I try to ignore it but they just keep—”

Another sob escaped before you could stop it. Your mother crossed the room then, heels whispering faintly against hardwood. For one fleeting, desperate moment, you thought she might embrace you. Instead, she crouched delicately before your vanity and reached for a tissue.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Gentle fingers dabbed beneath your eyes, wiping away ruined mascara with careful precision. “You can’t let people see you like this.”

The words slid into you clean as a blade. You stopped crying almost instantly. Not entirely, of course. Your chest still spasmed faintly with leftover grief. Tears still trembled precariously along your lashes. But years of conditioning tightened around your spine like corsetry.

Composure. You inhaled shakily through your nose.

Your mother continued blotting beneath your eyes. “People are unkind to girls who appear fragile.” You stared at your lap.

“I hate that school,” you whispered.

Your mother sighed faintly, setting aside the tissue. “Girls your age can be vicious. It passes.”

“No, I…” You wiped quickly beneath one eye before another tear could fall. “I really don’t think I can stay there anymore.”

Silence. Rain whispered softly against the windows. You thought carefully before speaking again. You had learned by then which language your parents respected.

“There’s another school nearby,” you murmured, twisting the hem of your sleeve between nervous fingers. “Jujutsu High.”

Your mother’s brows lifted slightly. “The private academy?”

You nodded quickly. “Their curriculum is good. And it’s closer to the estate, so transportation would be easier.”

Your mother considered this quietly, eyes roaming your face as though searching for damage she could appraise materially. “I’ll discuss it with your father,” she said at last.

Relief fluttered weakly through your chest. “Thank you.”

She stood then, smoothing nonexistent creases from her skirt. “And wash your face before dinner,” she added gently. “Your eyes are swollen.”

The door clicked shut behind her. Silence flooded the room once more. For a long while, you simply sat there staring at yourself in the mirror. Mascara stained your cheeks in crooked charcoal rivers. Your lower lip still quivered faintly whenever you inhaled too sharply. You looked younger like this. Softer. Frightened. Pathetic. Slowly, you reached for the makeup wipes atop your vanity.

One by one, you erased the evidence. You reapplied your mascara with meticulous care, wand brushing lightly through your lashes whilst your hand steadied itself by force alone. The familiar ritual calmed you. Reconstructing your face always did.

By the end, the girl in the mirror looked composed again. Pretty again.

You practised a smile. Tears still threatened behind your eyes, heavy as storm clouds.

But they didn’t fall.

———

2006, Jujutsu High

Satoru Gojo was a loud man.

You learned that before you ever truly spoke to him.

Not merely in volume, though he possessed plenty of that too. No, loudness seemed stitched into the very architecture of him. It lived in the careless sprawl of his limbs across classroom chairs, in the gleam of white hair catching sunlight like fresh snow, in the irreverent cadence of his voice whenever teachers attempted—and failed—to discipline him.

He occupied space without apology. His friend beside him quieter, though equally as loud. Not silent, never silent, but restrained in the deliberate manner of people who understood precisely how much power they possessed and therefore saw no need to brandish it carelessly. Dark hair tied loosely back from his face. His long fingers perpetually twirling pens that probably belonged to other people. Together, they seemed to distort the atmosphere around them. 

The entire classroom bent subtly toward their orbit. By your second week at Jujutsu High, you had already concluded it was unlike any school you had ever attended before. It was noisy! Students laughed here, loudly, without mock. They slouched in their chairs and interrupted teachers and argued openly during lectures without fear. The corridors reeked of…unusual foods and rain damp uniforms instead of antiseptic and floor polish. Someone had drawn an obscenity on one of the bathroom stalls in glitter pens. 

You found it horrifying, but you also found it wonderful. Which was perhaps more horrifying still. The classroom windows stood partially open despite the autumn chill, allowing crisp wind to drift through pale curtains in intermittent sighs. Sunlight stretched lazily across your desk in fractured bars of gold. You kept your eyes glued to your notebook. 

That, too, had become instinct. Your handwriting marched neatly across the page while the lecturer spoke at the front of the room. Your fingers cramped around the pen. Beside the window, someone snorted softly. A whisper followed, then another. 

You ignored—well, you tried to. 

The murmuring persisted just long enough for unease to begin curling beneath your ribs. Don’t be so self-centred, you thought to yourself. They’re not thinking about you. You felt it then, that dreadful, prickling awareness of being perceived. 

Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t lo—

You looked. 

Across the room, the white-haired boy had turned halfway in his chair. Beside him, the dark-haired boy leaned slightly closer as though mid conversation. Both of them were looking directly at you. 

The moment your eyes met theirs, the white-haired boy jerked his head forward again with all the subtlety of a child caught stealing sweets. The dark-haired one followed a second later, though slower. Smoother. 

Heat flooded your face instantly. Oh god. Your eyes dropped back to your notebook so quickly your neck hurt. They were laughing at you. Perhaps your uniform looked too polished? Or, was your makeup too uneven? Fuck, wait, a lady should never curse—perhaps you’d spoken too formally during attendance again. The possibilities multiplied with hideous efficiency inside your mind until you scarcely heard another word the lecturer said. 

Were you sitting strangely? You straightened your spine subtly. Then worried it looked unnatural and relaxed again. Your breathing suddenly felt embarrassingly audible. Even blinking seemed perilous now. Satoru Gojo laughed again somewhere behind you. You kept writing despite the fact your notes had devolved into meaningless fragments halfway down the page. 

A girl seated near the boys—short brown hair grazing her jawline—glanced briefly between them before returning to her own work with visible indifference. She seemed entirely unbothered by their strange behaviour.

Every so often, you could feel it again. Fleeting glances striking against your skin like thrown pebbles. By the end of class, exhaustion had settled into the marrow of your bones with astonishing heaviness. The lecturer dismissed everyone with a tired wave of his hand. Chairs scraped loudly against floors as students immediately dissolved into conversation and movement. You remained seated a moment longer, pretending to reorganise your notes whilst waiting for the room to empty slightly.

Your fingers trembled as you capped your pen. Ridiculous. You were being ridiculous. Still, when you finally stood, your pulse skipped violently after your pencil slipped from the desk and clattered onto the floor. You crouched quickly to retrieve it but, another hand reached it first.

Long fingers, pale knuckles. Satoru straightened with your pencil balanced loosely between his fingers. Up close, his glasses sat crooked across the bridge of his nose, sunlight caught in the white strands of his hair almost painfully bright. He looked younger this near. 

“Oh,” he said, as though surprised by your existence. Behind him, stood the dark-haired boy watching with curious eyes. 

You immediately bowed your head. “Sorry!” 

He blinked, then laughed. “You dropped this!” Satoru said, holding the pencil toward you. 

“Thank you.” Your voice came quieter than intended. 

The dark-haired smile then. 

Somehow, that frightened you.

———

The music room was officially yours (by accident.) Most students drifted elsewhere after classes. To training grounds, convenience stores, etc. Jujutsu High transformed strangely in the evenings; its hallways softened into something quieter and nicely melancholic once the daytime noise ebbed away. Sunset gathered in long, amber pools across the floors. You liked this better. 

The piano sat near the far window of the music room, black lacquer dulled with age, ivory keys yellowing at the edges like old teeth. Someone had left the lid partially raised earlier that week, and you’d returned every afternoon since.

You didn’t believe you were extraordinary at piano. Your mother would’ve disagreed, naturally. She believed twelve years of lessons entitled one to excellence by default. Your playing had never possessed the sterile precision she admired in competition recordings. You hesitated too much under lingering eyes. 

However, piano soothed you.

Your bag rested beside the piano bench while your fingers wandered absently through Debussy, notes spilling delicately into the empty room like rainwater slipping over stone. Outside the open windows, cicadas rasped in the trees. From somewhere down the corridor came laughter. Loud laughter. You ignored it initially, then constant footsteps followed. Back and forth.

Voices too muffled to decipher, though one of them carried unmistakably farther than the other. A familiar cadence of arrogant amusement rose and fell beyond the doorway while shoes squeaked against polished floors.

Footsteps lingered, then retreated, then returned again. Your left eye twitched faintly. By the fourth pass, irritation began prickling beneath your skin. The voices outside lowered into conspiring murmurs. Suddenly, the door slide open. 

First all you saw was black hair spilling through the gap, followed by the cautious emergence of a tall figure half hidden behind the frame like an overly curious cat. Those dark amethyst eyes met yours instantly. 

“Oh,” Suguru Geto said. A grin spread slowly across his face. 

“Hey.” You seized your playing. 

Somewhere behind him in the hallway, another voice stage-whispered dramatically: “Just go inside, coward.” Though, you believe the voice thought you wouldn’t have heard it. 

Suguru’s smile twitched, looking over his shoulder before looking back at you again. “I didn’t think anyone would be in here.”

This was objectively untrue. You had been coming here nearly every afternoon for the past week, and somehow—miraculously—he had managed to ‘accidentally’ appear every time. Cafeteria, courtyard, library, hallway outside literature class. Once, horrifyingly, beside the vending machines at the exact moment you’d mentioned wanting tea aloud.

You were beginning to suspect sorcery of a different variety entirely.

“I heard the piano,” he continued, rocking slightly onto the balls of his feet. “It sounded beautiful.”

You glanced down at the keys. “Thank you…”

He stepped further inside, sliding the door shut behind him with careful hands. He wore his uniform improperly again—collar loosened, sleeves partially rolled despite the cooling weather. “Mind if I stay?” he asked. 

Normal people said no to strange boys who materialised everywhere like persistent ghosts. Instead, against your better judgement, you whispered: “I don't mind.”

You looked quickly back toward the piano and resumed playing before he could say anything else. Softer this time. He crossed the room in several steps before seating himself beside you on the piano bench with entirely too much confidence.  “I’ve always wanted to learn.”

“The piano?”

“Mhm.”

“You don’t play?”

“Not everyone does.” He watched your hands move across the keys with disarming attentiveness. “But you make it look unfairly easy.” 

“It isn’t.”

“You say that like an old master who lives atop a mountain.” He laughed at his own joke. Outside, footsteps retreated down the hallway at last—presumably Satoru abandoning surveillance after determining his mission successful.

“Piano teachers are old masters who live atop mountains.”

Suguru laughed at that too. A little too loud. You know damn well you weren’t that funny.

You continued playing softly whilst Suguru watched your hands move across the keys with startling concentration. Most people lost interest after several minutes around pianists. They complimented vaguely, listened politely, then drifted elsewhere once the novelty faded.

Suguru stayed. Not only stayed—listened. Really listened.

“You keep pressing too hard,” you murmured eventually.

“Hm?”

You nodded toward the keyboard. “Earlier.”

“I touched exactly one key.”

“And somehow assaulted it.”

He grinned. “Alright then, expert. Teach me properly.”

You hesitated.

Then shifted slightly on the bench, allowing space beside you. “Your hand position first.” Suguru straightened almost immediately. The eagerness of it startled you. You demonstrated quietly, curving your fingers over the keys. “Not stiff. Relax your wrists or it’ll hurt after a while.” He attempted to mimic the shape. Horrifically, you might add. Without thinking, you reached over. 

“Here.”

Your fingertips brushed his knuckles gently, nudging his hand lower. The contact lasted perhaps three seconds. Four at most. You realised how close you were sitting so suddenly. Heat crept slowly into your cheeks. You withdrew your hand almost immediately, looking back toward the keys. 

“Like that,” you squeaked. 

Suguru cleared his throat. “Right.”

For the next hour, the music room filled with uneven scales, missed notes, and your increasingly incredulous disbelief at how someone so intelligent could struggle so profoundly with basic coordination.

Outside the windows, dusk deepened gradually into indigo. The cicadas quieted. You glanced toward the clock mounted above the chalkboard and startled slightly upright. “Oh. I should start getting home.”

Suguru looked over. “What?”

“I should go home.”

Disappointment crossed his face so quickly it was almost childish. “Already?”

“Mm.” He tapped absentmindedly against one of the keys before asking. “Want me to walk you home?”

Your pulse stumbled strangely. Walk you home. You thought immediately of the chauffeur waiting outside in polished black gloves. You shoullldddd say no.

“Could you wait here for a minute?”

He blinked. “Sure.” 

You rose quickly before you could reconsider, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from your skirt as your heart beat oddly against your ribs. “I’ll be right back.”

The evening air outside had grown crisp enough to sting your cheeks faintly. Gravel crunched beneath your shoes as you crossed the campus toward the front gates, where the familiar car already waited beneath the streetlamps. Your chauffeur noticed you immediately. “There you are, miss.”

You slowed near the car, fingers tightening briefly around your bag strap. “Actually…” You glanced back toward the school buildings instinctively. “I’m going to walk home today.”

A pause. “Walk?”

“Yes.”

“With whom?”

You looked down at the pavement. “Someone...”

Another pause followed. Longer this time.

“Well…” He adjusted his gloves with visible uncertainty. “Your parents were expecting me to bring you directly home.”

“I know.” You swallowed lightly. “I just thought…since the weather is nice…”

The excuse sounded absurd even to your own ears. The chauffeur studied you for a moment with something almost paternal flickering briefly across his expression. He had driven you since childhood. He knew precisely how rarely you asked for anything.

At last, he sighed softly.

“I suppose one evening will not cause catastrophe.”

Relief unfurled warm and sudden inside your chest.

“Thank you.”

“But,” he added carefully, “if your parents object—”

“I’ll handle it.”

He didn’t appear convinced. Still, he bowed his head slightly. “Very well, miss.”

You thanked him again before hurrying back toward the school building, pulse fluttering strangely the entire way there.

The music room door slid open beneath your hand.

Suguru looked up immediately from the piano.

You realised then he had not touched the keys once while waiting for you.

As though the room itself had paused in your absence.

“Well?” he asked.

You tried—and failed—to suppress the small smile threatening at the corners of your mouth. “Yes,” you gleed.

————

PRESENT DAY

The days are all the same.

Clothes are scattered across your bedroom floor as you step over them to make way to your bathroom. Your two little girls are running around the house, screaming and making light of the day. A simple contrast to the unease inside your stomach. “I wanna go to a big dessert restaurant and it has to have slides and a playground and a big, big, swing!” Nanako exclaims, nearly jumping out of her seat to tell Suguru about what she wanted to do for the break. 

You hear Suguru from the other room, his voice lowering for your daughters. “A playground in a restaurant? That’s a lot of requirements. I can only name Mcdonald’s, or a theme park—”

You pause in the bathroom doorway, fingers brushing over the edge of the sink.

“No no!” Mimiko argues. “It’s not a theme park, it’s a dessert place!” 

“Sounds expensive,” he adds lightly.

“You and Mama are rich, right?” Nanako shoots back without hesitation.

Suguru laughs all too familiar, letting it echo into the hallway, into your bathroom. Meanwhile, you stare into your reflection for too long. Your hair is half done, one side pinned back while the other falls loose over your shoulder. You stress yourself about because tonight, you’re finally meeting Toji.

But this feels useless, like trying to cup water in your hands and watching it slip through your fingers. No matter how tight you hold on, it’s going to get away. You lift yourself up just to drop again, caught in this endless swing between wanting and refusing, craving and retreating. You don’t even know what you want anymore. If you go, would you ruin it? He’ll see it eventually, the dull parts, the way you hollow out without warning. Not to mention, his whole wife being dead…would you just…ruin it?

Is any of this worth it? You haven’t been with anyone since Suguru. And even now, he sits in you like a bruise you keep pressing just to feel something good. Could you ever move on, or are you just orbiting the same place, over and over again? You hate how stuck you feel, how he still threads through every thought without asking. You’re in a constant loop. But you left him…You remember that much. 

The papers, your hands shaking as you dropped them in front of him, the way your voice broke, the way you ended up in his arms anyway, crying like something inside you had split open and couldn’t be put back. There was a reason. There is a reason, but it slips from you now and you’re left grasping at the outline of a choice you don’t fully understand anymore. What was it for? What did it fix? Did it fix anything? You stand there, suspended between past and present, wanting to run forward and backward at the same time, until the question curls in on itself, small yet impossible to ignore—what are you even doing here?

From the other room, you hear the shuffle of feet, something knocking over, followed by a quick “Watch it, if you break something, mommy’s going to be upset.”

“you wouldn’t tell her!” one of the girls gasp. 

“I would,” he insists. 

You can picture it without looking. Him crouched down between them, one hand holding Mimiko by the shoulder, the other picking something up off the floor. Your grip tightens slightly on the counter before you force yourself to move again, reaching for your lipstick. You dab at your lips, then pause.

No, it’s too much. You wipe it off, try again, lighter this time. A small voice in the back of your mind whispers something you don’t want to hear. Slow footsteps begin to approach, heavier than the girls. You don’t turn around immediately. You see him first through the mirror.

Suguru leans against the doorframe like he’s done it a hundred times before, one arm braced above his head, the other resting at his side. He doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at you. Your hand stills where it’s hovering near your face.

“…You’re still getting ready?”

You meet his eyes through the reflection. “Isn’t it obvious?”

A pause stretches; his eyes drift despite himself. Taking in the way your dress falls against your body, the way your hair frames your face. The effort.

“…You look nice,” he adds, a little lower this time. 

You press your lips together in a small line. “Thanks.”

With a clearly contemplative expression, Suguru pushes his weight against the doorframe. He closes the door behind him with a gentle click. “So then, you’re actually going on this date?”

You let out a tiny breath through your nose, eyes dropping to the sink for a second before lifting back to your reflection. “I said I would, didn’t I?”

“Yeah.”

In the silence, you reach for your lipstick again, twisting the cap slowly. Behind you, you hear him exhale. “I feel like I should at least know who the guy is.”

There it is. 

“If he’s going to be around the girls—”

“He’s not,” you quickly let out. You snap the cap onto your lipstick and set it down with a soft click, already reaching for your blush. The compact feels cool in your hand as you flip it open. You angle the mirror slightly and tap the blush into the powder. “He’s not meeting them, Suguru. It’s a date, Suguru. One date.” You pause, the brush hovering near your cheek. “What do I look like to you?”

He pushes himself off the wall and steps further into the bathroom, stopping near the counter. His fingers drift over the edge absentmindedly, nudging your perfume bottle back into place. “That’s not what I meant.”

You let out a small breath through your nose, turning back to the mirror. The blush finally touches your skin, sweeping colour across your cheek in a controlled motion. “It always sounds like that,” you reply.

He watches you, jaw shifting slightly. “I’m just asking…I think I have a right to know who’s—”

“You always do this,” you cut in, your hand stopping mid-motion. You lower the brush slowly, setting it against the edge of the sink before turning to him again. “Every time I try to do something for myself, you make it about the girls like i’m—what? Reckless? Irresponsible? You’re being annoying.” 

“I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t have to!”

The house feels too quiet, so the sudden thought of the girls overhearing you and pressing their ears to the door shuts you up. You make sure your words don’t carry past the walls. Suguru exhales, dragging a hand over the back of his neck before letting it fall. He glances toward the door briefly before looking back to you. “I’m not trying to start anything…I just wanna know who you’re seeing. That’s it.”

“And I said it’s just a date.” you cross your arms loosely, then uncross them just as quickly, like even that feels too much. “We’re not married anymore. Stop questioning me about things like this.”

His mouth presses into a thin line, but he nods. “I know…”

He reaches for something on the counter without really thinking about it—your hair clip, turning it between his fingers before setting it back down exactly where it  was. “I’m not saying you’re doing anything wrong. I’m sorry.”

You turn back to the mirror, picking up your brush again. “I’m sorry, too.”

“...The girls’ break is next week. I think Germany is perfect. Just let me know and I’ll order the tickets and everything. Just like we discussed.”

You press your lips together, watching yourself in the mirror before you start blending again. “...Germany’s nice. But if we’re already going all the way out there…why not do more?”

“More?”

You faintly nod. “Like other countries. It’s Europe, everything’s close. You can just take a train and be in Paris in an hour. We could plan something out instead of just staying in one place.”

He watches you through the mirror now. “That sounds like a lot with the girls.”

“They’d be fine,” you reply, glancing at him briefly before looking back at your reflection. “And if it’s too much, we can space it out. A few days here, a few days there. My…parents wouldn’t mind paying for it either.” You reach for your mascara next, unscrewing the cap and pulling the wand out slowly. You steady your hand against your cheek as you bring it up. “They’ve been asking to take the girls somewhere anyway, this just makes it easier.”

He lets out a small breath, something almost like a quiet laugh under it. 

“They took me to Portugal when I was little. It was really nice. Super warm and colourful. My mom kept making us walk everywhere. I complained the whole time; then we’d stop somewhere and get food, or sit near the water, and it just felt different. Like nothing was rushing you. You could just…be there.”

“…We could add it,” he says.

You glance at him.

“Portugal,” he clarifies. “If we’re doing this whole thing.”

“Yea, it’d be nice.” 

“I’m sorry about earlier. About your date.” A small beat. “...dates,” he corrects. 

Your brows lift slightly at that. “It’s fine. You didn’t…cross a line or anything.”

He huffs. “I did a little.”

“You’re forgiven. Still owe me, though,” you continue, more casually now.

“For what?” he asks, brows knitting.

You finally turn slightly, leaning your hip against the counter, looking at him properly now. “My ankle.”

His face shifts immediately. “That was an accident!”

“You scared me,” you say, pointing the lipstick at him briefly before lowering it again. “You came out of nowhere.”

“I didn’t come out of nowhere,” he argues. “You just weren’t paying attention.”

“I was showering,” you shoot back, though there’s a hint of a smile tugging at your mouth now. “Of course I wasn’t paying attention.”

“I wasn’t sneaking, and I told you I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You hold his eyes for a second, then look away first, turning back toward the mirror. “Mm,” you hum, like you’re unconvinced.

“I didn’t,” he repeats, quieter.

“I know.”

You reach for your setting spray, giving it a light shake before misting your face. The cool droplets settle over your skin, and you close your eyes for a second, letting it dry. When you open them again, your reflection looks finished. You cap the bottle and set it down, adjusting it so it lines up with everything else on the counter. 

Suguru hasn’t moved an inch. When you finally glance up, your eyes meet his in the mirror. He’s looking right at you. He wets his lips, slow, like he’s about to say something and thinking better of it. 

“...France.”

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

“Our honeymoon,” he adds, like it’s nothing. “You remember it?”

Of course you remember it. Your hand pauses halfway to reaching for your phone. For a second, you just stare at him through the mirror, you’re trying to figure out where that came from. 

“Why are you bringing that up right now?”

Suguru shrugs. “Well, France is in Europe isn’t it?”

You let out a small breath, and turn back to the counter, picking up a tissue just to have something to do. You dab lightly at the corner of your lip, even though there’s nothing there. “Yeah, we did.”

But the words don’t just fall to the floor and stay there. It’s a cruel sort of remembering, Suguru knows what he’s doing. It takes you by the wrist and drags you backward through time. France. The memory had been tucked away in some corner of your mind where you keep things you cannot afford to look at too often. His wife. You remember the laugh that followed as the word slipped out from some deeper place inside him. His hands found you, there had been a rhythm already drumming into your bodies by then.

He had once looked at you like devotion made flesh. And you—

“What?”

The word pulls you loose from the memory. “Hm?” Your fingers are still curled around the tissue, crumpled soft from your hands. 

“You went somewhere just now.”

Outside the bathroom, one of the girls shrieks with laughter. Something thumps against the floorboards, followed by the rapid fire cadence of little feet fleeing imagined doom. You look at Suguru properly then. At the tiredness gathered beneath his eyes, at the long dark sweep of his hair tied loosely at the nape, at the mouth you once knew better than your own reflection. There are years inside his face now. You wonder if he sees the same thing in you. 

“Suguru,” you bring up the courage, “why did you stop loving me?”

His face doesn’t change, and somehow that hurts more. His eyes wander, anywhere but you, until they finally settle onto the counter. A long breath leaves him. “...I didn’t.”

You laugh once under your breath, though there is no humour in it. “Suguru. I’m serious. You stopped touching me, you stopped talking to me. Every conversation turned into schedules and grocery lists and whose turn it was to pick up the girls.” Your throat tightens around the words, but you force them out anyway. “You looked at me like I was furniture in the house.”

“I remember,” he whispers. The bathroom suddenly feels too small for all of it. Too narrow to contain the accumulated wreckage of years spent loving each other badly. 

“I remember everything.” And you do. God, you remember everything. The silence of it most of all. It wasn’t ordinary silence either, definitely not the kind of silence you’d want as a wife and mother. It had been something swollen and unnatural, something corpse-like laid between you in bed each night. You remember lying awake beside him listening to the ceiling fan turn in slow, endless circles, whilst the man you had loved since childhood breathed inches away from you like a stranger. You remember braiding Nana’s hair one morning whilst tears slid soundlessly down your face because Suguru had walked past you in the kitchen without kissing you goodbye. Such a little thing; such a devastating thing. 

“We were exhausted,” Suguru says at last, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “All the time. The girls were little and work was—fuck—I don’t even remember half of those years properly. Everything’s a blur. It felt like we woke up one day and everything had already happened to us.”

You stare at him, tears threatening to break past your tear ducts. “Do you know what scared me?” He [asks] suddenly. He looks up then, finally meeting your eyes through the mirror. “It wasn’t the fighting…couples fight. Fine, whatever. But one day I realised I could go an entire week without really seeing you. I’d come home and you’d already be asleep on the sofa with one of the girls curled on your chest. Or you’d be cooking…cleaning.” His eyes lower again. “And I kept thinking, I’ll talk to her properly tomorrow.”

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow. 

Tomorrow.

“But tomorrow kept moving.”

Mimiko bursts into shrill giggles. Nanako yells something incomprehensible immediately afterward. Their voices are bright as the birds in the sky. Suguru hears them too. You see it in his face.

“We said we never wanted them growing up in a house full of resentment,” he says quietly. “Remember?”

You remember sitting across from him at the dining table long after midnight while the girls slept upstairs. The kitchen light had been the only thing on in the whole house. Both of you looked exhausted. Ancient, almost. You had asked him if he was still happy. And he had not answered quickly enough.

“That’s the thing,” you grouse. “I don’t think I ever stopped seeing you. I saw you everywhere. Even when you weren’t looking at me anymore.” The confession slips out ugly and soft. “I kept waiting for you to come back.”

He leans back against the counter at last, folding his arms loosely as though suddenly tired beneath the weight of his own body. “I loved you so much that I stopped knowing what to do with it.”

Your brows knit faintly.

“When things got bad,” he says slowly, “I kept thinking love was supposed to fix it. But it didn’t. We still got tired and we hurt each other.” A bitter smile ghosts across his mouth. “And then I started wondering if maybe love just…wasn’t enough.”

Two people loving each other faithfully while life slowly wore grooves into them deep enough to drown inside. The tragedy of it makes your chest ache. Suguru looks tired. His arms fold loosely across his chest, though there is no defensiveness in the gesture anymore. Only surrender. His mouth has gone soft around the edges. You hate how much you still know that face. You hate how quickly your body remembers him. The bathroom light catches in his eyes, turning the violet there near-black, bruised like stormclouds at dusk. There is a tiny crease between his brows you don’t remember from when you were younger. 

Perhaps it is the memory of France still hanging between you. Maybe it’s the tone of his voice saying I loved you so much I stopped knowing what to do with it. Whatever it is, it breaks you first. You cross the distance. It’s not graceful, but—

One moment you’re standing apart from him, and the next your hand is against the front of his shirt, fingers curling instinctively into the fabric as you rise onto your toes and kiss him. Suguru inhales, and then he kisses you back. Immediately, like a drowning man recognising air. His hands come to your face so fast it almost hurts, large palms cupping your cheeks with frightening tenderness, thumbs pressing beneath your jaw as though he cannot quite believe you are here beneath his hands again. The force of it nudges you backward half a step until your hips knock softly against the counter, bottles rattling faintly beside you. And still he follows. 

After everything, it should be restrained and uncertain and hesitant with all the years between you. Instead it feels famished. His mouth parts against yours with a broken little exhale, warm and desperate and achingly familiar. You taste coffee on him, and it tastes like home. Suguru makes a sound low in his throat at the force of it, something roughened by feeling rather than desire. His fingers spread along your jawline like he’s relearning the shape of you through touch alone. One thumb strokes beneath your eye almost unconsciously, tender as prayer. 

His lips are softer than they look, fuller at the bottom, warm from breath and speech. Suguru has never kissed casually in his life. Even as teenagers, he kissed like he was trying to tell you something sacred. Your fingers tighten helplessly in his shirt. The fabric bunches beneath your knuckles. His hair has come loose slightly at the nape, dark strands brushing your wrist when you lift a trembling hand to him. You thread your fingers into it on instinct, and the moment you do, Suguru shudders.

His forehead bumps yours briefly when the kiss breaks for air, both of you breathing harder now, the space between your mouths scarcely an inch. Where there is grief in his face, there is also love. Fuck there’s still so much love in it your chest nearly caves in. his thumb brushes your cheek once more. 

When he kisses you again, it is gentler. The sort of kiss given by men leaving for war, husbands standing beneath doorways knowing they may never again behold the life waiting inside. Suguru kisses you as though mourning you.

And you let him.

After a while, you pull away first. You remain there, suspended in the midst of it, forehead almost touching his, your fingers still twisted in the front of his shirt. Suguru doesn’t release you. His thumb rests on you, tracing your lips, to your cheek, then back to your lips. You can’t look at him. Your eyes fall to the hollow of his throat. You can feel his rapid heartbeat through your palm where it has drifted against him. You remember sleeping with your ear there once. 

Your stomach twists violently. What have you done? Slowly, you flatten your hand against Suguru’s chest. 

“This cannot happen again.”

Suguru’s brows pull together almost instantly. His hands loosen at your face, though they do not entirely fall away. One remains cupped along your jaw as if by instinct alone. “Why not?” Simply honest in its confusion; the answer should be obvious to both of you and yet somehow is not. 

“Because…we're not married anymore,” Your voice shakes. “Suguru, I’m about to go on a date.”

“So don’t.”

You blink up at him then, startled by the immediacy of it. The answer had come too quickly. You knew he’d been thinking about this already, but you never thought…

“Suguru—”

“I mean it. Fuck the date! Not…like that, but…” There’s colour high along his cheekbones now, faint but visible beneath his warm skin. His hair has loosened further from where your fingers tangled in it moments before, dark strands falling untidily near his face. Your lipstick still stains his mouth in a blurred sheen. He looks less composed than you’ve seen him in two years. “...we can make this work.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“You sound very confident for two people who already failed once.”

His face flinches faintly at the word failed.

You hate yourself for using it.

“We didn’t fail.”

“We divorced.”

“We stopped talking,” he corrects quietly. “That’s different.”

Your throat tightens. Why does he sound so certain now? Where was this certainty two years ago when both of you stood in the ruins of your marriage too exhausted to climb out? “Suguru, we’re exes for a reason.”

You think he might kiss you again, you almost want him to. The desire is written plainly across his face now, not merely physical but emotional in a way somehow more intimate. His body leans toward yours unconsciously, drawn by habit older than reason. 

“You really wanna go on this date?” 

Toji waits somewhere beyond this house. Standing here now, lips still tingling from Suguru’s kiss, all you can think about is France and wedding rings and the sound of him laughing softly against your mouth in another country entirely. 

“I don’t know,” you admit.

Suguru’s expression changes at once—hope again, terrible and bright.

But you shake your head before it can grow.

“No,” you whisper quickly, more to yourself than him. “No, this is exactly what I mean.”

You step around him then.

The movement forces distance back between your bodies, and immediately the room feels colder for it. Suguru turns as you pass. Your hand pauses at the doorknob as you gather whatever remaining thoughts you may have and pushing them out. 

“Mama!” Nanako barrels toward you first at speed, nearly colliding with your legs. Mimiko follows close behind clutching what appears to be several crayons and half a colouring book. “We’re making a cafe! But Mimi keeps eating the food!”

“I’m the customer!” Mimi shouts from the living room.

You blink down at them, startled by the abruptness of ordinary life returning. For a moment your mind still feels trapped in the bathroom behind you, suspended somewhere between memory and longing and the shape of Suguru’s mouth against yours. Then Nanako grabs your hand.

“Mama, come play.”

“Alright,” you murmur.

Behind you, the bathroom remains quiet. 

Nanako immediately shoves a folded piece of paper into your hands the second you sit down beside them on the living room rug. “Here,” she says importantly. “This is the menu, but don’t order too much. Mimi already ate half the place.”

“I’m the customer! Customers can eat!” Mimiko insists again from across the coffee table, clutching several broken crayons in both fists. “Customers can eattttt!”

Nana groans with all the exhaustion of a woman three times her age. She flops dramatically against your shoulder before pointing at the menu. “Read it.”

The paper is crumbled and written in thick pink marker, letters sprawling unevenly across the page. 

PANCAKES - $120.00 RAMEN - $450 CHOLATE CAKE - $3,000 BOILED EGGS - $2 DUBAI CHOCLATE - $4000000000 SPICY CANDY - $FREE RAMEN  BY MIMIKO - $270.999

You stare at it for a moment before a laugh slips out of you, soft and startled from disuse. “Inflation is wild, huh?”

“What’s inflation?” Nanako replies.

You click your tongue, forgetting she’s only a child. “Inflation is…the general continuous rise in prices. So, you know how you love love candy? Let’s say your favourite candy is two dollars. Well, five years later, your candy might be five dollars. Yes?”

“Okay!” Nana nods, though you can tell she has very little understanding. And you know she doesn’t care, she’s still going to charge you.

“And dubai chocolate is expensive because, because only rich people can buy it,” Mimi says.

“You are rich people, mommy.”

“Oh yea.”

Behind you, the bathroom door finally opens. Your shoulders tense instinctively before you can stop them. Suguru steps into the hallway quietly, he doesn’t look at you immediately. One hand rubs over the back of his neck before he walks past the living room toward the kitchen. You hear the cupboard open, then the clink of glass, running water follows a second later. His broad frame faces away from you entirely now, black shirt stretched across his shoulders. Like this, with his back turned, he almost resembles the man from the final years of your marriage. 

Mimi crawls intoy your lap, bringing her crayon ‘coffee’ with her. “Mama,” she says suddenly, tilting her head back up to stare at you. “You’re soooo pretty.”

You blink down at her. “Thank you, baby.” 

“Like really pretty!” Her tiny hands pat your cheeks clumsily. “Like you’re pretty like a movie bird.”

Nana snorts loudly. “That’s not a thing!”

“It is too!”

“It is too, not!”

“It IS!”

You smile despite yourself, smoothing Mimiko’s messy hair back from her forehead. Across the room, Suguru lowers his glass slowly. Then Mimiko twists in your lap to look toward the kitchen. “Daddy,” she calls. “Isn’t Mommy really pretty?”

For one terrible second, everything stills. Suguru glances over his shoulder. His eyes land on you instantly.

Not your dress. Not your makeup. You.

Nana is too busy drawing more menu items to notice the sudden thickness in the air, but Mimi beams triumphantly like she’s won something important. Behind your ribs, your heartbeat feels uneven again. 

“Your mommy is very pretty.”

Suguru sets the empty glass down in the sink. The sound is small. Ceramic against metal, then he walks back toward the living room. He lowers himself onto the carpet beside Nanako with a faint grunt, long legs folding awkwardly beneath him. Nanako immediately shoves several paper “bills” into his chest.

“You have to pay first,” she informs him.

“What kind of corrupt establishment is this?” Suguru mutters. He huffs softly through his nose, taking the fake money anyway. For a moment, he glances at you again whilst the girls argue over whether crayons count as beverages.

And the worst part is this: sitting here together on the floor whilst your daughters babble between you feels so painfully natural that your body almost forgets you are divorced at all.

Nana suddenly narrows her eyes at Mimi like she has just remembered something grievously important. “Wait. Mimiko.”

Mimi blinks. “What?’

“Come here.” Nanako grabs her sister by the sleeve immediately. “No, over there.”

“Why?”

“Because!”

The two of them scramble off toward the far corner of the living room with all the subtlety of burglars breaking into a bank. Mimiko keeps looking back suspiciously whilst Nanako drags her beside the armchair near the window. They crouch there together, whispering far louder than either of them seem to realise.

You watch them over the rim of your paper menu.

Suguru does too.

Nanako cups her hands around Mimiko’s ear dramatically. “Uncle Toru said you had to make Mommy and Daddy kiss, not ask if she’s pretty!”

Mimiko gasps in immediate offense. “I forgot!”

taglist: @mikuche1409 @spearofheaven @yunamoona @inthedarkshadows000 @chocolatebearstrawberry @reree22222 @junkuna @ihateexistence @jell0there @lazcylies @salmonroebonitoflakes @irwinchester @thegirlwholikeseverything1 @alebrasil0101 @lilikakashi @mizgrima @sillygirl5678 @junuru @weeping-statue @karakento @xoxod3l @imsophuckindone @st4r-b3rries @kwinceee @sherrieblossoms @vused @senaqsstuff @ricktastix @fairyof553 @popatitt @my-melo-gf @camelliablossomss @casssiesthings @neithriddle @lets-pringless @teenagenerdrascalsports-blog @mochii-13 @bunbbunn @imsophuckindone @svndaymourning

[ginsvault]

𝐀 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬...⋆.˚♡

summary: after returning home from a mission, Leon seems a little different When you find out Ada was involved, old insecurities start creeping back in, and you try to become the perfect wife before he can realize you were never enough... but Leon notices everything.

warnings: re9!Leon x reader, no use of y/n, age gap relationship, younger wife!reader, mentions of Ada Wong, insecurity, jealousy, emotional hurt/comfort, reader comparing herself to Ada, fear of abandonment, Leon being emotionally constipated but deeply in love, marriage, established relationship, no Ada hate, soft angst, comfort, fluff, kissing, implied intimacy but no explicit smut, english is not the writers first language.

wc: 6.1k.

author’s note: this is kind of the reversed version of “Hold me where it hurts”, requested by my dear anon 🤎, where instead of Leon being the one who breaks down, reader is the one quietly falling apart and trying to prove she’s enough for him. I loved the idea of exploring Ada without turning it into hate. I wanted to try to also write more about the background reader and Leon have.

The first time Leon saw you, you were behind the counter of a small restaurant you worked at back then, moving between tables with that effortless kind of grace you had. It wasn’t a particularly fancy place, nor one of those spots where people dressed up as if they had something to prove, but it had warm lighting at night, low music, dark wooden tables, and a quiet atmosphere.

Leon had gone there because Sherry had recommended it.

Truthfully, she had been insisting for weeks that he needed to get out of the house, even if it was just to have a decent dinner and pretend, for an hour, that he was a normal person. He had told her he didn’t have time, that he was tired, that anything would do as long as he could eat in silence and leave without having to talk much to anyone. Sherry, as always, ignored half of his excuses and sent him the address anyway.

“Just go,” she had told him over the phone. “Don’t act like you’re about to get married. You just have to eat dinner.”

Leon had no idea then how ironic that would end up sounding.

He arrived late, wearing a dark jacket and the kind of exhaustion on his face that already seemed to be part of him. He sat at a table near the wall, not too far from the entrance, and glanced around out of pure instinct.

And then you appeared.

You didn’t do anything special. There was no movie-like moment, no sudden silence, none of that. You simply walked over with a small notepad in your hand and a kind smile. Something strange happened in Leon’s chest, something so quiet he could almost pretend it had been nothing.

You were young, much younger than him, and maybe that was why, at first, he tried to look away too quickly. Not because he saw you as a girl, not at all. You were a grown woman, sure in the way you moved, with the kind of beauty that needed no explanation. You had that sort of attractiveness that didn’t depend only on your body or your face, even though both would have been more than enough to make anyone turn their head. It was also the way you carried yourself. The soft fall of your hair, the way your uniform suited you far better than it was probably meant to, the pretty glow the lamps gave your skin, the sweet curve of your mouth when you smiled without forcing it.

There were beautiful women everywhere. Leon knew that. He had spent half his life walking in and out of cities, airports, government offices, hotels, missions where beauty was sometimes a mask and other times a threat. But there was something different about you. You were one of those people who seemed to fill the space around them without trying. Soft, feminine, warm, a clean kind of presence.

“Good evening,” you said, with a voice that stayed tucked somewhere in his memory before he even knew your name. “Do you know what you’d like to drink?”

Leon took a second to answer.

“Water is fine,” he replied, lowering his gaze to the menu as if there was anything on it more interesting than you. “Thank you.”

You smiled a little, as if his seriousness amused you, and walked back toward the counter without giving it much importance. But Leon did. He stayed there, staring at the menu without reading it, listening to your voice in the background as you spoke to other customers, the soft little laugh that slipped out when you were talking with your coworkers, the patience in the way you repeated things to people who weren’t listening properly. You weren’t only kind because it was your job. There was a real sweetness in you, a lovely sort of politeness, a way of treating people that didn’t seem rehearsed.

When he left the restaurant that night, he left a tip far too generous and told himself he wouldn’t come back.

He came back three days later.

Then again the following week.

And then on a Friday, when he wasn’t even hungry.

At first, you thought of him as just another customer. An attractive man, yes, the kind you remembered even after serving thirty people in one night, but also too reserved for you to think there could be anything behind it. Leon didn’t speak much, almost always ordered the same thing, and never made uncomfortable comments. He never looked at you in that dirty way some men did, confusing being served with being entitled to something more.

As the weeks passed, you started recognizing him before he had fully stepped inside. The dark jacket, the slightly messy blond hair, the tired eyes… You smiled at him with a little more confidence each time, and Leon, who had survived things others couldn’t even imagine, started feeling ridiculously weak at something as simple as seeing you brighten a little when you saw him.

“The usual?” you asked him one night, resting a hand on the back of the chair across from him.

Leon looked up.

“Am I already that predictable?”

“A little,” you admitted, and your smile widened just enough to make his heart stumble. “But I don’t mean it as a bad thing.”

He let out a low laugh, brief and almost rusty, as if he didn’t use it much.

“Then yes. The usual.”

From there, everything began moving forward with a beautiful kind of slowness. Leon wasn’t an impulsive man when it came to good things. With you, he was clumsy in a quiet way, careful to the point of seeming distant, as if every step toward you had to be measured twice so he wouldn’t scare you, hurt you, or drag you into a life he didn’t always know how to endure himself.

You, on the other hand, had a different kind of courage. You weren’t naive. Leon understood that quickly. You were sweet, yes, and there was a tenderness in you that felt almost unfamiliar to him, but you weren’t fragile in the way people often imagined beautiful women to be. You had character. You knew how to keep smiling in the middle of an awful shift, how to answer politely when someone tried to be too clever, how to get home late and wake up early the next day without turning it into a tragedy. There was a maturity in you that had nothing to do with age, and maybe that was what finally brought him down.

One night, when you were closing up and the restaurant had emptied out, Leon offered to walk you to your car.

He didn’t say it in a strange way. He was just standing there by the door, hands in the pockets of his jacket, wearing that calm expression that always seemed to be hiding too many things.

“It’s late,” he said, blushing a little. “I can wait until you’re out.”

You looked at him with a mix of amusement and curiosity.

“Is that something you do with all waitresses or just with me?”

Leon lowered his eyes for a second, and it was the first time you saw him truly uncomfortable.

“J-just with you.”

“Then you can wait,” you murmured. “But don’t make that serious face. You look like you’re here to arrest me.”

He laughed again, and that time it lasted a little longer.

That was how it all began. With small conversations by the restaurant door, walks to your car, Leon asking whether you had gotten home safely and you replying with a ridiculous photo of your bedroom ceiling just to make him smile, with the first time you saw him outside that place and realized he was even more handsome when he wasn’t trying to hide behind a table and a glass of water.

Leon took his time before kissing you, much longer than you expected.

Not because he didn’t want to. You could tell by the way he looked at you when he thought you were distracted, by the care with which he opened the car door for you, by the way he stayed close without touching you too much, as if he was always about to break some rule he had made for himself. But Leon was like that. There was something in him that held back even when he wanted you. A part of him that seemed to repeat that you were too young, too beautiful, too clean for him, that he had no right to step into your life just because, for the first time in years, he had found someone who made him want to stay.

You were the one who finally broke that distance.

It had been a cold night, one of those nights where you had left the restaurant with flushed cheeks and your coat half-buttoned. Leon had walked you to your car like he had so many times before, and you had stayed there, standing in front of him, pretending to look for your keys in your bag even though you had them in your hand.

“Leon,” you said at last, lifting your eyes to his, “are you ever going to kiss me, or do I need to make an appointment?”

The expression on his face would have been funny if it hadn’t made your heart ache so much.

For a second, he seemed not to know what to do with his hands, with his mouth, with that whole body so used to reacting to danger but not to a woman looking at him like she wanted him. Then he let out a slow breath, took a step toward you, and touched your face with a gentleness that almost undid you before the kiss.

“I’ve been trying not to,” he confessed, smiling faintly.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t a perfect movie kiss. It was better. Slow, restrained at first, as if he was still giving himself one last chance to stop. But when your fingers closed around the front of his jacket and you leaned a little closer, something in him gave way. He kissed you deeper, with a quiet need he had been keeping under his skin for weeks, and you felt the whole world shrink around the two of you: the cold, the car, the empty street, everything disappearing under the warm weight of his mouth against yours.

After that, Leon tried to take things slowly, but it didn’t always work. Because Leon, no matter how much he insisted you should take your time, had started looking at you as if he had found a home in a person, and you, who at first had kept telling yourself that this man was too old, too serious, too complicated, began to love every part of him. The beautiful ones and the difficult ones.

With time, he told you more, though not all at once. First, he talked about his job in a vague way, with measured explanations and silences in between. Then came names, missions, losses. Raccoon City appeared in his mouth one night like an old wound that had never fully closed. You didn’t say anything at first. You only took his hand under the table and let him speak as far as he could.

He expected fear, maybe judgment, or that uncomfortable look people wore when they didn’t know what to do with someone else’s pain. But you looked at him with bright eyes and a strange calm.

“I’m so sorry you had to live through that,” you whispered.

Leon swallowed. He squeezed your hand carefully.

Because no one stayed with Leon easily. People came in and out of his life, pushed by orders, missions, accidents, tragedies. Some stayed in his memory, others in his guilt, but you stayed in a different way. You stayed by making him dinner when he came home exhausted, by learning not to touch him suddenly when he was too deeply asleep, by making him laugh on days when he thought nothing could make him feel better.

And Leon fell in love with you with an intensity that scared him.

He told you for the first time in his apartment, on an ordinary night, while the two of you were in the kitchen. You were wearing one of his shirts, your hair down, your bare feet against the cold floor. You were tasting a sauce with a spoon and turned around to ask him whether it needed salt, completely unaware of the way he had been staring at you.

“What?” you asked, smiling. “Is it bad?”

Leon slowly shook his head.

“I love you,” he murmured, looking you in the eyes.

The spoon stayed suspended in your hand.

“You’re telling me this now? While I’m making a horrible sauce?” you said, offended by the fact that he had chosen to confess while you were in a very unflattering outfit.

“It’s not horrible,” he said, laughing at the weight you had lifted from his shoulders, though his eyes were still serious. “I love you,” he repeated.

And that time, you crossed the kitchen to kiss him with sauce on your hands and your heart beating so hard that he had to hold you against his chest to calm you down.

The age difference had always been there, though Leon never used it to make you feel small. In fact, it was almost the opposite. Sometimes it worried him too much. There were moments when you noticed him watching you with that shadow in his eyes, especially when you went out with people your age or when someone made a clumsy comment about how young you were compared to him. You usually brushed it off, telling him you weren’t a child, that you knew exactly who you were with, that you didn’t need anyone deciding what kind of life you were allowed to choose.

But there was a part of you that felt that difference too.

Leon cared for you with a quiet devotion: he listened to you, respected you, wanted you in a way that made you feel beautiful without ever turning you into an object. But sometimes, in the middle of a dinner with his acquaintances or when you heard names that belonged to his past, you realized there were entire years of Leon’s life you had never known, people who had marked him long before you walked into that restaurant with a smile.

And among all those names, Ada Wong had always held a strange place.

Leon never hid her from you. The first time he mentioned her, you still didn’t know what to do with that name. Sherry was at your house that afternoon, sitting cross-legged on the couch while you served her coffee. By then, Sherry and you had already become friends in a natural way, as if you had known each other your whole lives. She loved you because you were good for Leon, because you made him more human, more present, less closed off inside himself. You loved her because there was a strong kind of sweetness in her, a way of understanding him without judging him that made you feel less alone when he left on missions and the house became too big.

It was Sherry who let the name slip almost without meaning to.

She didn’t say anything bad, only a reference to the past, to a situation you didn’t fully understand and that Leon cut short with a quick look. Not angry, but uncomfortable.

And you noticed.

That night, after Sherry left and the house went quiet, you asked him who she was. Leon stayed still for a moment, as if deciding how much he could say without hurting you.

“Someone from my past,” he answered, dry and clipped.

“That could mean a lot of things,” you said, a knot growing in your stomach.

He sighed, resting his elbows on his knees. He told you enough for you to understand that Ada wasn’t an ex in the normal sense of the word, nor just a simple partner, nor a clean enemy. It was something much more complicated: a dangerous woman, impossible to read completely. Someone who had appeared and disappeared from his life at moments when everything else was falling apart too. Someone he had shared things with that couldn’t be reduced to an easy label.

“Did you love her?” you asked, your voice lower than you meant it to be, the words leaving your throat as if they were made of needles.

Leon took a while to answer.

“I thought I did,” he said at last. “Or maybe I wanted to believe I did. For a long time, Ada was… complicated.”

You nodded, looking down at your hands. Leon turned toward you as soon as he saw your face change.

“Hey. Look at me.”

You did, though it was hard.

“That was before you.”

It was a simple sentence, but it didn’t fully calm you. Because “before you” didn’t always mean “less important than you.” Sometimes the past had deeper roots precisely because it had survived time, distance, and wounds. And you, with all your youth, your pretty skin, your desired body, and your ability to make Leon smile in the kitchen, suddenly felt small beside a woman who seemed to belong to some legendary part of his life.

Ada Wong wasn’t a waitress he had met by chance.

Ada had been there in the middle of horror, danger, and impossible decisions. She knew the Leon who held guns, the Leon who bled. You, however, knew the Leon who left his keys in the same bowl when he came home, the one who fell asleep on the couch with the TV still on, the one who kissed your forehead in the morning before leaving. And even though that intimacy was beautiful, your cruel mind sometimes tried to convince you it was less exciting.

Leon, of course, tried to reassure you.

“I’m not with her,” he said. “I’m with you.”

“I know,” you replied, your tone bitter.

“No, you don’t,” he murmured, moving closer. “If you did, you wouldn’t be looking at me like that.”

You tried to smile.

You didn’t think about it every day. You didn’t go through life distrusting him or imagining betrayals where there were none. Leon made you feel loved in a real, steady, mature way. But Ada was an elegant shadow in the corner of your mind, a doubt that appeared at the worst moments. When Leon received a call and grew serious, or when Sherry mentioned something from the past and you smiled as if you didn’t care, even though inside you were trying to fit pieces together from a story you hadn’t been part of.

Still, the relationship kept growing.

Leon proposed almost two years after that first kiss by your car. It wasn’t a dramatic proposal. He did it at home, on a rainy morning, while you were sitting in bed with a mug between your hands and your hair messy over your shoulders. You had been talking about the future for days.

He appeared in the bedroom doorway with an expression far too serious.

“What did you do?” you asked, because Leon, with that face, always looked like he was about to confess he had broken something or had to leave the country.

“Nothing bad.”

“That’s exactly what someone who did something bad would say,” you said, raising one eyebrow.

Leon slowly walked over and sat beside you. For a moment, he said nothing. He only looked at you in that way you already knew, as if he was still surprised to find you there, in his bed, in his life, in a place where no one was forcing you to stay.

Then he took a small box out of his pocket.

“You don’t have to answer now,” he said quickly, and the nervous rush in his voice broke your heart a little. “I don’t want you to feel pressured. I know this is a lot. I know my life isn’t simple, and neither am I. There are things I can’t promise you, and I hate that. I hate that I can’t give you a normal life every day. But I love you. I love you in a way I didn’t know I could still love someone. And if one day you decide you want to build a life with me, really, with everything that means, I want you to know I already want that life with you.”

You brought a hand to your mouth.

Leon opened the box. The ring was beautiful, delicate, clearly chosen with care. It wasn’t showy, but it was special.

And you cried, nodding while wiping away your tears. Leon let out a choked laugh when he saw you nod before you could even speak, and when you finally said yes, he kissed you as if something he had believed lost for years had been handed back to him.

The wedding was small.

Sherry cried more than she wanted to admit, and some of Leon’s friends attended with an almost solemn kind of discretion, aware that for him, this was much more than getting married. It was allowing himself to have something good without constantly preparing to lose it.

You looked beautiful.

Leon knew it before he even saw you walking toward him. He knew it from the way everyone turned, from the soft silence that fell over the room, from the expression on Sherry’s face as she brought a hand to her chest. But when he saw you, really saw you, he went still.

You wore a simple dress that was perfect for you, one that shaped your figure with a delicacy that didn’t need to exaggerate anything. Your hair fell the way you liked it, your skin was glowing, your eyes bright with nerves and emotion. You smelled like that perfume of yours Leon would recognize anywhere, soft and feminine, the same one that sometimes lingered on the pillow when you got up before him. You looked young, yes, younger than him, and maybe anyone could have thought about the difference between you when seeing you together. But Leon only thought you were the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

When you reached his side, you saw him swallow.

“You’re shaking,” you whispered, barely moving your lips.

“I’m not shaking.”

He lowered his gaze to your hands for a second.

“Well, a little.”

That made you smile, and that smile was nearly enough to undo him.

During the vows, Leon didn’t promise impossible things. He promised to come back whenever he could, to choose you even on difficult days, to not make you feel alone on purpose. He promised to love you with everything he had, even if sometimes he didn’t know how to do it perfectly.

When you kissed him at the end of the ceremony, with applause in the background and his hands holding your waist as if he still couldn’t believe he had the right to touch you like that in front of everyone, you thought that maybe this was happiness.

The first months of marriage were peaceful in a way Leon wasn’t used to.

He liked coming home and finding you there, seeing your things mixed with his, your creams in the bathroom, your books on the nightstand, your shoes by the entrance, your clothes folded with a care he had never had for his own. He liked hearing you move around the house, singing softly when you thought he couldn’t hear you, complaining about the cold while stealing one of his sweatshirts, falling asleep on his chest with the absolute trust of someone who knew they were safe.

And you were happy too.

But the insecurity didn’t disappear just because Leon had put a ring on your finger.

Sometimes it became even quieter, harder to admit, because how were you supposed to say you felt threatened by a woman from the past when you were his wife? How were you supposed to confess that there were days when you looked at yourself in the mirror, young, pretty, desired, and still felt like it wasn’t enough? How could you explain that it wasn’t a lack of trust in him, but fear that some part of his soul might still be looking toward a story you could never compete with?

Leon didn’t know everything that went through your head. He suspected things, of course. He was too good at reading small changes. He noticed when you went quiet after hearing certain names, when you suddenly became too affectionate, when you tried to make up for a sadness you hadn’t explained. But you always managed to steer the topic away with a kiss, a joke, a caress at the back of his neck.

Until Leon came back from one of his missions with a different attitude than usual.

It wasn’t exactly sadness. Not guilt either. It was a kind of intermittent distance, as if at times Leon slipped back to some point in the mission without meaning to. You tried not to overthink it. He had come back from a mission; of course he would be strange. Leon wasn’t a machine who could walk through the door and leave everything else outside.

But the next day, Sherry came over.

She hugged Leon tightly, called him an idiot for scaring her again, and then sat with you in the kitchen while he took a call in another room.

At first, you talked about normal things. How little he had slept, how unbearable it was to wait for news, how Leon pretended to be fine even when he had the face of someone who needed twelve hours of sleep and three years of therapy. You laughed with her, tired but happy.

Until Sherry mentioned Ada.

She didn’t do it with bad intentions. She never would have. In fact, it slipped out almost like a worried observation, spoken too quickly, trusting the friendship you already had.

“I guess seeing her again must’ve stirred something up too,” she said, stirring her coffee. “No wonder he’s been weird.”

Your hand froze over your mug.

“Seeing who?”

Sherry looked up, and the moment she saw your face, she knew Leon hadn’t told you.

“Oh.”

That “oh” was enough to make your chest go cold.

You didn’t need her to add anything else to understand. But she did, carefully, trying not to cause more damage than she already had. She explained that Ada had appeared during the mission, that there had been an encounter, and that Leon probably hadn’t hidden it from you out of malice, but because sometimes he was an emotional idiot who preferred swallowing things down rather than worrying the people he loved.

You nodded several times.

“Of course,” you said. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

Sherry looked at you with pity.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” she said, stroking your knee with regret. “Really. Leon loves you.”

You knew Leon loved you.

But knowing something didn’t always stop you from feeling the opposite.

The image formed in your head on its own: Ada appearing in front of him, beautiful, calm, wrapped in that mystery you would never have, and Leon seeing her, returning to a past where you didn’t exist.

Suddenly, everything fell into place in the worst possible way.

He wasn’t distant because of the mission.

He was distant because of her.

When Leon came back into the kitchen, he noticed something was wrong.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” you answered quickly. “Of course.”

Sherry looked at you with concern, but said nothing.

From that day on, you started acting differently.

It wasn’t dramatic at first. You didn’t grow cold or start a fight. Quite the opposite. You became more attentive.

You made his favorite meals even when you were tired. You laid out his clothes, insisted that he rest, that he shouldn’t worry about anything, that you could handle everything. You started getting ready more at home, not in an obvious way, but with that quiet care of someone trying to always look desirable without admitting she was afraid she wasn’t enough. You wore the perfume you knew he liked, put on a little makeup even when you weren’t going anywhere, wore prettier nightgowns, softer clothes, things you used to save for special occasions.

At first, Leon thought you were simply happy to have him home.

But you were terrified the charm would break. Terrified that he had come back and, seeing you in your kitchen, in your house, with your simple life and domestic gestures, would realize you couldn’t compete with the kind of woman who appeared in the middle of danger and disappeared before anyone could reach her.

So you tried to be perfect.

If Leon went quiet, you didn’t ask. You stroked his hair and told him to rest. If you saw him looking at his phone, you swallowed the question and offered him coffee. If at night you felt him distant, you moved closer with soft kisses and careful hands, trying to remind him with your body and your tenderness that you were there, that you were his wife, that you could give him peace, love, desire, anything he needed.

It took Leon a few days to truly worry.

Not because he wasn’t observant, but because a selfish, tired part of him wanted to accept your care without analyzing it. But Leon knew the difference between being loved and being appeased out of anxiety.

He saw it one night in particular.

You had made dinner, cleaned the kitchen before he could get up, insisted that he sit down, that he do nothing, that you could handle it all. You were wearing a comfortable but pretty dress, your hair done, your lips touched with a soft gloss. You looked beautiful, in a way Leon couldn’t fully enjoy because there was something tense underneath it.

When he came up behind you to help with the dishes, you turned around immediately.

“No, leave it. I’ll do it.”

“Baby, I can wash a plate,” he replied.

Leon rested a hand on the counter, gently blocking your way without trapping you.

“Look at me.”

You went still.

Leon watched you in silence. You looked away toward the sink, toward your wet hands, toward anything that wasn’t his eyes.

“I’m fine.”

“No.”

He didn’t say it angrily. That was worse. He said it with a soft, tired certainty, as if it hurt him to point out something you were trying so desperately to hide.

“Leon, really, I don’t want to talk about anything weird. You just got back. I just want to take care of you.”

“You already do,” he answered, sighing. “You’ve been acting for days like you have to earn your place in this house.”

The sentence hit you so hard you could barely breathe, and Leon saw the way your jaw tightened and your eyes filled before you could stop it.

“I’m not doing that,” you whispered.

“Yes, sweetheart. You are.”

The pet name, said with so much tenderness, finally broke you.

You tried to turn back toward the sink, but Leon carefully took your wrist.

“Talk to me,” he asked.

You shook your head.

“It’s stupid.”

“If it’s hurting you, then it isn’t stupid,” he said, searching your face for answers.

“You saw her,” you blurted out. “Ada.”

Leon went still.

“Sherry told me by accident,” you added quickly, as if you needed to defend her. “It wasn’t her fault. She didn’t mean to hurt me. She just… mentioned it. And I didn’t know.”

Leon let go of your wrist very slowly.

“I was going to tell you.”

“No, Leon, you don’t have to. It’s your life and your past. I don’t want to be that person who demands explanations for everything. I don’t want to seem insecure or ridiculous or—”

“Stop.”

His voice was low but firm.

Leon took a step closer. His face was serious.

“You’re not ridiculous. You’ve been trying to be perfect for me for days, and every time you do something for me, it looks like you’re waiting for me to decide if it was enough.”

The first tear fell before you could turn away. Leon wiped it with his thumb.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” you murmured. “I know I shouldn’t feel like this. Ada isn’t to blame for anything, and I don’t hate her. I don’t even really know her. It’s just… it’s just that she belongs to a part of you I’ll never understand,” you confessed. “And every time her name comes up, I feel like there’s something between you two that can’t be touched. And I know I’m your wife, but sometimes that doesn’t make me feel safer. Sometimes it makes me feel like I have more to lose.”

Leon swallowed, guilt crossing his face immediately.

“Baby…”

“And I know I’m younger,” you continued, unable to stop now. “I know people sometimes look at it strangely, that even you have been scared of that. And I try not to think about it, but then someone like her appears, someone who was with you when I didn’t even know who you were, someone who understands that life, and I feel stupid. I feel like I’m just the pretty girl waiting for you at home.”

Leon looked at you as if that sentence had physically hurt him.

“You’re not ‘the pretty girl waiting for me at home.’ God, look at me.”

He held your face between his hands, gently forcing you to lift your gaze.

“You’re my wife. The person I want to come back to when everything else goes to hell. You’re the one who knows me when I’m not bleeding, when I’m not armed, when I’m not trying to survive. Do you have any idea how important that is to me?”

You breathed shakily.

“But with her—”

“With her, there were many things that were never simple,” he interrupted. “There were lies. There were moments when I wanted to believe I could understand her, and others when I knew I shouldn’t even try. Ada is part of my past. I’m not going to disrespect you by lying about that.”

It hurt, but you nodded.

Leon brought his forehead a little closer to yours.

“But you’re not a second choice.”

The sentence broke you.

“You never have been,” he continued. “I didn’t choose you because I couldn’t have something else. I didn’t marry you because I needed a quiet life to cover up what came before. I chose you because I love you. Because you walked into my life and, for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like I had to be ready to lose everything. And when I’m away, all I want is to come back to the smell of your perfume in our room and hear you complain that I left my boots where I shouldn’t.”

A tearful laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. Leon smiled faintly too, though his eyes were bright. You covered your face for a second, embarrassed and overwhelmed, and Leon hugged you.

“I should’ve told you sooner,” he murmured against your hair. “Not because anything happened that threatened this, but because I knew it could hurt you to hear it from someone else. I’m sorry.”

He touched your ring with his thumb, slowly.

“I have something real now, and I wouldn’t trade you for anything in the world. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Your eyes filled with tears again.

“I was scared seeing her would make you realize you still loved her.”

Leon shook his head.

“Seeing her made me realize I’m not the man who gets stuck in that anymore.”

He hugged you again, tighter this time, one hand on the back of your neck and the other on your waist.

“I don’t need to be convinced to love you,” he said against your ear. “You don’t have to earn a place that’s already yours.”

That was when you truly broke down, your face against his chest, your hands clutching at him as if all the fear you had been carrying for days had finally come loose. Leon held you without moving, taking in every tremble.

When you finally lifted your head, your eyes were swollen.

Leon turned off the water in the sink, took a towel, dried your hands as if it were the most important thing in the world, and then guided you to the living room. He didn’t let you keep cleaning. He sat down with you on the couch, settled you sideways on his lap, and wrapped a blanket around you even though it wasn’t that cold. Leon stroked your arm under the blanket.

“Tomorrow, I’m ordering food. You’re choosing a terrible movie, and I’ll complain for the first ten minutes and then watch the whole thing with you.”

A small smile appeared on your lips.

“You always do that.”

“Because your movies are bad,” he replied.

You lifted your head to look at him, pretending to be offended.

“Excuse me?”

Leon smiled in that soft way he only gave you. You tried to keep a straight face, but you couldn’t. You laughed quietly, and Leon took the chance to kiss you. It was a slow kiss, unhurried, without the sad desperation with which you had been seeking him out these past few days.

When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours.

“Don’t try to compete with a ghost again,” he whispered.

You stayed there for a moment, breathing with him, feeling the warmth of his body, the weight of his hands, the quiet safety of the house around you. For the first time since Sherry had said that name in the kitchen, Ada stopped feeling like an enormous, unbeatable threat. She was still part of his story. That wasn’t going to change. But maybe you didn’t need to erase that part to be important.

“Leon,” you murmured. “Do you really not regret it?”

He pulled back just enough to look at you properly.

“You? Never.”

Then he kissed you again, softer this time.

“When I came back from the mission and saw you running toward me,” he said quietly, “I thought there was nothing in this world I wanted more than that.”

So you only turned in his arms, hid your face in his neck, and held him with all your strength. Leon closed his eyes at the feeling of you, feeling the love of his life finally resting beside him after so many difficult days.

hope you enjoyed it! i'm open to any requests! follow me on ao3 too here

── ginevra ❤︎

[shikiyomizu]

workplace romance ─────── (re9) l. kennedy

summary . . . chief leon kennedy has a crush on the temporary receptionist of rpd. the receptionist in question is his wife, and he has made it everyone’s problem.

notes. 🎤 this just in… shikiyomizu writes another fic where leon kennedy is obsessed with his wife !! got this idea while i was driving to work today, also :( thank you guys we hit 400 followers the other day 🫶 y’all are the best

tags ──────── fluff, re9 leon kennedy x wife!reader. au, no zombie break out. takes place in raccoon city. leon’s doing everything but working. word count: 1.2k words

The receptionist of RPD was six months pregnant with her first child. Getting closer to her due date, she put in her time off. Once she got to eight months, she would be gone to prepare herself and stay out on maternity leave. That gave the station at most a month to find a temporary receptionist.

Chief Kennedy quickly found a solution. After you heard he told you about their receptionist during dinner, you offered to fill in the position while she was away. You didn’t work, the officers knew you since you’d come and visit Leon at the station on occasions.

The more experienced officers were more familiar with you and still remembered the day you both met.

Leon was late on his first day of work. Not a good look for an optimistic rookie. Then, he got thrown into traffic duty with Lieutenant Marvin Branagh, and had to write up a ticket to a girl they pulled over who was his type. He swore that someone didn’t want him to succeed as a police officer.

That’s right, you were the first person Leon ever gave a ticket to. But it made for a cute story, and the outcome was a marriage of 24 years.

When he proposed the idea, everyone quickly agreed. No officer would have to fill the position, they wouldn’t have to wait for an applicant, and they could trust you would get the job done correctly. Now what they didn’t imagine happening is the Chief of police suddenly not knowing how to behave.

The first few weeks, Leon checked up on you to make sure everything was going smoothly while you were being trained. You adjusted rather quickly. He’d stay by the desk, flirt with you for a couple minutes, and return to his office.

Then the following months, the visits became more frequent. He’d start dropping by multiple times throughout the day, and stayed longer than he was supposed to. He loved having you working at the station. He could see you and talk to you any time he wanted.

And although it was sweet, it threw off the function of the second floor where the officers really needed him to be. They took matters into their own hands and limited him to one daily visit.

That ended up backfiring as soon as the rule was implemented. They saw him heading downstairs, and made a note he was taking his daily visit. So, they minded their business and went back to working.

Hours passed, someone was on the phone to speak with him. The officer tried to ring him, but he wasn’t picking up. Unusual for him. She stood up from her desk and quickly rushed to his office, just to not see Leon there at all.

The man had the entire floor looking for him because the call was important. The bathroom, the library, the archive room, the weapons room. They were practically seething when they found him sitting behind the receptionist desk with you.

All he said was, “You said one visit, not that I had to come back.”

They didn’t blame you since you were actually getting your work done.

They were honestly debating whether or not they should enforce the whole no dating in the workplace rule again. But it didn’t make sense considering you two were married and so were Captains Chris and Jill Redfield of S.T.A.R.S.

So they found the only other solution.

The following work week, Leon got banned from the first floor.

He took it to the heart. He watched you from the second floor like some Victorian yearner until he got sent back to his office by one of his lieutenants.

He tried to sneak past them on several occasions. Sometimes it worked. Other times?

“Chief! Don’t you go down those stairs!”

Leon huffed. He was so close this time. He’d made it halfway down. He glared at the officer standing at the top of stairs. You were at the reception desk, going through mail the station received. He wanted to use the excuse that he was going to pick something up, but they’d just say they would bring it to him. He reluctantly turned around and went right back up.

He passed the sign holder by the stairs made for him that said, “Lunch is at 1PM. Shift ends at 6PM.”

It got bad enough that they assigned someone to keep an eye on him.

The new rookie that joined was so confused why they told him not to allow Chief Kennedy on the first floor under any circumstances besides lunchtime and when it was time to go. Plus, they didn’t even go into detail as to why the Chief was banned from the first floor. They said it so ominously, as if the world would end if he made it down there.

Technically, it was an easy task. His office door was always shut, no matter what. If it ever opened, the loud creaking would alert the rookie and he’d tell his superior the first floor was off limits.

Today, Leon opened his office door cautiously. His officers were overwhelmed at their desks, especially the rookie who was stuck babysitting him. Paperwork was due at the end of the week. Everyone was trying to get it done so they wouldn’t have to stay late on a Friday night.

Perfect. He slipped out unnoticed. He left the door at a crack. If he closed it now, it might catch their attention and he refused to lose this golden opportunity. He kept his body against the wall, heading in the direction of the stairs.

You were making copies of forms. While the printer did the task for you, you swiveled your chair to the computer again to check on an email. Just as you were doing that, there came your husband rushing down the stairs. Leon made it to the bottom step and walked across the lobby towards the reception desk.

Oh great. What was he planning now? Your hand hovered over the phone, ready to call one of the lieutenants. But you didn’t since your husband wasn’t staring directly at you, rather the staircase on your right. He dug his hand in the pocket of his pants and pulled out a slip of paper.

Leon carefully slid it across the counter, and continued walking without looking at you.

The paper was folded in half. You raised a brow. He was probably asking you to meet him in the filing room again. You grabbed the paper and opened it.

“What the…” You muttered.

Do you like me?

Two options. One box said yes, and the other box said yes. You furrowed your brows.

You looked to your right. Leon was leaning against the stair railing. He drew a heart in the air with his pointer fingers and then winked at you. Your eyes followed as he went up to the second floor.

Reminder: File a complaint.

You clicked your pen. Underneath the two boxes, you drew a third one. Right beside it you wrote, “No”, and checked it.

“Is he here?” You glanced up. The rookie was out of air after running down a flight of stairs. Poor boy was carrying the fate of the world on his shoulders and he refused to let it end. That or he thought he might get fired for not keeping Chief Kennedy in check.

“Honey, don’t worry. He’s upstairs. Besides, the only place he’s getting in trouble is at home.” You said. That helped ease his worries a bit. You folded the slip of paper again and held it out to the rookie, “Do me a favor. Can you give this to him when you see him?”

[k3nnedygirl]

leon is not beating the obsessed allegations

☆ based on my headcanon! idek know what this is tbh but i hope you enjoy regardless!

☆ tags: @smallratboy

☆ leon vs technology, re9 leon but any leon works too, reader is leon's younger gf, sherry having the best time of her life, leon being done, nsfw content.

he think he's subtle about how obsessed he is with you.

he's not, not even close.

not even at work, when he's usually more focused.

it's subtle.

he checks his phone more often, answers faster, his usual rough expression softens for a second when your name pops up in the screen.

his co-workers notice, yet no one say anything to him.

except his goddaughter, sherry birkin.

¨you're smiling at your phone¨ she says casually.

¨i'm not¨

¨you are¨ leaning against his desk.

¨am not¨

she walks closer, trying to get a quick look at his phone.

leon tilts his phone away instantly, too fast.

¨wow¨ soft chuckle leaves sherry's mouth. ¨you're down bad¨

leon scoffs, rolling his eyes, locking his phone.

¨focus on your work, sherry¨

you text again.

his phone lights up.

leon looks at it again, quick glance. enough to catch your name on the screen again.

his expression softening, distracted, gone.

sherry doesn't even try to hide her own smile.

¨is it the same person who had you leaving early last week?¨

leon doesn't answer.

¨...and when you came in wearing a different tie?¨

leon pauses, his eyebrows in a light frown.

¨i always wear the same tie?¨

¨yeah, but not with lipstick stain on it¨

silence.

¨you're unbelievable¨ he mutters, rubbing his face.

sherry laughs.

¨oh my god, it is serious then.¨

leon exhales slowly, leaning back in his chair. looking down at his hands.

¨...she's just...¨

sherry leans in.

¨she's just what?¨

he shakes his head, small smirk decorating his lips.

¨nothing you need to worry about¨

sherry crosses her arms.

¨oh, i'm not worried... i just feel bad for you¨

leon looks at her, raising his eyebrow.

¨for me?¨

she grins

¨yeah. because whatever she's doing to you?¨ she gestures vaguely at him.

¨you're gone.¨

leon looks down at the screen one more time.

another message from you.

his thumb hovers for a second before replying.

¨... yeah¨ he admits.

voice note mistake

leon forgets he's not alone.

it's late. office almost empty. just him and sherry finishing some paper work.

his phone buzzes, again and again.

sherry doesn't even look up this time.

¨you're gonna answer your phone or...?¨

leon simply ignores her words and unlocks it. reads.

there it is, shoulders dropping, jaw unclenching, eyes softening in a way that does not belong in public, specially in a government office.

you sent him a photo, skirt risen up showing him your new pair of tights you just bought.

¨... christ.¨ he mutters under his breath.

¨is it her?¨ sherry asks, knowing the answer.

leon doesn't answer.

he presses something on his phone, and lifts it to his mouth slightly.

¨yeah... i saw it.¨ his voice drops, quieter, rougher. ¨you really just send me...¨

he cuts himself, sending the voice note.

he glances to his side.

sherry is very slowly turning her head.

¨... you're sending voice notes now?¨ her face completely serious, yet with a light smirk.

he freezes for half a second.

¨it's faster than typing¨

she stares at him, long, barely blinking.

¨you don't even send us voice notes... you don't even listen to them!¨

leon exhales, rubbing the back of his neck.

¨... it's different¨

¨i can tell¨ she nods.

his phone buzzes again.

he doesn't even think, checking it instantly.

sherry leans back in her chair, arms crossed. watching the whole thing like a show.

¨you're not beating the obsessed allegations, by the way¨

¨... i don't have allegations¨

¨leon,¨ sherry starts ¨you left mid-rookie training last week¨

¨it was handled¨

sherry continues ¨you came back ten minutes later looking like you forgot what day it was¨

the photo you sent him that day flashes his mind for a second.

brand new bikini on, ¨you like this one?¨ text following.

silence.

¨... are you done?¨ he mutters, looking at her.

¨not even close.¨

she points at him.

¨you check your phone every thirty seconds. you answer like your life depends on it and-¨

she cuts herself, smirking.

¨you use that voice.¨

leon shakes his head ¨which voice¨

sherry leans forward slightly. mocking him, but not really.

¨the only where you sound like you'd drop everything if she asked¨

that's true

he doesn't answer this time.

just looks down at his phone again. typing.

sherry sighs, shaking her head.

wrong timing

same scenario as before.

he's leaned back slightly, his glasses low on his nose, scrolling through something on his phone.

way too focused.

his thumb presses your last message. a voice note.

he thought it was something else completely.

your voice, soft, low, breathless, horny.

¨leon... you can't just leave me like that this morning and expect me to behave¨

he freezes. completely.

sherry's smirks, looking up

¨... you didn't even let me finish and now i have to-¨

leon's reflexes fail him. he stops it instantly but too late.

he doesn't move, doesn't breathe.

he stares at his phone like it personally betrayed him.

¨wow¨ sherry voice cuts through the silence.

leon takes off his glasses and drags a hand down his face.

¨don't...¨

¨oh no,¨ she says, almost impressed. ¨no, no, no, no, we are talking about that¨

¨don't think so¨

¨you didn't even let me finish´? what does that even mean¨ she repeats, rising her brows.

leon doesn't answer.

sherry is like his daughter he doesn't dare to answer her.

he just stares at her instead.

¨... you're worse than I thought¨

he exhales through his nose, jaw tight. faint flush creeping up his neck.

¨i didn't know she would say that¨

sherry lets out a loud laugh.

leon shakes his head, phone buzzing again.

he picks it up and turns aways from sherry slightly.

¨i'll see you later¨ he mutters, voice low, controlled again but not quite.

sherry watches, amused, shocked, entretained... way too entretained.

¨... i'll tease you with that everyday from now on¨

leon pauses.

¨i know you will¨

next day, some office. leon pretending everything is normal.

sherry walks in like nothing happened. coffee in hand. too calm.

¨morning¨ he doesn't even look up-

¨... morning, leon¨ she says, already smirking to herself.

she sits in his desk.

¨...so.¨

he already knows what she's going to ask, preparing to what its coming

you can see the way his shoulders tense.

¨... don't¨

¨i didnt ask anything!¨

he exhales.

¨...don't ask it.¨

she giggles, taking a sip of her coffee.

¨... did she finish?¨

leon closes his eyes for a second.

reconsidering his life choices that led him to this moment.

¨... are you serious?¨

¨what? it's a valid question.¨

he finally looks at her, serious stare.

¨... yes she did, last night and this morning¨

sherry chokes on her coffee, actually coughing for air.

¨OH MY FUCKING GOD- WHY WOULD YOU TELL ME. YOU'RE INSANE.¨

¨you asked.¨ leon shrugs, already going back to his paper work.

¨i didn't think you'd ANSWER SO BLUNTLY¨

¨should've thought that through¨

mute button

(leon vs technology lmao)

late evening, office almost empty. dim lights, quiet hum of computers.

leon sits at his desk, glasses low on his nose, phone in hand with a brand new phonecase on.

you insisted you both should have matching pink bunnies phonecases, he thought it was cheesy but still got them because he can't say no.

sherry across from him, watching him. because at this point? it's her new favourite show. watching her godfather be all shy over you.

his phone lights up.

incoming call from my love

he hesitates and looks at sherry.

she's just standing there, smirk across her face.

he lets out a long sigh.

¨hey, baby.¨ his voice drops immediately, soft.

sherry's brows go up. there it is. she knew she wasn't imagining it.

¨hi, baby. are you busy?¨

¨yeah, i just-¨ he pauses listening.

¨leon... i'm so horny¨

his jaw tightens slightly.

eyes flicking down to his growing pants.

¨ ... you can't say things like that when i'm at work.¨

¨awww, did you get flustered?¨

he exhales, low, somewhat controlled.

¨... no i'm not flustered.¨

sherry physicailly turns in her chair now, fully invested.

¨mmm, but lee- i need you so baaadly. like, really, really.¨

leon leans back slightly, rubbing his temple.

if you told him you team up with sherry to make him ashamed at work he would believe you.

¨i know, baby. me too. but i told you, i'll deal with it later.¨

¨no, i want you to deal with it now... through the phone. like last time...¨

his expression shifts.

¨... you're unbelievable¨

muttered but not annoyed.

sherry mouths silently: oh my god.

¨but i miss your touch soo much.¨

leon adjusts his glasses with one hand, still holding the phone with the other.

¨i miss you too, baby¨

sherry freezes. then turns around to look away. like she just heard something sacred.

¨mmm, leon?¨

¨yeah?¨

¨pleaseee... can't you just take a break and help me?¨

leon goes completely still.

¨. ..don't´¨

he cuts himself off, glancing around.

¨i'm not having this conversation here...¨

leon breathes out, lowering the phone and look at it.

jaw clenched, trembling fingers.

he tries to mute the call, to tell sherry to leave his office.

but he fails... abruptly.

your voice came out from the phone clearly.

¨aw... you didn't mind last time. come on... it was so hot even you got-¨

sherry's head snaps back to leon. eyes wide.

he freezes, trying to press the screen again.

still, not muted.

¨hold on, baby¨ he mutters quickly.

leon is flustered, way too flustered.

technology failling him, he thinks.

sherry shaking trying not to laugh. trying really hard not to laugh.

¨need help?¨ she whispers to leon, not really trusting her voice.

leon glances at her. ¨no¨

he says fast, too fast.

¨fuck, leon... you're going to help me again? you always do...¨ your voice still loud through his phone.

leon gets up from his chair, going around his office.

¨you've got to be kidding me...¨ he mutters.

sherry being done, covering her face with her hands, muffled laugh.

¨mmh, baby-¨ you start again.

then he finally manages to mute the call, your voice can't be heard anymore.

finally....

he exhales, long, dragging a hand through his hair.

¨this is not happening...¨

¨you are NEVER recovering from this¨ sherry says, completely out of breath.

¨... i hate this job.¨ leon mutters.

¨i know.¨

¨... i hate this phone.¨ leon glances at it, still in his hand.

¨the call is still going on, you know?¨

leon's face drops, carefully this time trying to unmute.

¨baby... you're still here?¨

leon opens the door and leaves his office. his voice could still be heared from the hallway.

¨yeah, i'll help you...¨ was the last thing sherry could hear.

she leans back in her chair, grinning.

video call

another day, another time where you help technology defeat leon.

you just got back from uni

you were bored, in leon's apartment.

everything there reminded you of him.

after that last incident with the phone call last week, which you were victorious, you decided to videocall him.

slightly turned on.

you took a pillow from the couch and threw it to the floor next to the small coffee table.

you sat down in the pillow, adjusting your hair, your tank top.

you grabbed your phone, placing it in front of you, using a small box for support.

videocalling leon...

leon was making his way to his office after a long and boring reunion.

many people, way too many people.

it was midday after all. people were leaving, others were just starting working, others were making its way to the cafeteria to have lunch.

leon closed the door behind him.

sherry was on her lunch break.

he sat down in his chair, letting out a long sigh as he looses his tie.

his phone buzzes on his pants.

he pulls it out and glances at it.

incoming videocall from princess.

¨... what are you up to now¨ he mutters under his breath

screens lights up with your face, soft lighting, that look.

leon's eyes drop slightly to your neckline.

¨... hi, baby!¨ you smile.

leon smirks, he knows what you're doing.

¨hey... you're home?¨

¨yeah, ¨ you say fixing your top, that didn't really need fixing but you noticed the way he was looking.

¨i just got here.¨

leon looks at you, eyebrow risen slightly.

¨stop that...¨

you blink, faking surprise,

¨stop what?¨

¨your top was fine before...¨

¨are you staring at my boobs, leon?¨ you rise your voice a little bit.

leon tenses slightly and looks around, still no one on his office.

¨... don't start...¨ lets out a long sigh.

¨mmm, you seemed fine with it this morning.¨ you say looking at yourself in the tiny screen.

adjusting around, teasing him, trying to get a better angle.

leon goes silent. his jaw tensing.

you smile, sweet, dangerous.

leon doesn't even notice sherry's presence behind him.

he's, once again, regretting you made him buy this phone.

sherry's head peaks behind leon.

¨hi, sherry!!¨ you say, waving at her.

leon's eyes widen and turns around.

yeah, she's there.

¨heeey!¨ sherry answers, waving back with a wide smile.

¨oh my god, leon. you didn't tell me she is this pretty!¨ sherry turns to him.

leon is only looking at her, serious, no expression behind his blue eyes.

¨excuse me, this is a personal call¨ he mutters, covering the bottom of the phone like that's going to do anything.

¨thank you, sherry! i love your baby blue scarf!¨

leon wonders for a second how on earth you can still see sherry when he's covering the screen.

defeated, again, by technology he moves his hand away.

¨thanks! it's my favourite!¨

¨alright you two... this is inappropiate¨ leon mutters.

¨leon, i had to call you because you didn't even text me back since this morning...¨ you pout at him.

¨... i was busy¨

¨were you?¨ you hum, tilting your head.

sherry bites her lip trying not to laugh.

leon adjusts his glasses.

¨...yes, very busy.¨

you lean closer to the camera slightly, leon does it too.

a beat.

¨so... where you looking at my boobs or not?¨

he stops breathing. again.

sherry moves to her desk, choking down a noise.

¨... i'm not answering you that here¨ he says, low and controlled.

¨so... you were looking at them.¨ you point.

leon exhales, long and slow.

¨i'll call you later. On lunch break¨

¨you mean it?¨

¨yeah, baby¨

you pause, looking at him. soft but playful.

¨you better.¨

you hang up.

leon lowers the phone, slowly. he feels sherry's gaze upon him.

¨... you're insane.¨

¨i didn't even do anything.¨

he rubs his face, tired and done.

¨im going back to work¨

his phone buzzes again.

he doesn't move, he doesn't check it.

two seconds... three seconds....

he checks it.

picture... oh christ.

clearer view of you neckline now.

leon's breathing becomes heavier.

¨alright, that's my lunch break¨

heeey divas, idek what this is but i re9 leon needing glasses to read is so goofy to me and idk i imagine him hating phones so this is what it is!! honestly it was so much to write.

we love leon boomer yesss

[indiewritesxoxo]

HIS PRETTIEST PEACH!

the only thing softer and sweeter than you is…sukuna?

synopsis: being captured by the king of the koopas would be horrible — if he didn’t have such a big dick. when you see the opportunity to save yourself from his clutches and claws, will you take it? or be his bride? (follow up to this!)

pairing: bowser!sukuna x princess peach!reader

wc: 5.2k

content: MDNI, smut!!, porn with plot, technically kidnapping but reader doesn’t really mind, yandere!sukuna, oral sex (f! receiving) unprotected piv sex, mating press, pulling out, manhandling, restraints, biting, they’re both freaks for each other, teasing, mocking, mario!gojo slander, bratty reader and brattier sukuna, dual pov

art cred: @numbuh666

“Don’t you think this is a little overkill?” 

What, since when were ropes and restraints frowned upon in a relationship? 

Couldn’t you just see it as another form of foreplay? 

“No?” He grunted, heavy footsteps echoing across the floor as he studied the ties binding you to his bed. 

His pretty princess sprawled out in his sheets, your once perfect pink dress wrinkled and ruffled from all your squirming. The mushroom kingdom might miss you, but they didn’t appreciate you anyway. 

Didn’t adore you enough to memorize every tiny detail of your routine and make sure no one like him would be able to snatch you straight from underneath your weak guard’s noses. 

What else was he supposed to do when you let a couple lousy plumbers hang around your castle? 

“Just take some of them off. It’s uncomfortable,” you complained, pushing out your bottom lip in a pretty pout, chest heaving against the ribbons wrapped around them, bows his claws clumsily tied earlier to make you look like a present he wanted to save for later. “Please?” 

That was Sukuna’s problem.

How the hell was he supposed to say no to you? 

His own mouth twitched down, eyes narrowing as he exhaled hard. 

There were meetings he meant to attend tonight. Plans to be made to make sure no one from your old life would show up to cause problems for your current one. 

All derailed just because he couldn’t resist the way you batted your lashes at him. 

He walked over to your bedside, feeling even more like a beast with his lumbering steps before he bent over to examine the ties keeping you here. 

“Can’t you just wait an hour?” He gruffly asked, dragging a claw over your stomach, itching to sink it in just enough to tear your clothes clean off. 

“It will take you two to come back,” you quickly retorted, tilting your head to the side – as if you held the power here instead of him. 

You were supposed to be his hostage. A prisoner he pined for. 

But the second you even hinted that perhaps you wouldn’t mind being his lover, whatever shred of his sanity he’d retained had unravelled at the first taste of your body. 

It wasn’t enough that you would be his bride soon. 

And even up in his air ship, where no one should be able to reach you, there was the discomforting fear someone might steal you from him the way he saved you before. 

“You could take me with you,” you hummed, giving him your best set of pleading eyes as he felt the once shriveled organ he called a heart squeeze at how sincere you looked. 

“I-” 

“Shouldn’t I be there anyway if it’s about our wedding?” You insisted, and despite his reservations, the only thing he was weak to was you. 

So he dragged his finger over the ribbon, slicing through it and the thick fabric easily as he cleanly cut each and every restraint keeping you tied to his bed. 

You had requested your own chambers when he first abducted brought you here, but these days, you rarely even stepped foot in them when you’d taken to staying up sleeping in his sheets. He liked your little scowl when you peeled off the now torn dress from your body, getting out of bed and rubbing your wrists with a haughty huff befitting your status. 

His future queen. 

“Happy?” He grumbled, shoulders rolling back as his greedy eyes dragged over the shape of your breasts, mouth watering enough he had to swallow his own spit. 

“No,” you sharply scoffed, striding over to your now-shared closet as you swiped through the selection of outfits he had made for you. “That was my last pink dress from home.” 

“I think these suit you much better,” he dryly replied, having to keep himself from snarling at your disdain for the clothes he’d chosen. So what if they showed a little more skin? “But if you wish, I’ll kidnap your dressmaker.”

“Can’t you just hire him?” You asked, giving him that look, like he was somehow testing your patience. 

Personally, he found that most prisoners, or well, workers only did their best after some time in the dungeon. 

But he didn’t mind bickering with you about it. 

Not when it made him almost feel like you were already married. 

“I guess,” he begrudgingly grunted, making a mental note to send a koopa down to find him tomorrow for you. 

Watching you get dressed was nearly as intoxicating as seeing you strip, studying the lines of your body, the way you moved your limbs as you squeezed into the tight outfit he was absolutely correct in assuming would look fantastic on you. Eyes glazing over as he committed and etched the image of you in his head, content to capture you like this in a painting later, frame it and hang it up in his private study as a new permanent fixture. 

Sukuna was not accustomed to compliments. 

But he found himself awkwardly clearing his throat, reaching out for you right as you glanced over your shoulder at him. 

“My bride is beautiful,” he muttered, his voice coming out all low and gravelly as heat creeped up his neck and threatened to color his cheeks in an obvious blush. 

Forcing himself to look back at the barred windows, biting the inside of his mouth until it drew blood. The thick taste of iron on his tongue as a delicate digit tapped his much larger hand. 

“Thank you,” you softly said, tempering your tone as you laced your fingers through his. “Shall we go?” 

He wasn’t stupid enough to assume you truly loved him back. Not the way he loved you, at least. 

Knew damn well that this could just be some attempt to get his guard lowered enough for you to escape. 

You might just want to know what their plans were. Where he’d send his troops of koopas to claim the land that used to be yours. Figure out any weak points. 

It didn’t matter. 

He wasn’t going to give you the chance to take advantage of it. No matter how much he might loosen your leash. 

Still, the walk through the air ship was rather peaceful. 

The warmth of your palm pressed against his, your skin brushing against his, those quick glances you’d steal up at him when his shell bumped into you. 

The koopas were already waiting for him there, crowded around the table and chattering before they all froze at the creak of the door swinging open. 

Turning to bow down before him, his ego inflating at their easy obedience while he caught a glimpse of you rolling your eyes to his right. 

“Oh no,” he deadpanned. “It appears there aren’t enough chairs.” 

It would be easy to have a koopa scramble to fetch one for you. But just lazily walked over to his throne and sat back in it, spreading and patting his thighs while you stared at him with an adorable attempt at a stern expression. 

He could picture you presiding over meetings like this back in your own Kingdom, addressing those morons in your dominion as if they even deserved to speak to you at all. 

And now here you were, climbing on his lap in a tiny outfit, looking more like a concubine than a dignified princess. 

“You did this on purpose,” you muttered, not that you actually seemed mad. More like you were pretending to be – acting out a role you knew you were supposed to fill.

“How?” He dryly mocked. “I didn’t know you were coming.” 

Well, sure, perhaps part of him suspected you’d protest being all tied up and ask to tag along. But the chairs were just a coincidence. 

You shuffled on his lap, trying to get comfortable like he couldn’t feel the way you were quivering already. 

That was the part you were horrible at hiding. Because despite that sweet mask you liked to wear of a proper lady, you couldn’t disguise your attraction to him, couldn’t pretend to be distinguished when he’d seen how much you craved his cock every night. Derived a certain degree of pleasure in him ruling over you instead of the other way around. 

“You’re cruel,” you half-whispered, as if he somehow humiliated you when he could smell how horny you were. 

You were cute when you were trying to be strong. 

What would that plumber of yours think of you on his lap like this? 

He supposed he’d take care of that business after the wedding. Once he had bound you to him for good. 

“Lord Sukuna, we received a report from the koopas stationed-” 

He waved it away, shaking his head before he could even finish. 

“We’re discussing the wedding tonight,” he interrupted, running a calloused palm across your waist, feeling the way you shivered at his touch. “Since my bride is here.” 

It would all belong to him soon enough anyway.

Your heart. Your home. 

He’d conquer it all. 

ཐི♡ཋྀ

You hadn’t meant to fall for him. 

He was meant to be the monster in the tale. 

The scary villain that needed to be slain. 

A beast you were supposed to hate by the end of the story. 

You’d grown up with plenty of fairytales. Romances spun about princesses who were saved by brave knights and lived happily ever after. 

You had always thought you would marry a guy who wields a sword instead of spewing fire, someone steadfast and pure hearted. 

Sukuna was stubborn. Strange. Hot-headed with that horrible temper of his, with claws that looked made for slashing rather than clumsily clutching the stems to bouquets you could hardly believe he picked for you. 

You stared at his sleeping figure. The tattoos inked against his tanned skin as his chest slowly rose and fell. 

His mouth parted, the low roar of his snore starting up as you untangled yourself from his heavy limbs. 

The meeting had run far longer than either of you had anticipated, heavy eyelids drooping from exhaustion with you still on his lap. And even when it ended, he just yawned and threw you over his shoulder, carrying you back to your room with one hand while the other rubbed his exhausted eyes. 

He didn’t even try to fuck you. To your disappointment. 

Just plopped you down in bed and joined you there, strong arms wrapping around you before he promptly passed out. 

But no matter how many sheep you counted in your head, or how hard you shut your own eyes, you couldn’t bring yourself to fall asleep.

Your brain was buzzing, hyperaware of his touch, of his breath, a big ball of tension coiling tight in your core as you tried to ignore the familiar ache between your thighs. 

For a guy who kinda kidnapped you, the least he could do was have a smaller dick so you didn’t have to think about how good it felt to be fucked full of him constantly. 

You bit the inside of your cheek, shuffling off the bed slowly, stare still trained on him as you avoided waking him up. 

Usually though, once he was out, he wouldn’t stir until the sun was slipping through the cracks in the porthole he called a window. 

Now, there were only a handful of candles lit to illuminate the dark, your engagement ring glittering in the low light. It was big, and well, a bit gaudy, a ridiculously large pink sapphire glinting in the middle surrounded by small diamonds embedded into a gold band. 

Something that screamed you were taken from a mile away. 

He’d gotten down on one knee, the spiky shell on his back seeming even bulkier when he was all bent down like that, popping open a velvet box to propose to you like you were a normal couple. 

A year ago, you would have scoffed at the idea of him bowing to anyone. Laughed that someone might say yes to him.

But your own affirmation had come a bit too easily for even you to conceal your own crush. 

Could you call it that? 

Shrink your feelings down to something more comfortable to swallow? 

He rolled over, and you froze, throat constricting as you waited for his body to realize you weren’t there and wake him up. 

Instead, he grabbed the pillow, squeezing it tight as his nostrils twitched. Sniffing the scent of you left there before he let out a soft sigh and settled back into dreamland. 

When you watched him like this, all peaceful and pleased, you could almost trick yourself into thinking that this could last forever. 

But your feet were creeping closer to the door, heart thumping rapidly as you tried to quell your troubled mind with reassurances that you wouldn’t get caught. 

This could be the only opportunity you ever got. Your only chance to just leave. 

Your parasol had just been lazily stashed in a storage closet by one of the koopas, so it wouldn’t even be hard to snag it and slip off the ship. 

All you’d really have to do is find the courage to jump and float down. 

Of course, you’d need to hope that you weren’t drifting over anything dangerous. 

But considering you were sharing close quarters with someone as feared as him, who had enough strength to probably split your former plumber in two, you supposed whatever was below couldn’t be much scarier than what you’d be leaving behind. 

Were you scared though? 

Truly? 

Did his pointy teeth hold any terror anymore? When was the last time those sharp claws of his inspired even a sliver of apprehension? 

You had started to see them differently. Him differently. 

Anticipating the next time he’d sink his mouth on your skin and leave love bites. Fantasize about him scraping his claws down your back. Intoxicated by the weight of the restraints he liked to tie you down with. 

Was it fucked up to be horny instead of frightened? 

Yes, but that wasn’t exactly something you wanted to unravel while you were tiptoeing across dim hallways thinking about the logistics of an escape plan. Where would you even run to? 

Find some tropical island to take shelter in and hope none of the ape-ish men there would make things worse? 

You couldn’t just abandon the mushroom kingdom either. 

Leave the land you’d sworn to protect behind for him to seize in your absence. 

If you stayed, you could still rule over them. Ensure their safety – and your own. 

Although, you were sure it was only a matter of time before a certain someone attempted to take you back. 

Gojo seemed to think simply saving you was enough. 

He was always busy with Suguru or racing karts or doing other stupid shit that made you feel more like a second thought than a lover who was special to him. 

Sacred.

You wanted to be worshipped. 

Not strung along or simply sucking it up to see how long you could suffer. 

You were a princess after all. 

What purpose did you have if you weren’t born to be revered? 

Perhaps that was why when you opened the door you stopped in front of, the first thing you saw wasn’t your parasol staring back at you – but your own face. 

A hundred of them. 

Canvasses of different sizes, some hung up on the walls and others lined up against each other, one still on the easel in the center of the room as you stepped on the crinkly plastic tarp laid out and covered in paint splatters on the floor. 

Who said a villain couldn’t have hobbies? 

You hesitated as you gazed at his latest portrait of you, the soft strokes, the delicate touches that seemed incapable of coming from his massive hands. Each one was deliberate. This painting captured you in a candid moment, your head turned to the side as you leaned over the edge of the ship, the sky behind you and the sun on your face. Some of the others featured a…more flattering version of him next to you. 

Ones that made him look more regal.

More like a man instead of a monster by your side. 

Gojo would have scoffed. 

Said it was cheesy or stupid or came up with some other cheap insult to diminish his work. 

But it made your heart stutter. 

Slam faster into your ribcage the longer you stared at yourself. 

This was how he saw you. 

And it was how you wanted to be seen. 

You could blame it on reason. 

Say you had a responsibility or you were just doing what was rational. 

But you simply didn’t want to run away. 

Would it truly be so horrible to marry him? To be his wife and rule two kingdoms instead of one? 

Maybe give him a Sukuna Jr.? 

A loud bang exploded in the distance. 

The sound of wood splintering and faint crashes that seemed to get closer by the second. 

Oh well. 

It seemed your groom-to-be had woken up. 

You didn’t budge though. 

Just folded your arms across your chest as a chill ran down your spine and waited for him to find you – even as his gruff voice barked orders for his koopas to start sweeping over the ship for any sign of you. It didn’t take him too long to find you, the door thrown open so fast it hit the wall behind it and made an awful noise. You stilled, only throwing him a bored look over your shoulder.

“You’re making a racket,” you commented, pretending to be casual as you returned your attention to your own portrait. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” He demanded to know, stomping over and grabbing your wrist to spin you around. It was hard to hide the hint of a smirk your lips attempted to curl up into, but you managed, fixing him in your most unamused stare. “You’re trying to fuckin’ run away, aren’t you?” 

You didn’t know whether to deny it or offer the admission that you at least changed your mind.

The feral scowl etched into all his rough features was pretty hot.

“I’m admiring your art,” you murmured softly, wondering how difficult it would be to make him melt for you. 

“Liar,” he accused, thick brows pinched together tightly. “You left me.” 

“How could I leave you if I’m right here?” You pointed out, tilting your head to the side. 

For all his fire, he faltered when you offered him a small smile, his own mouth curving down to form a disgruntled frown. 

“Stop playing dumb,” he hissed, barring his teeth as if it would work on you now. 

“Are you calling me dumb?” You asked, arching a brow up as if you believed he was. 

His free fingers curled into fists he immediately shook out, jaw clenching as his red eyes seared straight through you. 

“I am not-” He stopped himself, maybe realizing he was falling into your trap before angrily shaking his head. “You little-” 

“Little what?” You dared him to actually finish his curse, but he had clamped his lips shut. Pulling you closer to him before unceremoniously scooping you up bridal style, muttering to himself as he stormed back in the direction of your now shared bedroom. 

“Thought that fucking idiot came and stole you,” said the man who stole you first. You had to hold in your snort, keeping your head down as you tried to not let him see you roll your eyes. 

But his intense stare was fixed on you, his nose scrunching up, lips parting in an annoyed scoff. 

“You think this is funny,” he grunted. 

“Is it not?” You asked, tempted to test just how crazy you could drive him. 

“You are-” Sukuna grimaced, biting down on the inside of his own cheek so hard you knew he probably drew blood.

“You’re really having trouble finishing your sentences tonight,” you commented, pushing your luck further. The vein bulging across his forehead ready to burst at your trivial giggle was a cute perk to pissing him off. “Tell me, my king, what exactly were you going to do if I had run away?” 

“Get you back,” he grumbled, as if you somehow could miss the glint in his eyes when you called him your king. 

You wondered how long it would take for him to ask you to say that in bed. 

And got your answer a lot sooner than anticipated. 

The moment you had crossed the threshold, he was ripping the barely-there clothes off of you and pinning you to the bed. 

Bites buried into your skin as he travelled from your stomach up to your breasts, teeth skimming against every available inch of skin until he was sinking the deepest ones into your throat, a low growl rumbling from his chest as you squirmed underneath his heavy weight. 

His tongue dragged over your neck, leaving a lewd line over the sensitive spots he’d just been sucking on until his mouth was positioned right by your ear. 

“Say it again,” he commanded, all husky and hot as your stomach found a way to tie itself in an even tighter knot. 

“Say what?” you played just as dumb as he accused you of, the tension just building on top of itself as his warm breath fanned over your skin, claws sinking into your hips just careful enough to not hurt, but to make you feel the pressure. 

“You know what,” he hissed, too prideful to admit what it was he really wanted.

“You want me to call you my king?” You hummed, reaching up to run your fingers through his hair, softening your voice. 

Sukuna might not say it. But his heavy cock pressed up and throbbing against your thigh surely told you the truth. 

“I want you to mean it,” he murmured, his defined jaw catching the candlelight while you watched the lump in his throat bob. 

You hesitated. 

Considered giving up this charade the two of you had been embroiled in. 

Him dutifully playing your captor while you pretended to be a damsel in distress as if you hadn’t been having sex like partners instead of just lovers.  

He might not know the difference. 

But you did. 

Because even after he came, he didn’t just roll over and conk out. And when you woke up together, he didn’t just abandon you to handle his own affairs. 

He took care of you, fed you only the best foods and offered the best baths, pampered you in luxuries and made sure you wouldn’t want for anything when you were with him. 

What else could a girl ask for? 

So what if he was a little…sharp around the edges? 

You could love him and all his spikes. 

It wasn’t like you were ignoring him, but you’d been so swept up in your own thoughts you were caught off-guard when he abruptly buried his face between your thighs. 

Mercilessly shoving his tongue inside you, diving in without a sliver of reluctance, with a single obvious goal in mind. 

Making you moan what he wished to hear if you wouldn’t just outright say it. 

Swirling his tongue around with the precision of someone who was determined to drag you to an orgasm. The thick muscle working you open ruthlessly, his fingers pressing down and pulling you into his mouth. 

Groaning into your cunt to make your body unhelpfully spasm, giving into those maddening patterns he was painting inside you as those reverberations traveled up through you. 

Resisting felt pointless. 

Holding back was so much harder when the pleasure he was providing was overwriting all your common sense. 

You were tugging hard at his roots, hips arching off the soft surface of the bed to drive him in even deeper. But it simply wasn’t enough. 

He made you just as greedy as him. 

“M-more,” you moaned, swallowing hard as the heat started to get to your bed, the warmth he was radiating making beads of sweat roll down your forehead. 

He pulled out, laughing crudely as he looked up at you with wild eyes. 

“More?” 

Ah. 

Maybe that was a mistake. 

But you couldn’t find an ounce of regret when Sukuna was roughly flipping you over onto your stomach and nudging your thighs further apart with his knee next. Making sure you were properly spread as he climbed back on top of you, trailing the sharp edge of his claw up your spine before grabbing the nape of your neck. 

You couldn’t look back. 

Could barely breathe. 

Stuck there with your face pressed against the smooth blankets as you waited for him to make his move. 

“You want more?” He echoed his previous sentiment, disbelief still ringing in his tone. 

“Do I have to ask again?” You teased, even if your question came out half an octave too high. 

You would. 

But only if he made you. 

“Say it then,” he growled. 

“My king is mean,” you wryly mocked, knowing that he would fuck you harder for it. 

“I’ll show you mean,” he muttered, the swollen tip of his cock pressing right up against your slick entrance as you tensed up. 

You used to think you were smart. 

But considering how soaked you were waiting to have sex with him, you supposed you weren’t half as intelligent as you’d been before. 

And the moment he was sliding in, you were losing even more IQ points you didn’t know if you had to spare. 

Thoughts getting all fuzzy as they faded away to be replaced with mantras of his name, desperation bleeding into each one as you ached to be full. 

He was still gracious enough to ease you into the first thrust, slowly splitting you open on his length before pulling out and doing it again. 

Walls clamping down and straining to get accustomed to all his ridges, to his sheer size. 

But he was bottoming out before you could get your sanity back in check, all your rationality dissolving in a puddle of raw need as he hit a spot that made you jolt. 

“Not running from me now,” Sukuna snarled, pulling your hips back down as he plunged his cock even deeper, grinding it up, up, up for you to practically feel him in your lungs. 

Air squeezing out with each one of his rough thrusts no matter how desperately you tried to quickly suck more back in. 

A snarky piece of you wanted to argue that you hadn’t technically run away at all, but you didn’t think he had any reason left in him either. 

This was just about you and him and fucking until he felt better. 

Until you were both so enmeshed you would never want to leave him again. 

The connection between his cock and your cunt driving you nuts as he drove it in again and again. 

“Being real quiet now,” he taunted, and you just scoffed back at him, unable to form any coherent words to bicker back. 

But before you could try to find him, he was pulling back out right as you were getting edged closer. 

He flipped you over in a second, impatient fingers digging meanly into your thighs as he folded them against your chest. 

Sukuna didn’t have to verbalize it. Mutter a word for you to understand the why. 

He wanted to see your face when he made you cum. 

Cock sheathing itself back inside you as if it was the most natural fit in the world. 

His other hand reached for your throat, big fingers wrapping around it like your own personal necklace as he squeezed just enough to steal some of your air. “You just like punishing me,” you breathlessly moaned, gripping onto his muscled biceps as his thick cock stretched you to the limit, rubbing just right on all those sensitive spots. Contrary to the filthy words he was spewing, he was still fucking you precisely how he knew you liked. 

“You liked being punished,” he retorted, thumb rubbing over your tendon, feeling the faint indents of his teeth he’d left behind. 

Was that what you liked? 

Or was it simply him? 

“What would your plumber do if he saw you like this?” He grunted, gritting his teeth as he fucked you harder, hips smacking into your skin in harsh thwaps. “Panting and begging me for more.” 

“Probably ask to join?” 

Sukuna froze, brows furrowing as he opened his mouth to snarl something nasty before he changed his mind and decided to just fuck that thought out of you instead. 

Letting go of your throat to move his big hand south, his thumb finding your clit to toy with that too. Drawing more practiced circles over the sensitive bud, keeping a steady rhythm of pounding into you as he dragged you towards a cliff. 

You wanted him to throw you off. 

To jump off with you and fill you up. 

The pressure mounting higher, your thighs tensing and toes curling in anticipation as your limbs began trembling. 

You weren’t sure what the last straw was. Whether it was his warmth or his touch or the way his mouth crashed into yours for a messy kiss right as he pressed just right on your clit, but you crumbled. 

Cumming with his name on your tongue, shuddering as the pleasure wracked through you – just for him to pull out midway through, cum leaking out all across your skin. Steady drips falling on top of you as he stroked his shaft, your vision hazy in the corners before you shut your eyes and let go of the tension still lingering in your bones.

“Fuck, you’re so-” He started to groan, his head tilting back to expose the seductive line of his collarbone, the tattoos standing out across his chiseled chest. Your husband-to-be. 

“Perfect?” 

ཐི♡ཋྀ

What good was a wedding without a bride? 

Sukuna touched your hair, unable to wipe the scowl still lingering on his face while he huffed and puffed over your disappearing act a full hour after you fell asleep post-sex. 

He didn’t believe you. 

Even if he wanted to.

You were as clever as you were cute. Crafty. 

There was a chance for you to go. To get as far from him as you could. 

But he found you standing there in your own shrine. 

Unbothered by the commotion and the chaos, just staring at yourself before throwing him that annoyingly attractive glance. 

Were you trying to piss him off? 

Had you simply come to your senses and realized fleeting would be futile? 

He didn’t know. 

And you wouldn’t tell him. 

You were still wearing your ring though. 

It looked rather good – especially when you weren’t wearing anything else. 

Sukuna sighed, chewing his already bitten raw bottom lip as he tasted the iron in his mouth. 

Fingers flexing as he possessively held you tight, unable to loosen his grip in fear you’d just slip away again. 

You had made him a fool. 

And he didn’t think there was any way for him to undo it. 

He didn’t think he made a noise, but you began to stir, sleepily blinking up at him and yawning as you started to pull away, wait no, snuggle closer? 

Nuzzling your nose against his chest as you draped a lazy arm around his side, your scent invading his system and frying all his synapses. 

“Just go to sleep,” you murmured, delicate fingers decisively patting him. “M’not going anywhere.” 

Yeah, not under his watch. 

a/n: this was a super fun commission i did and i really hope you guys enjoyed it too!!

[kisscenes]

★ combustion theory.

pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader

synopsis: you and satoru gojo absolutely do not have a thing for each other. you only spend time together because of your shared affection for his dragon. at least, that’s what you keep telling yourself—because there’s no way you’d ever fall for the most insufferably cocky, sharp-tongued, ridiculously charming dragon rider on the entire isle of berk… right? alternatively, in which a dragon plays matchmaker and you save satoru’s ass.

tags: fluff, mild angst, smut (oral sex, unprotected sex, fingering, riding), action, frenemies to lovers, how to train your dragon!au. pining, idiots to idiots in love. profanity, injuries, blood, reader almost drowns, etc.

word count: 16.1k

a/n: art by _3aem on x. reposted from my old blog :)

“Piss off, Gojo.”

Satoru Gojo does not piss off. You’re fairly certain he doesn’t know how to. It’s stitched into his DNA, being an annoying twat on the good days and an all-round prick on the others.

“I would,” he says. “But Sukuna really wanted head pats and for whatever reason, he thinks mine are unsatisfactory.”

The aforementioned Sukuna, of course, refers to his dragon—the last-remaining Night Fury on the Isle of Berk.

“You couldn’t have picked someone normal to bond with?” you ask the dragon.

Sukuna blinks slowly, entirely unfazed, then shifts his massive head a fraction closer to your shoulder. His scales catch the sunlight like dark, wet marble, but the way he’s leaning into you gives him all the menace of a particularly clingy housecat. A housecat with fire breath, razor claws, and the ability to level a village if he ever got bored enough.

Satoru, stretched out on the grass beside him, grins. “Don’t blame Sukuna,” he says, resting his weight back on his palms like he owns the hill, the sky, the whole bloody island. “He can’t help liking you better.”

“Everyone likes me better.”

“Mm. Bold claim.”

“True claim,” you retort. You scratch absentmindedly under Sukuna’s jaw, right where the scales give way to smooth skin, and he lets out a deep, throaty rumble of pleasure. It vibrates through the ground beneath your feet, a sound that would send most of Berk sprinting for the hills. You barely flinch. He’s impossible not to soften toward—something Satoru has weaponised far too often.

“I’m just saying,” Satoru drawls, “you might be his favourite person on the island.”

“He doesn’t have many options,” you say.

“Wow. And here I thought we were friends.”

You roll your eyes. “We are not friends.”

“Acquaintances?” he tries, silver hair glinting in the sunlight and blue eyes far too bright and mischievous and knowing.

“Barely.”

“Brutal,” he says. “You talk to all your barely-acquaintances this much?”

“Only the ones who refuse to shut up.”

“That’s most people, though.”

“Maybe you’re the problem,” you shoot back.

It’s exhausting, really, how he manages to talk in italics, every word tilted just enough to keep you bristling. He’s the single most aggravating man on the entire Isle of Berk—and that’s saying something, considering the place is full of dragon riders who think personal boundaries is a suggestion, not a rule.

You’d like to say you hate him. Really, you would. It would make things simpler. But hate implies he occupies actual space in your head, and the problem—the infuriating, inescapable problem—is that you refuse to give him the satisfaction.

“Why are you even here?” you demand finally, because you’ve learned the only way to deal with Satoru Gojo is to stay on the offensive.

“Sukuna wanted pats,” he repeats.

“Pretty sure Sukuna can find his own way here.”

“Yeah,” Satoru says, grinning wider, “but I can’t.”

You blink. “Are you—are you implying you used your dragon as an excuse to see me?”

“No,” he says immediately, dragging the vowel out. “Definitely not. I have so many better things to do.”

“Name one.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Thinks for a second. “…Patrolling?”

“That’s not better.”

“Depends on who you ask.” He falls back fully onto the grass, folding his arms behind his head, one long leg bent at the knee. The picture of ease, like he hasn’t just dropped the suggestion that he wanted to see you and then refused to elaborate. Like he hasn’t steadily been driving you insane since the day you met him.

The wind shifts over the hill, carrying with it the salt of the distant sea. Berk stretches out below—scattered houses of stone and timber, smoke curling from chimneys, dragons wheeling in the sky above the watchtowers. Out past the cliffs, the ocean flashes silver under the sun, calm for now but never for long.

“Illegal trapping’s been getting worse,” Satory says idly after a moment.

You glance at him. “And yet you’re here annoying me instead of dealing with it?”

“Hey, I’m off-duty.”

“You’re never off-duty.”

“True,” he admits, shameless. “But my boss doesn’t need to know that.”

You roll your eyes. The boss in question is Yaga the Vast, chief of Berk, who has approximately zero patience for stragglers like Satoru and yet, somehow, keeps putting him in charge of things anyway. Probably because when he isn’t being insufferable, Satoru is annoyingly good at his job.

Sukuna shifts closer again, massive head nudging your shoulder with a low whuff. The force of it nearly knocks you off balance.

“He’s so needy,” you mutter, scratching under his jaw again.

Satoru props himself up on his elbows to watch. “You love it.”

“Do not.”

“Do too.”

“Do not.”

“Do—”

“Finish that sentence,” you warn, “and I swear I will throw you off this hill.”

He smiles, unbothered. “Can’t, gorgeous. Sukuna would just catch me.”

“Shame,” you say.

Sukuna rumbles again, louder this time, as if laughing at the both of you. Which is ridiculous, obviously. Dragons don’t laugh. Probably. You’re still scratching absentmindedly at his jaw when the shout comes from below the hill.

“Gojo! We’ve got movement near the cliffs!”

It’s one of the younger riders—Yaga’s apprentice, maybe. You don’t remember his name. He’s sprinting uphill, out of breath, waving both arms wildly.

Satoru sighs. “And here I was enjoying my day off.”

“Trappers?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

“Yeah.” He pushes to his feet. “Looks like it.”

The apprentice finally reaches the top, panting. “They spotted nets near the west cliffs,” he manages. “Could be setting up for a catch.”

Satoru dusts off his hands lazily, as though he hasn’t just been summoned to go handle the exact kind of people who would love to get their hands on a Night Fury. On Sukuna. You glance at the dragon, who’s gone very still beside you. His tail flicks once, sharp and restless.

Satoru notices too. “Relax,” he tells him softly, before turning that insufferable grin back on you. “Rain check on the head pats?”

“Not my dragon,” you remind him.

He winks. “Technicality.”

With that, he swings easily onto Sukuna’s back, all long limbs and practiced motion, like he was born in the saddle. Sukuna launches into the sky a moment later, wings snapping wide, dust kicking up in their wake. You watch them go, a dark shape against the sunlit clouds, until they’re nothing but a speck over the cliffs.

You’re still staring at the empty sky when the young rider clears his throat.

“Uh… hi,” he says awkwardly. He’s about your age, maybe a bit younger, with a nervous energy that makes you want to pat him on the shoulder and tell him to relax. He’s holding a map, which he’d pulled out of his pocket and now folds and unfolds with frantic hands. “You’re, uh, you’re the mapmaker, right? The one who lives by the sea?”

“That’s me,” you say, forcing yourself to look away from the horizon.

He nods, relieved. “Right. Yaga said to give you this. It’s the new coastline for the north. He said you’d be able to sketch it out better than anyone else.” He holds out the piece of parchment.

You take the map, unfolding it to see the jagged lines and rough sketches of a coastline you haven’t visited yet. The lines are crude, but the general shape is there. “Thanks,” you say. “I’ll get on it as soon as I can.”

“Right,” he says. “So… you and Gojo. You guys are… close?”

You stiffen. The question is innocent, but it feels like an accusation. “No. Not at all.”

He looks skeptical. “He talks about you a lot. Like, a lot lot. Says you’re the only person who can keep up with him.

You fight the urge to groan. “He’s a liar.”

“Yeah, he is.” The young rider laughs, a short, nervous sound. “But I don’t know. It’s weird. He’s always, like, looking for you. Or waiting for you.”

You don’t know how to respond to that. It’s too close to the truth. You just shrug, then look at the map. “I should get going. I have a lot of work to do.”

“Right. See you around, then.” The rider turns to leave, jogging down the hill with a newfound energy, happy to escape the awkwardness.

You look at the map, then at the sky where Sukuna and Gojo disappeared. You can’t stop thinking about the way Gojo smiled when he told you that Sukuna was just an excuse to see you. It was a joke, you know that. He’s always joking, always playing with words. But the way he said it… it felt like there was a kernel of truth in it, a tiny, infuriating admission that you didn’t want to acknowledge.

You trace the lines on the map, but your mind is elsewhere. You’re picturing him, the way he looks when he’s serious, the way he talks when he’s trying to get under your skin. You’re picturing Sukuna, the way he leans into your touch, the way he rumbles with contentment. You’re picturing the two of them, a perfect pair of chaos, a storm of annoying energy.

You shake your head, trying to clear your thoughts. You have work to do, a map to sketch. But you can’t help but wonder if Gojo and Sukuna are okay. You can’t help but wonder what he’ll say the next time you see him.

A soft breeze, smelling of salt and distant rain, carries the sound of Sukuna’s contented rumble. You look up from your work, the firelight from your cottage flickering on the parchment in your lap. The Night Fury, a silhouette against the moon, lands with a soft thud, a dark shadow in the growing dimness. You can’t help the small, reluctant smile that tugs at your lips. It’s a happy sound, that snort of his, and it’s hard not to feel a little bit of warmth toward the gigantic reptile. The smile vanishes the moment you see Satoru Gojo dismount.

He slides off the dragon’s back and lands on the packed dirt with a huff. His silver hair, usually perfectly styled, is now adorned with a scattering of leaves and twigs. He looks ridiculously pleased with himself.

“Looks like you had a hard day,” you say, voice dry. You don’t bother looking up from your map, a new survey of the eastern coast that is proving to be a nightmare of jagged inlets and hidden reefs.

“The hardest,” he replies, walking toward the fire. Sukuna follows, a low purr rumbling in his chest as he nudges your shoulder gently. You stroke the smooth scales under his jaw.

“Did you, by any chance, get your head stuck in a bush?” you ask pointedly.

He laughs. “Just a little turbulence. But don’t worry, it was for a good cause.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh? And what’s that?”

“Well, you know,” he says, pulling a stray leaf from his hair. “I had to make sure the trappers didn’t get away. Can’t have them messing up the ecosystem, can we?”

“But your impeccable hair and abysmal flying skills get a pass, I suppose.”

“Priorities, you know.” Satoru sits down on a log across from you, the firelight glinting in his bright blue eyes. “What are you up to? Still drawing pretty pictures of rocks and water?”

“I’m creating an accurate navigational chart for the fishing fleet,” you correct. “So that they don’t end up on the bottom of the sea.”

“Right, right. Important work,” he says. “You’d be a lot faster if you had some help.”

“I’m perfectly fine on my own.”

“I’m just saying,” he drawls, “a second pair of eyes could be useful. Especially mine. They’re very, very good eyes.”

You roll your own. “I’m not interested in your help, Gojo. Or your eyes, for that matter.”

Sukuna, who had been contently nuzzling your shoulder, chooses that moment to let out a slow, mournful sound, as if he understood the conversation and is deeply disappointed by your attitude. He nudges Gojo’s head with his own, then your shoulder again. He goes back and forth, like a pendulum. It’s slightly annoying.

“See?” Gojo says, a smug grin spreading across his face. “Even Sukuna agrees. He thinks we should be friends.”

“Sukuna thinks you should be less annoying,” you counter, reaching out to pat the dragon’s large head. He lets out a low rumble, pleased.

“That’s a matter of opinion,” Satoru says. He leans forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “He told me on the way here that he thinks we would make a very handsome couple.”

You snort. “He has terrible taste. You’re lucky he hasn’t left you for a better rider.”

“Impossible,” Satoru scoffs. “I’m the best. And he knows it.”

“And the most modest, too,” you mutter.

Sukuna lets out a deep, throaty rumble, and gently nudges you closer to the fire. The action is subtle, but a piece of your parchment slips off your knee and lands with a quiet rustle on the ground near Satoru’s feet. He bends down to pick it up, his long fingers brushing against yours as he hands it back.

“Clumsy,” he says, but the glint in his eyes tells you he’s not talking about the paper.

You ignore him, focusing on the map, but your hand trembles slightly, and the ink bleeds on the line you’re trying to draw. You let out an exasperated sigh, and Sukuna, with a loud huff, settles down between you and Satoru. It’s a deliberate move. The dragon’s nothing more than a massive, scaly chaperone.

“Look at him,” Satoru says, his voice softer now. “He’s tired. Trappers, you know. They’re more persistent than usual.”

“Did you catch them?”

“Most of them. They had nets—one almost got Sukuna. If he hadn’t been so fast, it would have been a rough night.”

You look at the dragon, who is now snoozing with one eye open, the firelight catching the dark, wet-looking scales on his hide. A sudden wave of protectiveness washes over you, a familiar feeling when it comes to the dragon. But then you look at Satoru, and see the deep weariness in his eyes, the faint lines of stress etched around his mouth, and that familiar wave of protectiveness becomes tangled with something else, something you refuse to name.

“You should get some rest,” you say, the words feeling foreign and heavy on your tongue.

He looks surprised. “Worried about me?”

“I’m worried about Sukuna,” you shoot back, and the warmth in your stomach curdles into a familiar acidity. “He needs his rider to be in top form. The last thing he needs is to be stuck with a tired, insufferable oaf.”

He laughs. “You wound me. But thank you. It’s nice to know someone cares.”

“I don’t care,” you insist, and you know you’re lying. You also know he knows you’re lying. It’s a game you play, a tense, stupid dance.

Sukuna lets out a snort. He flicks his head towards Satoru, then towards you, as if to say, just talk to each other, idiots. You want to kick him. Affectionately, of course.

“Well,” Satoru says. “I suppose I should go. Duty calls and all that.” He stands up, stretching his arms over his head before shaking it.

“You’re going back out?” you ask, a note of alarm in your voice that you can’t control.

“Nah,” he says, smiling a little softer now. “Just kidding. Yaga told me to stay put until morning, ‘cause he said I caused enough trouble for one day.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

He reaches down and ruffles Sukuna’s head, though his words are addressed to you. “I’ll be back tomorrow for some more pats, okay?”

Sukuna huffs happily in response.

Satoru turns and walks away, a long, lanky shadow disappearing into the darkness. Sukuna watches him go, then turns his gaze back to you, his garnet-coloured eyes flashing. He nudges your hand again. You know what he wants. He wants you to talk to Gojo. He wants you to go after him.

You sigh. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not his keeper. I’m not yours, either.”

Sukuna snorts, a clear, exasperated sound, and settles his massive head on your lap. He’s warm, a solid weight of comfort in the cool night. You don’t bother to shoo him away. You simply sit there, under the moonlight, and stare into the dark where Gojo disappeared.

“It’s a fool’s errand,” you say, dropping the rolled-up parchment onto Yaga’s desk with a resounding thud. The Chief of Berk, a man with a beard as formidable as his temperament, looks up from the horn he’s polishing.

“What is?” he asks.

“This,” you say, pointing an accusatory finger at the map. “The north coast. It’s impossible to draw from the ground. I’ve only been there twice, and I spent most of the time trying not to fall to my death. The cliffs are sheer drops. The inlets are jagged and hidden. I need to map it from above.”

Yaga stares at you for a long moment, his gaze unwavering. You hold his stare, a silent challenge. You’ve never been one to back down from the Chief, a fact that both annoys and impresses him.

He sighs. “Fine. You’re right. You’ll need a rider.” He looks around the hall, his eyes scanning for a likely candidate. Your heart sinks into your stomach when he lands on the very last person you want to see.

“Satoru!” he bellows.

Satoru Gojo, leaning against a support beam, in the middle of conversation with Yaga’s apprentice, gives you a little wave.

“Yeah, boss?” he calls out.

“You’re taking our mapmaker to the north coast,” Yaga says. “She needs to draw it from the air.”

“Pleasure’s all mine, Chief,” he says, sauntering over to the desk. “North coast, huh? A little chilly for you, isn’t it?”

You resist the urge to punch him. “I’ll manage. Let’s just get this over with.”

He claps his hands together. “Excellent! My calendar is wide open.”

The next morning is cold and brisk. A light mist hangs over the village, and the air smells of wet stone and woodsmoke. You’re waiting by the flight academy, a satchel slung over your shoulder and your sketchbook clutched in your hands. You’ve been waiting for ten minutes, which is ten minutes longer than you’d like.

Just as you’re about to turn and leave, you hear a loud, familiar whoosh of wind and the deep, throaty rumble of a Night Fury. Sukuna lands right in front of you. Satoru leers at you, seated on his back.

“Ready to fly, gorgeous?” he asks.

“I’m ready to get this done,” you correct.

You climb onto the dragon’s back, settling behind him on the saddle and placing your sketchbook and charcoal pencils carefully in your lap. Sukuna lets out a low purr, a rumble that you can feel vibrating through your body. He nudges his head back, giving your hand a soft, affectionate lick.

“He’s excited,” Satoru says. “He loves when we all go out together.”

“He’s excited about the snacks I brought him,” you say, pulling a piece of dried fish from your satchel and holding it out to Sukuna. He devours it in one gulp.

“You brought snacks?” Satoru asks. “For the dragon, and not for your very handsome and talented pilot?”

“You are not my pilot, and you are not getting any of this fish.”

He kicks his feet against Sukuna’s side, and the dragon launches himself into the air. You grip the saddle, your knuckles turning white. The wind whips at your hair and clothes, and you close your eyes for a moment, letting the sensation of flight wash over you. It’s a feeling you’ve never gotten used to, and it’s always a little terrifying, a little exhilarating.

Satoru leans back. “You’re good at this. Not screaming, I mean.”

You grit your teeth. “I’m a mapmaker, not a child. I’m used to dangerous situations.”

“Oh, I know,” he says, and you can practically hear the smirk in his voice. “You’re the one who saved my ass, remember?”

The memory of that night, of his blood on your hands, of the raw fear in your gut, flashes through your mind. You shiver, a cold feeling that has nothing to do with the wind.

“I’d rather not,” you say.

He doesn’t respond. Sukuna, as if sensing the shift in the atmosphere, lets out a low, questioning snort. He banks left, heading toward the northern cliffs.

The gentle, rolling hills of Berk give way to a brutal, unforgiving coastline. The cliffs are dark and jagged, the sea a churning mass of white foam. You pull out your sketchbook and begin to draw.

You work for hours, meticulously sketching every rock formation, every inlet, every hidden cove. You direct Satoru to turn this way and that, and he, for once, doesn’t argue. He lets you work, his body a steady, comforting presence in front of you, ensuring Sukuna’s movements are smooth and controlled.

At one point, you get so focused on a particular series of sea caves that you lean too far over the edge of the saddle, and almost lose your balance. A long, strong arm wraps around your waist, pulling you back against a warm, solid chest. You stiffen, your body rigid with surprise.

“Careful,” Satoru whispers, his breath warm against your ear. “Don’t want you falling to your death.”

You push him away, heart pounding. “I had it under control.”

“Sure, you did.”

Sukuna lets out a low, knowing chuff, a sound that makes you want to smack him. You ignore him, focusing back on your drawing, but it’s hard to stop thinking about the feeling of his arm around your waist, the warmth of his body against yours.

“You’re quiet,” he says after a while.

“I’m working.”

He hums. “Right. I just thought, you know, we could talk. Get to know each other. Since we’re going to be hanging out more often, we might as well be friends.”

“We are not going to be friends,” you say for what feels like the hundredth time.

“We are,” Satoru says. “We’re a team. You and me. And Sukuna, of course.” He reaches forward and strokes the Night Fury’s head, and the dragon rumbles with contentment.

“He’s your dragon,” you mutter.

“He likes you, too. More than me, I think,” Satoru says, and there’s a flicker of something in his voice—something soft and genuine—that makes you look away from your sketch and at him instead. His eyes are fixed on you, a strange mixture of warmth and… something else. You can’t quite place it.

You look away, your heart pounding again. You can’t handle this. You can’t handle this man, this dragon, this strange, dangerous intimacy that has sprung up between you.

You land back in the village as dusk is falling. The air is colder now, and the stars are beginning to peak out. You slide off Sukuna’s back, your legs shaky from the long flight. You feel a hand on your arm, steadying you.

“You did good,” Satoru says.

“So did you,” you say.

He smiles, a real smile, one that reaches his eyes and makes them crinkle at the corners. It’s a smile that you realise you haven’t seen very often. It’s a smile that makes the hollow cavity inside your chest where your heart lies skip a beat.

You turn away, clutching your sketchbook to your chest. “I’ll bring this to Yaga in the morning.”

“Right,” he says. “I’ll see you around.”

You walk away, but you can feel his gaze on your back. You can feel the warmth of his hand still on your arm. You don’t look back.

You make it to your cottage, but you don’t go inside. You sit on the stone step, your sketchbook still in your hands, and stare at the sky. You think about the north coast, about the cliffs and the caves, but also about Satoru. About the way his arm felt around your waist, about the way his smile made you feel, about the way he wasn’t being annoying for once.

You hear a soft thud. Sukuna stands behind you, a small branch in his mouth. He drops it at your feet. A branch from a Night Fury’s nest. He jabs at your hand with his nose, his eyes fixed on yours.

You know what he’s doing. He’s trying to tell you something. He’s trying to tell you that Satoru is not so bad. There’s a place for you in his life, in their life.

You reach down and pick up the branch, then look back at the dragon. You sigh, a long, drawn-out sound.

“You’re a terrible matchmaker, you know that?” you whisper to him.

Sukuna lets out a low purr and nudges you again. You don’t know what to do. You’re a mapmaker, a person of logic and order, and this man and his dragon are nothing but chaos. There’s absolutely no way anything good could ever come out of this.

“Head pats? Again?” You shoot Satoru an unimpressed glare, though the effect is rather diminished by the fact that you’re hanging upside down, trying to fix a hole in your roof. “At least come up with a better excuse.”

“Can’t. The dragon wants what the dragon wants,” Satoru says. “And what the dragon wants, the dragon gets.”

You grunt, shoving a loose thatch of straw back into place. Your ankles are looped around a wooden beam, your torso dangling over the edge of your cottage’s roof. The world is a strange, inverted place from this angle. The grass is a vibrant green sky, the clouds are a white, fluffy ground. Satoru Gojo’s annoyingly perfect face is floating in the air below you. He’s leaning back, his hands in his pockets, watching you with a smile. Sukuna is a little ways off, chewing on a large branch.

“And what the dragon wants is for me to risk breaking my neck just so you can make a terrible joke?” you ask.

“No, no, the dragon wants head pats,” Satoru corrects, shaking his head. “I’m just here to deliver the dragon to the head pats. A simple go-between.”

“You’re a go-between for your own dragon?”

“Look, it’s a complicated relationship,” he says. “He’s a very discerning dragon.”

You roll your eyes, a motion that makes your head throb. You pull yourself up, muscles straining, and clamber onto the roof. You sit on the ridge, straddling the peak, and pull a loose piece of wood from the hole. The wood is rotten, and the smell of mold and wet earth makes you wrinkle your nose. A sudden gust of wind snatches a loose piece of cloth from the edge of the roof, and you watch as it flutters to the ground and lands directly at Satoru’s feet.

He picks it up and says, “Lost something?”

“It’s just a rag,” you say.

He examines it, shaking it out with a flourish. “Looks like a perfectly good rag to me.”

“It’s not,” you say. “It’s old and worn out. Just leave it.”

He doesn’t. He folds it carefully and places it in his pocket, before walking over to where Sukuna is lying, and pulls out a piece of meat from his saddlebag. He tosses it to the dragon.

“So,” Satoru says. “Roof problems?”

“No,” you say, “I just enjoy dangling from high places.”

He laughs, a clear, loud sound that makes your stomach feel weird. “I get it. You’re a thrill-seeker. It’s one of your many charming qualities.”

“I’m not a thrill-seeker,” you say. “I’m a mapmaker. I prefer quiet, predictable things.”

“Still,” he says, “here you are, hanging from a roof, and here I am, your friendly neighbourhood… well, whatever I am.”

You groan. “You’re a pain. That’s what you are.”

“And you’re my favourite pain,” he says. “You’re the only person on the entire Isle of Berk who doesn’t fall all over themselves to talk to me.”

“That’s because I have a working brain.”

He laughs again, and you find yourself staring at him. He’s leaning against Sukuna’s side, his arms crossed over his chest. His silver hair catches the sunlight, and his bright blue eyes are fixed on you. He’s the most infuriating man you’ve ever met, but you can’t deny that he’s also breathtaking.

You tear your gaze away, a flush of heat creeping up your neck. You turn back to your roof, your hands shaking slightly as you try to hammer a loose piece of wood into place. You miss, and the hammer clatters to the ground, landing with a soft thud on the grass.

“Fuck,” you say, eloquently.

Satoru bends to pick up the hammer, turning it over in his hands. “For someone who claims to like quiet, predictable things, you have a funny way of living on the edge.”

You scowl down at him from the roof ridge. “I’m fixing a hole, Satoru. Not fighting a dragon barehanded.”

“Could be both, if you fall on Sukuna.”

Sukuna, hearing his name, glances up, tail flicking idly. He looks like he’d catch you if you fell. Probably. Maybe. If he felt like it.

“Very reassuring,” you mutter. “Give it back.”

“Come get it,” Satoru says, grinning.

You glare at him. He leans back against Sukuna’s side, one long leg crossed over the other. He looks like he could stay here all day, bothering you from ground level while you slowly lose your mind above him. You wipe the sweat from your brow with the back of your wrist. The sun’s beating down hard, pressing heat into the back of your neck. Your hands are already splintered from the wood, your hair sticking to your cheeks. You have an entire day’s worth of mapping to do but here you are, arguing with Berk’s most irritating dragon rider over a hammer.

“Fine,” you say. “Keep it. I’ll just tell everyone you bullied me into falling off my own roof.”

“But you didn’t fall,” he says. “Yet.”

You wish you could throw something at him. Preferably something heavy. Like a rock. Or maybe the entire cottage.

Instead, you clamber down from the roof ridge to the small platform just under it, wiping your palms on your trousers. From here, the world tilts alarmingly close. Satoru watches your careful descent with the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth.

When you reach the edge, you stretch your hand out. “Hammer.”

He taps it against his chin thoughtfully. “What do I get in return?”

“Your continued survival.”

“Tempting.” He tosses it up, easy and careless, then finally lobs it towards you. It arcs through the air, spinning end over end, and you snatch it out of the air just in time, the impact jolting through your wrist.

“Show-off,” you say.

“You’re welcome,” he says.

You don’t dignify that with a response, instead crawling back to the hole and fitting the new piece of wood into place. The hammer thunks steadily as you nail it down, the sound mingling with the wind and the distant crash of waves against cliffs. Satoru hums something under his breath, a lazy, tuneless thing. It carries upward, curling under your skin despite yourself.

You focus very, very hard on the roof.

When the piece finally holds, you sit back, wiping your forehead again. Your arms ache, your knees are bruised, and you can feel bits of straw clinging to your hair. Glorious, really.

“Done?” Satoru asks.

“For now,” you say.

“Good,” he says, pushing off Sukuna’s side. “Because Sukuna’s patience is running out.”

At the mention of his name, the dragon lets out a short, sharp huff, nostrils flaring. The branch he was chewing lies in two neat halves at his feet. His pupils have gone wide, round as coins—his version of puppy eyes.

You narrow yours. “This is emotional blackmail.”

“It’s effective,” Satoru says cheerfully, already strolling over to you. “C’mon, he’s been waiting all day.”

You glance from the dragon’s enormous, hopeful stare to Satoru’s infuriating grin and feel, very distinctly, like you’re being tag-teamed.

“Fine,” you mutter, hopping lightly off the lower edge of the roof. You land in a crouch, knees absorbing the impact, then stand and dust yourself off. “But only because he asked nicely.”

Satoru bows low, one hand over his heart. “As the humble messenger of the dragon, I thank you for your generosity.”

“Shut up,” you say, but there’s no real heat behind it.

Sukuna lowers his massive head as you approach, scales gleaming like wet stone. He makes a low, thrumming sound as your hand comes to rest between his eyes, the tension in his frame melting instantly. It’s absurd, how such a creature—so powerful, so feared—can melt into warmth at something as simple as a touch.

You scratch behind his jaw, feeling the rumble travel through your palm. “You deserve a better rider,” you murmur, just loud enough for Satoru to hear.

Satoru presses a hand to his chest. “Wounded. Absolutely gutted.”

“You’ll live.”

He leans against Sukuna’s shoulder, close enough that you catch the faint scent of wind and leather and something warm underneath. “You always say that like you’re sure.”

“I could be wrong,” you say sweetly.

“Now who’s emotionally blackmailing who?”

You roll your eyes. The wind picks up again, tossing Satoru’s hair into his eyes. He doesn’t move to fix it, just grins at you through the mess like he knows exactly what kind of picture he makes—irritatingly golden in the sunlight, with the dragon at his side and the whole damn world under his heel.

“You really are full of yourself,” you say finally.

He tilts his head. “Takes one to know one. Speaking of which, did I tell you about the trappers that thought they actually had a chance against Sukuna? Even I don’t stand a chance against Sukuna, and that’s saying something.”

“Trappers?” You raise an eyebrow, keeping your hand moving against Sukuna’s scales. “I thought you lot scared them off two weeks ago.”

“We did,” Satoru says. “Or so we thought. But the funny thing about pests—” He leans lazily against Sukuna’s massive shoulder, folding his arms. “—is that they always crawl back when you’re not looking.”

You frown, not at him for once, but at the idea of it. “Where?”

“Southern Coves,” he says. “A little group at first—three, maybe four men. We figured they were amateurs, probably thought they’d make their fortune dragging a few Terrible Terrors back in cages. Easy enough. Send them running, burn a net or two. Job done.”

The way he says it—casual, dismissive—doesn’t sit right with you. It rarely does, when Satoru Gojo talks about problems like they’re inconveniences rather than… well, problems.

“But then?” you prompt.

“But then,” he says, drawing out the words, “we found another group. Bigger. With better equipment. Steel nets, reinforced cages, the whole shebang.”

Your hand stills against Sukuna’s jaw. “Reinforced cages?”

“Mhm.” He tilts his head, watching your reaction like it’s more interesting than the story itself. “Not something you find lying around unless you’ve got coin. Or connections. Or both.”

Sukuna shifts beneath your touch, nudging his head into your palm like he can sense the tension in your shoulders. You scratch harder, both to soothe him and yourself. “That doesn’t sound like a coincidence,” you say.

“It doesn’t sound like much of anything,” Satoru counters flippantly. “Could just be a few desperate men pooling what they’ve got. Could be something else. Either way, we’re keeping an eye on it.”

“And by we you mean…”

“The riders. Me, Suguru, Kento, Haibara—the usual.”

You narrow your eyes. “You mean the same group that considers dive-bombing into cliffs a legitimate training exercise?”

“Worked out fine for me,” Satoru says with a shrug.

“Everything works out fine for you,” you shoot back.

That earns you a flash of his grin—bright, boyish, and infuriating. But it fades, just a little, and he says, quieter, “Doesn’t always.”

It’s the kind of admission that makes your stomach twist, because it’s true. Riders don’t always come back. Dragons don’t always survive. Trappers—real trappers, the kind with coin and steel and a hunger that isn’t easily sated—don’t play fair.

You exhale slowly. “You think they’re after Sukuna.”

“Everyone’s after Sukuna.” He says it like it’s a joke. “Last Night Fury, blah blah blah. People can’t help themselves.”

You glance at Sukuna. His pupils are still round, content beneath your touch, but his tail lashes once, like even he knows the weight of those words. A rare thing: fear dressed up as restlessness.

An unease worms its way beneath your ribs. It feels like the calm before a storm, the air just a shade too still, the sea too quiet. The trappers Satoru described don’t seem like scavengers chasing scraps. They’re organised. Equipped. Waiting for something—or someone. You hate it. You hate that Satoru can stand opposite you, hands tucked in his pockets, as though the world isn’t about to tip over its edge.

“You should be more worried,” you say finally.

“I worry plenty.”

“You don’t act like it.”

“Would it help if I wrung my hands and wept dramatically at your feet?”

“I’d pay good money to see that,” you say automatically. Sukuna nudges you again, harder this time, nearly knocking you off your feet. You steady yourself with a laugh that comes out thinner than you’d like. Satoru watches the two of you, his smile softened into something that almost looks like thought. Then, just as you’re about to ask another question, a shrill whistle splits the air from somewhere down the hill.

“Show time.” Satoru straightens, stretching his arms overhead. “Sounds like they’ve spotted another group near the coastline.”

Your stomach sinks. Already?

Satoru clicks his tongue, turning back to Sukuna. “Up, big guy.”

The Night Fury rises in a smooth, graceful motion, all coiled muscle and gleaming scales. His wings snap open, blotting out the sun for an instant, and you step back instinctively. Satoru sings into the saddle. He doesn’t look at you until Sukuna’s already crouching low, ready to launch.

“Don’t worry too much,” he says. “We’ve got it handled.”

“You don’t know that.”

He grins down at you. “Sure I do. I’m me.”

“Again?” You stare at Yaga the Vast like he’s sprouted another head—which, considering the man’s already broad shoulders and beard thick enough to hide a small family of sparrows, would be quite a sight. “You want me to map out the north coast again?”

“Yes,” Yaga’s voice rumbles, his arms crossed over his chest. The firelight in the great hall casts half his face into shadow, making him look even more immovable than usual. “But this time, you go deeper. Past the cove, beyond the breakers, to the inlets we’ve yet to mark. Unless we map out our neighbouring areas, how will we be able to defend Berk?”

You blink slowly, as if stalling will make the task shrink back into sanity. “Defend Berk from what, exactly? The world’s deadliest flock of puffins?”

“From anyone who thinks Berk is ripe for the taking,” Yaga replies. His thick fingers drum against his arm. “We can’t pretend we’re isolated forever. Already, the trappers sniff at our borders.”

You mask the prickle of unease that shivers down your spine with a scoff. “So your solution is to send me to traipse along the most dangerous stretch of coast known to dragon or man?”

“You won’t be alone. Take that scoundrel of a dragon rider with you.”

You groan, dragging both hands down your face. “Not him.”

“As if there were any other scoundrel I could mean,” Yaga says, almost indulgent.

“Satoru Gojo,” you say, lowering your hands and scowling, “is less of a companion and more of a—what’s the word—parasite. Loud, obnoxious, impossible to get rid of once he latches on.”

“He’s effective,” Yaga says.

“He’s insufferable,” you say.

“Both can be true,” he says. “And if you want Berk defended, if you want us to have some place to safely hide, or if you want your precious maps to mean something, you’ll take him with you. End of discussion.”

You gape at him, outrage coiling hot in your chest. But before you can muster a reply sharp enough to singe even Yaga the Vast’s vast beard, a familiar voice cuts through the hall.

“Did somebody say my name?”

Of course. Speak of the devil and his Night Fury, and both shall appear.

Satoru Gojo strolls in; his hair is a windswept mess of silver, his tunic is half-untied, and there’s a cocky grin already plastered on his face. Sukuna pads in behind him, the great black beast moving silent as shadow, his eyes glowing faintly in the dim hall light.

“Perfect timing,” Yaga says. “You’ll be escorting our mapmaker along the north coast. Deep waters. High cliffs. Dangerous territory. See to it that she comes back alive.”

“Yes, boss,” Satoru replies. His gaze slides to you, and his grin widens. “Couldn’t stay away from me, huh?”

Your hands curl into fists at your sides. “Believe me, if I had a choice between this and swimming naked through eel-infested waters, I’d be halfway to drowning by now.”

“Romantic. You always know how to make a man feel wanted.”

Sukuna rumbles low in his throat, the kind of sound that could be a laugh if dragons were capable of such a thing. You swear he’s mocking you, too.

Yaga heaves a sigh. “Enough. The pair of you leave at dawn. Supplies will be waiting at the stables. Make sure you chart everything—caves, currents, shoals, nesting grounds. The more detail, the better.”

You open your mouth to argue, to plead, to hurl one last desperate objection into the flames. But Yaga fixes you with the kind of look that ends battles before they begin. You clamp your jaw shut.

“Fine,” you mutter. “At dawn.”

“Looking forward to it,” Satoru says brightly, clapping you on the shoulder. “You, me, the sea, a few deadly cliffs. It’ll be fun.”

You glare at him. “You have the worst definition of fun I’ve ever heard.”

He leans down, so close you catch the faint scent of leather and salt. “That’s because you haven’t tried my kind of fun yet.”

Before you can throttle him, Yaga clears his throat. “Gojo,” he says. “I want your usual post-mission report for this one as well. How Sukuna flies, how he fights—everything. Not a single detail should be omitted.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Satoru says. “Wingspan, firepower, mood swings. Got it.”

“Not just that,” Yaga presses. “Every maneuver. Every burst of speed. How he responds under pressure. The trappers are adapting. If they’ve learned to counter one type of dragon, they’ll learn to counter another. We need to be ready.”

“Of course, boss.”

Satoru says it so confidently that it makes you want to hit him with the nearest tankard. He doesn’t care about reports—he’s probably never written anything down properly in his life—but somehow Yaga keeps trusting him with “observations” and “evaluations.” And somehow those “reports” always end up getting him exactly what he wants: more freedom, more lenience, more time spent to annoy you.

“I’m serious,” Yaga says. His gaze sharpens, sliding briefly to you before returning to Satoru. “I want precision. Not exaggerations, not flourishes. If there are trappers along that coast, I want to know how they move, what they use, where they hide. If Sukuna faces them, I want to know every reaction. Understand?”

It’s subtle, that pause on Sukuna’s name, but it hooks in your gut like a barbed fishing line.

“Your last report,” the chief continued, “was ten pages of what Sukuna ate, and a drawing of your own face in the margins.”

You can’t help it—a bark of laughter escapes you. Satoru grins wider, like he’s proud of the memory.

“Historical accuracy,” he defends breezily. “Someday, bards will want to know I was the handsomest man alive while Sukuna was saving lives.”

Yaga doesn’t look amused. In fact, the firelight catches on the hard planes of his face, casting the deep creases at his brow into shadows that look almost like cracks. “Enough,” he says, but this time there’s a finality to it—like stone slamming into place, sealing a tomb.

You should probably let it go. Keep your head down, accept the assignment, and try not to imagine all the ways you might die tomorrow. But Yaga’s words stick in your ears like thorns. He’s always been thorough, sure, but the way he said it makes something twist uneasily in your gut.

Why does it feel less like he wants a record of Berk’s defenses and more like he wants a catalogue of its weaknesses?

You frown, shoving the thought down before it can root itself. Paranoia. That’s all it is. Spending too much time around Satoru Gojo rots the brain.

“Sir, yes, sir,” Satoru says, snapping a salute. “We’ll chart your cliffs, your caves, your currents, your… cozy little hidey-holes. And if the trappers do come sniffing around, we’ll have a nice little map all drawn up for them, won’t we?”

It’s meant to be a joke. You know it is.

Yaga’s eyes cut to him, sharp and assessing, but then—to your surprise—soften into something close to approval. “Just bring me the report.”

You’re dismissed. Or maybe exiled. Hard to tell with Yaga.

Satoru stretches like a cat as you both step out into the night air, his hair catching silver in the moonlight. Sukuna slips behind him, shadow melting into shadow, only the gleam of his garnet eyes betraying him.

“This is gonna be fun,” Satoru says.

You snort. “You heard him. Reports, details, flight maneuvers—like you’re some glorified scribe. What’s he going to do, publish a book?”

“Who knows? Maybe Yaga just really likes bedtime stories.”

“You’re going to fall if you keep bending over like that.”

The words brush the back of your neck, almost lost to the roar of the wind. Satoru’s voice, of course, because if anyone was going to ruin the thrill of flight over the North Sea cliffs, it was going to be him.

“I’m not bending over,” you snap, leaning forward on Sukuna’s broad back to adjust the rolled parchment strapped at your hip. “I’m securing the maps so they don’t blow away. Some of us actually care about documenting this trip.”

“Mm,” he hums, far too close behind you. “You say that, but it looks a lot like you’re presenting yourself to me.”

You jerk upright so fast you nearly throw yourself off balance. “I will throw you off this dragon.”

Sukuna rumbles beneath you, wings slicing through the wind. The cliffs roll past below—jagged teeth rising from the sea, waves smashing themselves to froth at the base. A treacherous coast, all jagged rocks and narrow inlets, the sort of place even seasoned dragon riders avoided unless they had a death wish. But, you remind yourself, you’re riding with Satoru Gojo. Death wishes are practically stitched into his skin.

“Relax,” he says lazily, shifting so that his chin rests on your shoulder, bold as anything. “If you fall, Sukuna will catch you. Probably.”

“Probably?”

“Eighty percent sure.”

You elbow him hard in the ribs. He laughs. The wind whips against your face, tugging at your hair and lashing past your chin. You should be focusing on the coastline, on the cliff formations and hidden coves Yaga wanted mapped. Instead, you’re stuck with Satoru practically wrapped around you like an overgrown barnacle.

Below, the sea shifts from deep sapphire to frothing white, currents curling against each other in unpredictable swirls. You sketch the outline hastily, balancing parchment on your knee, your fingers stiff from the cold. The smell of salt, the tang of brine—it all presses sharp in your nose, mixing with the faint smoke curling from Sukuna’s nostrils as he exhales.

“You’re making that bay too small,” Satoru says, peering over your shoulder. “It’s at least twice that size.”

Your head snaps towards him. “You’re a dragon rider, not a cartographer. Shut up.”

“I’m just saying,” he says. “If you want this to be accurate, maybe listen to the guy who’s actually looking down at it.”

You jab your charcoal against the parchment with unnecessary force. “I am looking down. You think I’m staring at the clouds?”

“Wouldn’t blame you. They’re very fluffy today.”

You grit your teeth. It’s either throw him off Sukuna’s back or commit to your map and pretend his voice doesn’t grate against your ears.

The coastline curves sharply, forcing Sukuna to bank hard. The sudden tilt knocks your knee against the saddle, the parchment slipping sideways in the wind. You swear under your breath, catching it just before it can flutter away.

“Careful,” Satoru drawls. “Wouldn’t want all your precious squiggles to drown.”

“They’re maps,” you snap, tucking the roll more securely under the leather strap. “Not squiggles.”

Sukuna lurches again, this time with a force that wrenches you off balance completely. One moment you’re clinging to leather straps, the next, you’re weightless—dangling over empty air, your stomach dropping out as the sea roars up to meet you. Your scream is swallowed by the wind.

Cold air slams against your face, your limbs flailing as the ocean surface rushes closer, white spray licking like fangs. You think, absurdly, that this is it. Yaga will get his precious map back water-stained and half-torn, and Satoru will laugh at your funeral pyre.

The sea devours you whole. Salt scorches your mouth, icy shock steals the breath from your lungs, and the water closes like a fist around your ribs. You kick, thrash, but the waves drag you under, tangling your limbs. The North Sea swallows you whole, dragging you down, down, down. Your maps slip free, parchment dissolving into sodden clumps as the current claws them away. Panic claws harder.

Through the blur of bubbles, a shadow streaks above—massive wings cutting the sky. Sukuna. You can just make out the gleam of his scales as he dives, but the current twists you sideways and drags you deeper.

You feel hands.

Hot even through the freezing water, strong fingers hook beneath your arm and haul you against a solid chest. Your head knocks against leather and chainmail. You cling without meaning to, nails biting into Satoru’s sleeve as he kicks upward, legs cutting the water with terrifying strength. The world tilts again, the suffocating weight of the sea giving way to open air as he breaks the surface.

You cough, choking up brine, the cold biting so deep it feels like your bones are splintering. But there’s air—ragged, salty, glorious—and Satoru’s arms are still wrapped around you, keeping you afloat.

“See?” he says, breathless. “Told you one of us would catch you.”

“Shut—” you hack, spitting seawater in his face, “—up.”

With one arm, Satoru signals upward, and Sukuna swoops low, skimming the waves. The dragon’s vast shadow falls over you both, wings slicing the mist. With a smooth, practiced motion, Satoru boosts you toward the saddle. You land gracelessly, half-sprawled, coughing into your sleeve. Sukuna steadies his flight. Moments later, Satoru swings up behind you, water dripping from his hair.

You twist, glaring, salt-stung eyes narrowing. “You dropped me!”

“I saved you,” he says.

“If you’d stop distracting me, I wouldn’t have fallen in the first place.”

“Aw, admit it,” he says, tugging you back against him as Sukuna banks into the wind again. “You wanted me to play hero.”

Your jaw locks. You want to scream, punch him, and shove him straight off Sukuna’s back. But the truth sticks bitter at the back of your throat: without him, you’d be a corpse rolling in the tide right now.

Instead, you grit out, “The only reason you’re still alive is because I’m too cold to kill you.”

“Sure, gorgeous,” Satoru says, far too cheerfully for someone who just dove into the North Sea like a loon. He pats Sukuna’s neck. “Land over there, big guy.”

Sukuna banks again, wide wings slicing through the mist as he angles toward a rocky shelf jutting from the cliffs. It’s not much—a spit of grass clinging stubbornly to stone, slick with sea spray and battered by wind—but it’s flat enough for a Night Fury to perch. The dragon’s claws scrape against the stone before he settles down.

You peel yourself upright, every muscle trembling from the cold. Water streams from your hair and sleeves, soaking into the saddle leather, dripping in miserable rivulets down your legs. You feel like a half-drowned cat.

Satoru swings off Sukuna and immediately shivers, shaking out his hair. Droplets fly everywhere.

“Ah!” You swipe your face with your sleeve. “Do you mind?”

“Not even a little,” he says.

You clamber down less gracefully, boots squelching against stone. The moment your feet hit solid ground, the wind slices through your wet clothes. Your teeth chatter so hard it feels like they might rattle loose.

“Right,” you say, hugging your arms around yourself. “Let’s make this quick. I need to salvage what I can of the map before—”

“Before your hands freeze off?” Satoru interrupts. He crouches to scratch Sukuna’s chin, even though he’s dripping seawater like a broken barrel. “Sorry, cartographer, but your squiggles can wait. We’re both shaking. That’s a fast track to hypothermia.”

“I’m fine.” Your voice wobbles with a shiver. “We don’t have time to—”

“You’re not fine.” He straightens, eyeing you in that annoyingly perceptive way of his. “Your lips are purple. You’re shivering so hard I can hear your knees clacking. Don’t make me be the sensible one here, sweetheart—it feels unnatural.”

You glare. “If I die of cold, I’ll haunt you.”

“Oh, you already haunt me.” His grin softens the jab. “Now, strip.”

“I— Excuse me?” you splutter.

“Your clothes are soaked,” he says matter-of-factly, already tugging at the laces of his tunic. “Wet fabric sucks the heat right out of you. The best thing we can do is get ‘em off, huddle together, and hope Sukuna doesn’t roast us in our sleep.”

You blink at him, scandalised, even as another violent shiver racks your body. “You’re insane.”

“True. But I’m also right.” He pulls his tunic over his head in one easy motion, tossing the dripping cloth onto the stone. The setting sun’s light catches across his bare skin—broad shoulders, pale scars scattered across his abdomen, lean muscle shifting as he moves.

You pointedly do not stare.

“You’re ogling me,” he says.

“I’m glaring at you.”

“Your glare looks a lot like ogling.”

“Die.”

“Already almost did,” he says lightly, wringing out his sleeves. “Your turn.”

Every inch of you bristles at the command. Still, the damp fabric clinging icily to your ribs argues louder than your pride. You peel off your own tunic with stiff fingers, ignoring his wolf-whistle, and spread it on a rock to dry. The wind hits your bare skin, covered only by the slip you’ve worn inside, cold and merciless, goosebumps rising instantly.

Satoru’s eyes flick toward you, lingering longer than you like. He doesn’t comment. Doesn’t need to. The curve of his mouth says enough.

“Don’t you dare say a word,” you warn, hugging your arms over your chest.

“Not one word,” he promises. “Plenty of thoughts, though.”

You groan, dragging your hands down your face. “This is torture.”

“No, this is survival.” Satoru pats Sukuna’s flank, and the dragon obligingly lowers himself, curling his massive body into a crescent. His wings arch inwards, a living shelter against the wind. Heat radiates from his scaled belly.

“See?” Satoru gestures grandly.

You want to argue. You really, truly do. But your legs wobble under you, and the promise of warmth tugs at you. So you crawl into the nook of Sukuna’s body, pressing against his side. Satoru follows, sprawling next to you, then tugging you firmly against him. His skin is startlingly warm, even damp as it is, and his arm slides around your shoulders.

“Move,” you grumble, trying to twist free.

“Nope,” he says, tucking his chin on top of your wet hair. “You’ll freeze.”

“You’re unbearable.”

“So you’ve said. Multiple times.”

You want to snap back, but the heat of him seeps into your skin. Sukuna’s breathing is a thunderous rhythm behind you, the rise and fall of his chest as steady as the tides. Satoru’s warmth presses into your back, his heartbeat steady against your spine.

The shivering ebbs. Your eyelids grow heavy.

You think, just before sleep drags you under, that maybe it isn’t so bad—being held like this, the storm kept at bay by dragon wings and an irritating idiot who refuses to let you drown or freeze. You’d rather die than admit it out loud.

“Oh, my Gods.”

The voice snaps you awake like a slap. Your eyes peel open blearily, gritty from salt and sleep. The first thing you see is scales—Sukuna’s broad, ridged side, still warm beneath your cheek. The second is pale dawn light seeping over the horizon, turning the sea into hammered silver. The third, and the worst by far, is Yaga’s apprentice standing ten paces away, gawking at you like you’ve sprouted a second head.

You jolt upright so fast your skull cracks against Satoru’s chin.

“Ow—fuck!” Satoru lurches back, clutching his jaw. His hair is sticking up in ten different directions, his chest bare, his arm still heavy across your waist. He blinks owlishly, still half-asleep, then follows your line of sight.

“Oh,” he says. “Morning, kid.”

The apprentice—gangly, freckled, barely old enough to grow a proper beard—turns a shade of crimson so bright it could signal passing ships. His dragon, a lumbering Gronckle, looks pointedly in the other direction as though it, too, is practicing modesty. The apprentice’s mouth opens, closes, then opens again. “I—uh—you—Chief Yaga sent me—”

You scramble upright, hugging your damp tunic to your chest as though it might shield you from the apprentice’s wide-eyed horror. “It’s not what it looks like.”

The boy squeaks. “It looks like you and Gojo—”

“It doesn’t,” you snap. Heat crawls up your neck, sharp as the morning chill.

“Actually,” Satoru drawls, still lounging half-naked against Sukuna’s side, “it’s exactly what it looks like.”

You kick him in the shin. He hisses through his teeth but grins anyway. Bastard.

The apprentice makes a strangled sound and stares very hard at the cliffs instead. His ears are scarlet. “Chief Yaga said—he said it was urgent. Two dragons were stolen last night.”

“Stolen?” you ask.

He nods quickly, eyes still fixed anywhere but at you. “By trappers. They slipped past the watch posts by the southern coves. Took a Nadder and a Zippleback. Riders tried to give chase, but they were gone before dawn.”

You freeze, cold in a way seawater could never manage. Images slam unbidden into your head: chains biting into scaled hides, muzzles forced over mouths, wings bound and flailing. Dragons screaming as they’re dragged into cages.

“Shit,” Satoru says, the first hint of sharpness cutting through his lazy tone. He pushes to his feet, water-dark trousers hanging low on his hips. Sukuna rumbles beside him, wings twitching restlessly.

The apprentice swallows, wringing his hands, as his Gronckle hovers above the ground. “The Chief sent me to find you. He said you’re needed immediately—both of you. He was… angry that you weren’t at the watch last night, Gojo.”

You flinch. Angry. Of course he was. You were out here, tangled up in a mess of salt, warmth, and sleep, while dragons were dragged away into darkness. Your stomach knots.

Satoru’s hand brushes yours. “Not your fault,” he murmurs.

You want to believe him. You don’t.

“Which direction?” Satoru asks crisply.

“East,” the apprentice answers. “Towards the mainland, we think. Scouts found broken nets on the tide and claw marks on the rocks, but… there were too many tracks. More than just one ship. It’s—bigger than usual.”

You hug your tunic tighter, your unease curdling into something colder. Too many tracks. Bigger than usual. And Yaga, always conveniently aware of where the trappers struck, always pushing for maps that stretched further, deeper, as though he wanted Berk’s vulnerabilities laid bare on parchment. Something ugly stirs at the back of your mind.

“Great job finding us, kid,” Satoru says. “Go on back, tell Yaga we’re on our way to Berk.”

The apprentice nods and urges his Gronckle away. Silence stretches after his wings vanish into the horizon. The only sound is the crash of waves and Sukuna’s low, restless growl.

You finally tug your tunic over your head, the fabric clammy against your skin. “Two dragons. Gone. While we—” You swallow down the lump in your throat. “While we weren’t there.”

Satoru’s gaze flicks to you. “We’ll find them.”

You want to argue. Want to spill the unease clawing at your ribs—that this isn’t coincidence, that someone is feeding the trappers information, that Yaga’s heavy insistence on maps and watch-posts feels less like defence and more like design. But Satoru swings into the saddle, his hand extended down to you, and all you can do is shove the suspicion somewhere deep down where it won’t choke you.

Later. You’ll think about it later.

The ride back to Berk is wordless. Sukuna cuts through the dawn sky with a speed that makes your bones rattle, the wind lashing your damp hair against your cheeks. The village comes into view—first the crooked rocks of the cliffside, then the smoky thatched rooftops, and finally the wide stone courtyard where riders and dragons gather in knots of uneasy conversation.

Yaga waits at the centre of it all, arms folded across his massive chest. His scowl alone could ward off a sea storm. You’ve seen him angry before, but this—this is something else.

Sukuna’s talons scrape stone. Riders hustle across the square, tightening harnesses, checking saddlebags, shouting clipped reports to one another. Dragons bristle and shift, their restlessness bleeding into their humans. You slide down from Sukuna’s saddle, boots hitting the stones. Satoru follows, rolling his shoulders once.

“Come,” Yaga’s voice booms from the centre. “Where were you?”

“Taking the north coast maps you wanted, remember?” Satoru says. “Thought you’d be proud I was finally listening.”

Yaga’s jaw ticks. “While you wasted time drawing cliffs, two dragons were stolen from right under our noses. A Nadder and a Zippleback. Good, loyal beasts, now likely in chains.”

You open your mouth—an instinctive we didn’t know, we would have been there if—but Yaga’s eyes cut to you, and the words wither in your throat.

“And you,” he says, quieter but no less cutting. “Distracted.”

Your cheeks burn hot as a furnace. You force yourself not to look at Satoru, not to flinch under Yaga’s disappointment.

“Careful, Chief,” Satoru says, stepping forward. “Sounds almost like you’re blaming us instead of the ones who actually stole the dragons.”

Silence. Riders shuffle uneasily at the edge of the square, pretending to busy themselves with tack and gear. Yaga exhales. He gestures with a curt hand, and says, “Enough. We’ve no time for excuses. Gojo, you’ll take Sukuna east. Track the trappers. If they’ve gone towards the mainland, we need to know which paths they’re using. Don’t engage. Don’t be reckless.”

“Reckless?” Satoru echoes. “Chief, that hurts me.”

“It’s meant to.”

Yaga turns to you. You think—hope—he’ll send you with Satoru. You’ve flown the coasts enough times now, you know the currents, the cliffs, the possible landing points. Together, you’d be faster.

“You,” Yaga says instead. “Stay here. The maps you made—finish them. Copy them properly, mark all the coves and hideouts. We’ll need every detail if we’re to tighten our defenses.”

“But—” You start. “With all due respect, I should go too. I was with Satoru when we—”

“No.” Yaga’s eyes harden, the finality in them brooking no argument. “We need accuracy more than we need an extra set of hands in the sky. Your maps will serve Berk better than you will.”

Heat floods your chest: anger, shame, suspicion all jumbled together. The same suspicion that had gnawed at you when the apprentice spoke of too many tracks, bigger than usual. The same suspicion that whispers now: why does he care so much about these maps?

Satoru’s hand brushes yours again, quick, almost hidden. When you glance at him, his expression is unreadable, but his mouth quirks, almost imperceptibly, in reassurance.

“Don’t worry, gorgeous,” he says aloud, stretching his arms. “I’ll bring your lizards back safely. Maybe even some extra, if they’re feeling friendly.”

“Go,” Yaga growls.

Satoru vaults back into Sukuna’s saddle. The Night Fury launches skyward in a storm of wings and air, climbing so fast your stomach flips just from watching. He doesn’t look back, but you feel his absence immediately, like the ground beneath you has shifted.

“Chief,” you try again, forcing the tremor out of your voice, “if there are more ships than usual, if this is bigger than—”

“Finish your maps,” Yaga cuts you off, turning away.

You stand there for a long moment, your fists clenching around nothing, as riders murmur and scatter and dragons snort restlessly at their sides. Something in your gut twists again, sharp and certain. Yaga doesn’t just want you out of the mission. He wants you blind, and you don’t know why.

Satoru Gojo doesn’t arrive back with the rest of the riders and it takes you about four hours to swallow down your pride and admit that something has gone terribly, horribly wrong.

At first, you tell yourself he’s late because he’s lazy. Because he got distracted chasing a gull or decided to nap on Sukuna’s back somewhere over the cliffs. That’s his style, isn’t it? Careless, infuriating, utterly impossible to pin down. But when the other riders return—faces set in grim lines, dragons shuffling uneasily on the packed earth—there’s no trace of him.

The knot in your stomach hardens into stone.

The courtyard empties slowly, mutters and wary glances trailing after you as you linger by the dragon pens. You can’t ask them where he is, not when your throat is tight with fear. You can’t ask Yaga either—at least, not openly, when you already suspect he doesn’t want you to know the answer.

Instead, you find the apprentice.

He’s lugging a basket of fish towards the Gronckle pens, shoulders hunched. You stride over and plant yourself in his path.

“Where’s the Chief?” you demand.

The boy nearly drops the basket, mackerel slopping over the edge. “Wh-what?”

“Yaga,” you say. “Where is he?”

He stammers. “He—uh—he’s in the great hall, I think. With some of the elders. I’m not supposed to—”

You move before he can finish. The great hall looms at the centre of Berk. Its roof rises steeply, carved dragon heads snarling from the beams. The heavy double doors are shut, but a warm glow seeps from the cracks—torchlight, flickering against the chill dusk. You shouldn’t be here. Yaga will flay you alive if he catches you sneaking where you don’t belong. But the thought of waiting, sitting idly while Satoru doesn’t come back doesn’t sit right with you.

You slip inside.

The hall stretches wide and long ahead of you, the walls lined with shields and old weapons that gleam in the light. Long tables stretch out across the floor, empty, a few littered with tankards and scraps of parchment. The far end is dominated by Yaga’s chair, carved from mahogany, massive enough to dwarf even him.

It’s empty.

You turn away from the chair—because on the nearest table is your map.

Or rather, it should be there. The stack of parchment you left after your last session of furious sketching is gone, only a faint smear of charcoal dust staining the wood. The straps you’d used to tie them together still sit at the edge of the table, neatly coiled, but the maps themselves have vanished. Your stomach lurches.

The map of the north coast. The one you risked half your life to sketch, nearly drowned for. Every cove, every inlet, every hidden path marked out in careful strokes of charcoal—gone.

Your hand curls tightly around the strap left behind, the leather cutting into your palm. The room spins, your thoughts snarling into one conclusion: if Yaga has the maps, he didn’t take them to protect Berk. And if he doesn’t have them, then someone else does. And Satoru still hasn’t come back.

You hurry out of the hall, past the empty pens, past the wary stares of villagers who pull their cloaks tighter as you barrel through. The sky is already bruising into night, gulls wheeling overhead in harsh cries that grate against your nerves. You don’t think. You just turn—towards the cliffs, the only place that makes sense. The north coast, where your maps pointed. Where Satoru isn’t supposed to be.

The path narrows as you climb. The wind rises, sharp and cold, tugging at your tunic. The sea roars below, white foam smashing itself against black rock. Each gust shoves at your balance, each step rattles your teeth. You know these paths—you’ve sketched them, charted them—but tonight they feel alien, hostile.

Your lungs burn. Your legs ache. Still, you push forward, clutching your side, muttering curses under your breath.

A shadow moves above you, massive fast, cutting across the purpling sky. The figure drops lower, angling towards you. You stumble to a stop, heart hammering, and tilt your head back.

Sukuna.

The Night Fury flies through the dusk, scales glinting dark blue where the light catches. His cry rips through the cliffs—sharp, haunting, enough to send a flock of puffins exploding from their nests. The wind from his wings slams into you, sending you staggering backwards.

He’s alone. The dragon banks sharply, almost skimming the sea, and you see a saddle still strapped tight, leather dark with seawater, reins dangling loose.

He lands on the cliffs just ahead of you, talons tearing furrows in the stone. His wings flare wide before folding in, each movement rippling with tension. He’s restless, furious, his chest heaving and his tail lashing like a whip.

“Sukuna,” you breathe, your voice cracking.

He turns at once, those twin rings of garnet eyes locking onto you. Recognition flares, but it’s not soft. It’s sharp, wild, like he’s on the edge of bolting right back into the sky. His nostrils flare, smoke curling as he huffs out a growl.

Your legs move before your mind catches up. You rush towards him, arms out, words tumbling uselessly from your mouth. “Where is he? Where’s Satoru?”

Sukuna lowers his head, nostrils flaring again as though scenting the wind. His scales are slick with salt, his wings ragged from the flight, his whole body coiled tight with an agitation you’ve never seen in him before. He paces, restless, claws scraping sparks against the stone. The saddle’s empty. Satoru’s gone.

The thought claws at your skull, frantic and ugly, but you push it down, shove it away, refuse to let it root. “Take me to him,” you say. “You hear me? Take me to him!”

Sukuna freezes. His head tilts, eyes narrowing, sharp and assessing. You think he’ll refuse, that he’ll vanish into the sky without you. But he shoves his massive snout against your shoulder, hard enough to nearly knock you flat. His wings flare again. It’s not an invitation. It’s a command.

Your hands fumble with the saddle’s straps as you clamber up, fingers numb, stomach twisting. The moment you’re seated, Sukuna surges forward, leaping into the air and spreading his wings. The world drops away beneath you, cliffs shrinking, sea spreading endless and merciless below. Wind tears at your face, your hair, your clothes. You clutch the straps tightly, the air freezing your cheeks, your heart slamming so hard you can’t tell if it’s fear or relief.

Sukuna doesn’t soar, doesn’t play with the air currents or bank lazily just to terrify you the way Satoru likes to. He cuts through the night like an arrow, wings beating ruthlessly, each downstroke flinging you forward until your stomach lurches. The North Sea yawns before you, and the cliffs crawl past in uneven shadows.

“Where are you taking me?” you shout, though the wind steals most of it away. Sukuna’s neck stiffens, his flight angled low, purposeful.

The further north you go, the rougher the landscape grows. The cliffs rise higher, crueler, sharpened by centuries of waves gnawing at their base. The moon breaks through the clouds in flashes, silvering the rocks. You’ve charted these shores on parchment, every inlet and alcove, but in the dark, they look unfamiliar.

Sukuna dives. The drop rips the breath from your chest and tears your stomach into your throat. You can only cling and pray as he folds his wings tight and plummets. At the last possible instant, he flares his wings wide, landing with a shuddering crash onto a stretch of uneven stone, claws biting through moss and shale.

You scramble down, your boots skidding on slick rock as Sukuna growls. Ahead, the cliffs hollow into a cove, a natural amphitheatre of stone and sea. Torches burn inside, small orange flames that lick against the rock, wrong against the wild dark.

In the centre of it all: Yaga.

The Chief of Berk stands with his arms crossed, broad shoulders squared and cloak snapping in the wind. His great beard glints ruddy in the torchlight. But it isn’t him that makes your heart stutter. It’s what’s at his feet.

Satoru.

He’s on his knees, wrists bound in thick rope, head tilted at an insolent angle that doesn’t quite hide the blood streaking down his temple. Even half-slumped, gagged with a strip of cloth knotted cruelly between his teeth, he radiates infuriating carelessness—eyes narrowed, expression hovering between boredom and mockery.

You make a sound—something strangled, something useless—and stumble forward, only for Sukuna to block you with a sweep of a wing. He growls again.

“Finally,” Yaga says. His voice booms off the rock, heavy, immovable, the kind of voice that fills halls and commands loyalty. “I was beginning to think you’d abandoned him.”

“What are you doing?” you manage to ask.

“What I should’ve done the moment that creature set foot on Berk.” His eyes cut to Sukuna. “That dragon is too dangerous to be left in the hands of a fool. Or worse, shared between fools. Give him to me, and I may let Gojo live.”

Satoru makes a muffled noise behind the gag, rolling his eyes so hard you half-expect them to stick. You can almost hear his voice anyway: Don’t listen to the old man, gorgeous. He just wants my dragon ‘cause he doesn’t have one of his own.

Your chest feels too small, your pulse hammering against your ribs. “You—you can’t mean that. Sukuna’s not a weapon. He’s not—”

“He’s a Night Fury,” Yaga says. “Do you have any idea what that means? The power he carries? No village could stand against us if he were ours. No trapper would dare threaten us. Berk would be untouchable.”

“He’s not yours,” you say.

Yaga’s gaze flicks past you. “And yet here he stands, listening to your commands. Think, child. You’ve seen the cliffs, the danger at our borders. Berk is one storm away from ruin. I won’t gamble its survival on the whims of a dragon who answers only to Gojo.”

Satoru gives a muffled, derisive laugh that earns him a kick to the ribs. He tips his head back, gag muffling whatever clever retort he tries to spit out.

“Is that why you funded the trappers to surround your own village, Yaga?” you ask, mustering up all the courage you own.

Yaga stills. His boot rests against Satoru’s ribs, his shadow thrown long against the cove wall. His lips twitch beneath his beard—not surprise, not shame. Annoyance.

“You shouldn’t know that,” he says slowly. “The apprentice talks too much.”

“You set them on us. You set them on him.”

A sound splits the night—metal ringing against stone, boots crunching over gravel. From the shadows at the edges of the cove, men appear. Rough-spun leather, ragged furs, nets rolled thick over their shoulders. Their faces gleam with salt and grease, their eyes hungry. Dragon trappers. You know them by the stink alone: fish oil, blood, old smoke. They slip from the dark like wolves, more than a dozen, their movements practiced, circling.

The torchlight catches iron chains coiled in their fists. Hooks. Bolas. Shackles built for wings, not wrists.

“You’re working with them?” you say.

“I’m using them,” the chief says. “They have the means, the tools that I don’t have.”

You think of the maps gone from the hall, the apprentice’s trembling mouth, the sidelong glances of riders who returned without their strongest, without him. Pieces snap into place with a sickening clarity.

“You sold us out,” you whisper again. “You sold him out.”

“I did what I had to. Berk survives because I make hard choices. You, girl—you make sketches. You play at your little maps, but I—I see storms on the horizon. Dragons beyond counting. Trappers fattening themselves on our weakness. Do you think a village of fishers and smiths can stand against that? No. But with a Night Fury—with that beast, Berk rules the seas.”

Sukuna’s growl reverberates through the rock beneath your feet. His pupils pinprick, his wings hitch upward, every line of his body coiled to strike. You know he understands enough: tone, intent, threat. He does not know, yet, how to forgive.

“Tell me,” Yaga says, low and inexorable, “what’s one boy’s life against the safety of a whole people?”

Satoru chooses that exact moment to lurch upright against his bindings, muffling something sharp and entirely unhelpful through the gag. You catch the roll of his shoulders, the tilt of his chin. One boy? Try national treasure, old man.

You almost laugh.

Chains rattle. The trappers are closing in. Their boots scrape the shale, torches lifting higher, nets poised to fly. The scent of pitch and iron stings your nose. There aren’t raiders in passing—they’re hunters, professional, and they’ve been waiting.

You step forward, planting yourself between them and Sukuna’s flank before you even think it through. “If you think he’ll ever obey you, you’re a bigger fool than I thought,” you bite out. “Sukuna isn’t a weapon. He isn’t yours to wield.”

“He will be.”

The nearest trapper lunges. A net arcs through the air, weighted corners sparking as they whip forward. You throw yourself sideways, but you needn’t have bothered—Sukuna’s blast rips it to cinders mid-flight. The explosion lights the cove for a split-second, dazzling white, searing afterimages into your vision. Rock shatters, smoke plumes, men scream.

The Night Fury roars.

The sound is primal, thunder given flesh. Sukuna surges forward, plasma bursting from his jaws in ragged, relentless blasts. Trappers scatter like startled crabs, some diving for cover, others spinning their chains desperately to keep him back. One man screams as his bolas ignite mid-spin, molten metal splattering his arm.

You drop to Satoru’s side in the chaos. He turns his head sharply, eyes catching yours, blue in the firelight, furious and alive. Your fingers fumble at the knots. The rope is soaked with seawater, swollen tight, cutting into your palms as you fight with it.

“Hold still,” you hiss, though he’s hardly moving.

He snorts through his gag. The knot slips at last. The rope slackens, and Satoru jerks his wrists free with a hiss. He tears the gag from his mouth, coughing once before grinning up at you, that same insufferable smile that somehow hasn’t dulled even after being tied and bloodied.

“Miss me?” he drawls.

You shove his shoulder. “Get up.”

“Oh, I plan to.” Satoru’s gaze flicks past you, to Yaga still looming at the centre of it all.

Sukuna lashes his tail, knocking two trappers flat, and whirlls his head back towards you both, plasma building in his throat again. The trappers rally, more of them pouring from the shadows at the mouth of the cove, their nets glowing with oil to withstand fire, their bolas gleaming with sharpened edges meant for wings. Their shadows jitter grotesquely against the cove walls, wolfish and endless. Sukuna’s blasts have rattled them but not broken them—they circle tighter, nets at the ready.

A horn splits the night.

It’s high and keening, rolling down from the cliffs above: Berk’s call to arms.

Shapes tear through the dark sky. Dragons. Not one, not two—a little less than a dozen, wings beating hard, riders silhouetted against the clouds. Their cries cascade through the air—the iron thrum of Nadder wings, the heavy, beating thunder of a Gronckle, the shriek of a Zippleback.

The riders dive. Bolas meant for Sukuna snap backward, suddenly tangled in fire. A trapper screams when a Deadly Nadder’s spines pin his arm to the cove wall. Yaga’s apprentice clings desperately to his dragon—far too small for this fight, a Gronckle, wings buzzing frantically—but his horn blast keeps sounding, rallying the others.

“Traitors!” Yaga bellows. His face is red with fury, veins bulging in his temple. “Do you side with him over your own chief?”

“Over a traitor, yes!” the apprentice shouts back.

The cove fractures into chaos—dragons wheeling, trappers shouting, nets burning in mid-air. Sukuna tears through them, plasma lighting up the night. You turn towards Satoru, only to freeze.

Yaga’s hand clamps down around your arm, thick and brutal, yanking you off your feet. The world spins; your back slams against his chest, his arm like an iron band around you. He drags you towards the cliff’s edge, gravel skittering into the black maw of sea below.

“Stop!” His roar drowns even the dragon cries. “Or she falls!”

Sukuna halts mid-pounce, talons gouging sparks in the stone. The other riders hover, their dragons’ wings beating the air in slow, heavy pulses. Even the trappers hesitate, chains slack in their hands. The sea crashes below, white foam gnashing against the rocks, a drop so sheer it makes you feel nauseous.

Yaga’s breath rasps against your ear. “The Night Fury, girl. Give him to me or you’re gone.”

You twist, fighting against his grip, nails digging into his arm, but he’s immovable, a wall of muscle and conviction. He jerks you closer to the edge, and the heel of your boot slips on loose gravel. Your weight tilts towards the abyss.

Somehow, impossibly, you make eye contact with Satoru—astride Sukuna. His white hair gleams in the torchlight. Sukuna crouches beneath him, plasma pulsing faintly in his throat, tail still twitching.

Satoru’s lips move.

Eighty percent.

You blink, barely comprehending. “What?” you croak out.

Eighty percent.

Suddenly, you know. He wants you to trust him. He wants you to fall. It’s insane. It’s impossible.

The apprentice screams your name from somewhere above. The riders shout warnings. The trappers lunge forward, seeing their chance. Yaga tightens his grip, preparing to hurl you like discarded cargo into the sea.

You make the choice first.

Your knees buckle, and you let yourself go slack. His grip loosens in shock—just enough. You wrench sideways, twist hard against his hold, and throw yourself forward into the air.

The sea roars up to meet you. Wind tears your scream to shreds. There’s only the black water yawning wide, jagged rocks slick with foam—until Sukuna dives down, his wings folded tightly. He rockets down the cliff face, plasma sparking in his jaws. You glimpse Satoru’s silhouette against the stars, leaning low in the saddle, eyes locked on you.

The air sears past your skin, the spray of the sea already stinging your face. Claws close around you.

Sukuna’s talons scoop you from the air. The force of it nearly rips the breath from your lungs, but the relief, the sheer surge of it, blinds you more than the wind. He angles upward in a steep climb, wings snapping wide, hauling you clear from the rocks and the ravenous waves.

You’re pressed tightly against his chest, his claws curled just enough to cage you without harm, his scales hot with exertion. Above you, astride the saddle, Satoru twists in his seat, grinning down at you.

“See?” he calls. “Told you. Eighty percent.”

You want to kiss him. You also want to scream. Instead, all you manage is a hoarse, furious, “You’re an idiot!”

Your first kiss with Satoru Gojo occurs because of Sukuna.

Not because you wanted it to. Gods, no. You’d rather have wrestled a Gronckle with one arm tied behind your back than admit you were even remotely tempted by the smirk plastered across Satoru’s stupid face. But Sukuna, traitorous beast that he is, decided that enough was enough.

It starts when the Night Fury refuses to let either of you down. You’re sore from the fight, ribs aching where Yaga had grabbed you, salt still drying and sticking to your skin. You’ve been through enough for one night, and all you want is the ground. Just solid ground beneath your feet.

Sukuna, it seems, has other ideas.

He lands not on the village cliffs, not near the dragon pens, but on the highest bluff overlooking Berk. A windswept place where he knows neither of you can escape quickly. He lowers his head, eyes narrowing with that calculating look he always gets when he’s three steps ahead of everyone else.

You try to slide off the saddle. His tail lashes, blocking your path.

“Really?” you snap, shoving at the scaled wall of muscle. “I’ve had enough for today.”

“He just doesn’t want us to leave,” Satoru supplies. “Can you blame him? We make such a great team.”

You whirl on him. “You nearly got yourself killed.”

“Nearly. Keyword.”

Your teeth grind. The wind snaps your hair into your eyes, the sea growls far below, and Satoru is—well, Satoru. All flippant grins and infuriating calm, as if Yaga’s betrayal, the trappers, the near loss of Sukuna, none of it left so much as a scratch on his spirit.

You jab a finger at his chest. “You think this is funny? You were gagged and tied and—”

“—and you swooped in and saved me,” he says. “Admit it, you couldn’t stand to see me suffer.”

“You—” you splutter. “I— That’s not—”

Sukuna rumbles, wings settling around you both like a barricade. His eyes gleam faintly in the dark, twin garnets pinning you where you sit. You realise too late: he’s cornered you.

Satoru tilts his head. “You hear that? He’s saying we should kiss and make up.”

“He is not,” you say flatly.

“He definitely is,” Satoru insists. He leans in just slightly, enough to test the boundaries, enough for your heart to betray you by stumbling over itself. “C’mon. Wouldn’t want to upset him. He’s had a rough day too.”

You glare, but the problem is that Sukuna seems to agree. He nudges the both of you closer with the blunt force of his snout, nearly toppling you into Satoru’s lap. The dragon huffs smoke, satisfied, before curling into the stone and laying his head flat as though to say, Now behave.

You should shove Satoru away. You should storm off, make the climb down the cliffs yourself, risk the dark. Anything but this.

The adrenaline of the fight still thrums through your veins. Your pulse hasn’t slowed since you saw him bound on his knees, blood dripping from his temple, smirking like a madman even then. You remember the feel of the ropes cutting your palms as you freed him, the wild terror that maybe you’d been too late.

Maybe that’s why you don’t shove him away. Maybe that’s why you let him close the distance, why your lips meet his halfway in a kiss that’s less a decision and more a consequence, inevitable as the tide.

It’s clumsy, at first. You’re too angry, he’s too smug. But he softens into it, just a little, and you hate the way the ground seems to tilt under your feet, how the world narrows to salt air and warmth and the reckless promise of him.

When you finally break apart, breathless, Satoru grins like he’s just won a war.

“Knew you liked me,” he says, blue eyes sparkling.

You shove him hard in the shoulder, though your face burns. “That was for Sukuna,” you say.

The dragon rumbles again, smug as any beast can be. Satoru only laughs, tipping his head back, and pulls you in for another kiss.

It’s ecstatic, the feel of Satoru’s tongue lapping at your folds.

His tongue is wet and hot as it laps over the sensitive nerves, and you can feel the way he hums happily as he laps at the juices that drip onto his waiting mouth. You’re sure his face is going to be covered in your slick by the end of this, but it seems like he couldn’t care less, if his moans and groans are any indication. Your fingers tangle in his white strands of hair, gripping hard to keep him where you want him. His arms are wrapped around your legs, keeping them open as he feasts on your cunt. You can see the muscles in his back flexing as he tries to get closer, get deeper, and you can only hold on for dear life, feeling the way he drives you higher and higher towards your orgasm.

Satoru is making a mess of himself, and you know he has a thing for being covered in your slick.

The moment the thought passes through your head, you can’t help the cry that escapes, a full-body shiver wracking through your body. He groans into you, the sound vibrating against your skin, and you feel his tongue move in a way that you know has him spelling his name, over and over again. You tug at his hair, trying to move him, but his arms tighten and he doesn’t budge.

You let out a moan, trying to speak. “Satoru, I—I need you. Inside me. Now.”

He wraps his lips around your clit, sucking harshly. “One more, gorgeous. Give me one more, and then I’m all yours.”

You whine, feeling the heat in your stomach build, and Satoru continues to eat you out. Your back arches off the bed, and you grip his hair tighter. Your thighs start to close around him; he lets go of one of your legs to press two fingers into your heat, pressing right into that spot that has you crying out his name, curling his fingers as his tongue flicks rapidly over your clit. Your body shakes, and you cry out his name, feeling the way your cunt tightens and throbs around his fingers.

Satoru groans, moving his face away from your core and watching as the aftershocks of your orgasm make your body tremble. He pumps his fingers slowly, prolonging your pleasure, and you whine at the sensitivity.

He smiles softly, kissing the inside of your thigh, before removing his fingers, bringing them to his mouth and licking the juices that cover them. He lets out a pleased moan, eyes locked onto yours, and moves to kiss you.

His lips are warm, and you taste yourself on his tongue. It only serves to rile you up more when you feel the way his cock throbs where it presses against your thigh. You raise your legs to wrap them around his hips, and you push him lightly. Satoru moves willingly, letting out a moan as he lies on his back. He grips the sheets in anticipation, watching as you straddle his lap. He groans, feeling the way your cunt settles on his thighs. You smile, running a finger down his chest, and he bucks his hips in response.

You let out a gasp when the tip of his cock rubs against your folds. He moans.

Satoru’s hands grip your hips tightly, and his thumb rubs circles on your skin. You can feel the way he trembles under you. Your hand wraps around his cock, pumping lightly; he whines. You position the tip at your entrance, rubbing it against your clit, and moan.

“Stop teasing,” he groans, and you grin.

“Or what?” you taunt, grinding against his length. “Are you going to punish me, Satoru?”

He growls, hips jerking upwards. You gasp, feeling the tip rub against your folds, catching at your slit, and try to lower yourself. But Satoru tightens his hold, not letting you sink further onto his cock. You glare at him.

“I should,” he says, and suddenly his arms are around you, flipping you onto your back.

He settles between your thighs, his arms framing either side of your head. His hair falls into his eyes, and you can feel his cock brushing against your folds. You move your arms to wrap around his shoulders, nails scratching lightly down his back.

Satoru groans, burying his head in your neck, nipping lightly.

“Fuck,” you breathe out, feeling his hips jerk.

The tip of his cock rubs against your clit again. He lets out a breathless laugh.

“I will,” he responds—only to be interrupted by a loud, keening wail from outside your cottage door.

The sound is so piercing, so demanding, that for a moment you think some villager has wandered into mortal peril right outside your door. But no—no, you recognise that guttural, almost petulant cry. You and Satoru both freeze.

“Was that—” you start.

Another wail, louder this time, rattles the hinges of your cottage, followed by the unmistakable scrape of claws against wood.

Satoru drops his forehead against your collarbone. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

The Night Fury wails again, insistent, tail thudding against the doorframe. You bite back a laugh, half-giddy, half-exasperated, and say, “I think someone wants attention.”

Satoru lifts his head, hair mussed and eyes narrowed. “He’s the worst cockblock in history,” he mutters. “Tell him to go hunt some haddock or terrorise the chickens, or—Gods, literally anything else.”

The next sound isn’t just a wail. It’s a low, mournful croon that slides under your ribs and squeezes. Sukuna isn’t just loud—he’s lonely.

You soften, even as Satoru makes a strangled noise of despair above you. “Satoru…”

“No,” he says, rolling off you onto his back. “No, no, don’t you dare give him those eyes. He doesn’t deserve those eyes. I was right there, gorgeous—right there.”

You’re already tugging your tunic back over your shoulders, laughing despite the ache in your belly. “He’ll tear the cottage down if we don’t.”

Satoru throws an arm over his face, groaning into the crook of his elbow. “I hate him. I actually hate him.”

But when you slip to the door and crack it open, Sukuna is there, his massive head lowered to the threshold, those garnet eyes glowing with expectation. He snorts the moment he sees you, bumping his snout against your chest.

“Alright, alright,” you murmur, your hands automatically smoothing over his warm snout. “Head pats. Happy?”

Sukuna rumbles, pressing harder into your palm. Satoru groans again. “Unbelievable. My dragon just stole my girl. I’m doomed.”

You glance over your shoulder to find him sprawled on the bed, hair a disaster, chest heaving, the blankets thrown over the lower half of his body. He’s sulking. You grin.

“Maybe he just knows when to step in,” you tease, scratching gently at Sukuna’s scales.

“Step in? He barged in.”

Sukuna lets out a little huff and nuzzles harder against your hand.

Satoru groans once more, louder this time, dragging the pillow over his face. “I’m moving out.”

a/n: thanks for reading! i have a habit of turning sukuna into animals lol he was also a horse in my old gojo tangled!au

[cumironi]

— horny and in love. what a time to be alive.

feat. yuuta okkotsu

summary. what did he get after coming back from Africa? a fucking huge ego and the nerve to make you fall in love more. which, isss so fucking unfair not that you have to make him ask you to be his girlfriend.

triggers/warnings. fluff, emotionally constipated yuuta, dumbass to lover pipeline, soft virgin $ex (implied), first time, mutual pining explosion, goofy flirting to full-on intimacy, extremely affectionate makeout session, long slow kiss descriptions, teasing turned sincere, gentle undressing, consent check (verbal), heavy petting, reader-on-top position, soft dom yuuta, praise kink (gentle), internal ejaculation (mentioned), implied aftercare, lots of “i love you” mid-thrust energy, dumb relationship talk, boyfriend reveal post-orgasm, soft but emotionally unhinged dialogue, swearing / explicit language.

it was that kind of twilight where the sky went lilac, like it couldn’t decide whether to die down or scream one last color into the day, and the courtyard between dorms hummed with the lazy static of summer insects drunk off heat. your legs stuck a little with every step, your thighs brushing as your too-short cotton strawberry-print sleep shorts rode up—not because you’d rolled them, but because they were honest-to-god tragic at staying down where they were supposed to. the white t-shirt hung shapeless and limp, just long enough to look like you weren’t trying to be indecent, just short enough to flash a whisper of lower belly if the breeze kicked up. your hair was a half-washed mess. no bra. no socks. this was war.

plastic bag of snacks swinging off your wrist, crinkling loud enough to announce you two corners away, you clutched it like a peace offering, or a bribe, or a confession. everything in it had a story: the milk soda gummies he’d once nearly cried over. that dumb pink shrimp chip brand you always fought over because the flavor was “emotionally damaging” (his words). a tiny green tea cake with icing you’d pressed your thumb into by accident. the whole bag smelled like saccharine surrender. you hadn’t seen him in months.

yuuta had been sent to africa—yes, the continent, not the band—because gojo had gotten it into his hollow skull that yuuta needed “recalibration,” like he was a satellite that went a little too sharp after the shibuya aftermath. the accident—those cursed children, that nightmarish tangle of residuals, the stupid thing with the shrine and the way his voice cracked saying “i didn’t mean to—” right before gojo shoved him on a plane—had left him looped up in his own head. not dangerous, not even spiraling. just… too tuned in. too raw. so gojo, in his infinite “big brother but worse” wisdom, had sent him away. not to punish, not to exile. just to breathe somewhere far enough that even his regrets would echo slower.

you had hated him for it. not yuuta. gojo. because you missed him. and because you didn’t know how to say it.

he had texted, of course. photos of monkeys stealing his food. long meandering voice notes about heatstroke and rogue cursed spirits in old mining towns. one audio message that was just six minutes of wind and then “...it smells like burnt cinnamon here, isn’t that weird?” and then more wind. you’d replayed that one until the file started glitching.

now he was back.

you walked up the stairs with knees that didn’t work right, heartbeat like a stray drumroll in your chest. the hallway smelled like that vaguely bleachy institution-funk, overlaid with someone cooking too much garlic too late. but his door was the one with the taped-up polaroid of a lizard on the peephole—he’d named it jerry and claimed it once saved his life in botswana by pointing at a cursed talisman with its tail (you didn’t believe a word but loved him for trying)—and it stood exactly as you remembered. slightly misaligned. always looked like it wanted to be a secret.

you stood there too long. shifted the snack bag from left to right. considered fleeing. considered kicking the door down. did neither.

instead, you knocked. once. twice. then a little impatient third one that said “hey, i’m still me.”

the hallway was quiet.

your hand still hovered, a little curl of fingers like maybe you'd knock again but also maybe you'd just rest it there and feel how solid the door was between you. it didn’t matter. the moment had already bent in that soft surreal way, like a movie scene that couldn’t decide if it was a comedy or a tragic romance. behind that door was him. your friend. the dumbass with the soft hands and the eyes like old moonlight and a voice that didn’t realize it made you ache.

you licked your lips, wiped your palm on your thigh. you told yourself you were ready.

the plastic bag rustled. it sounded like a heartbeat.

the door opened with a click that sounded way too loud for the sleepy summer hallway and maybe also a little like the climax of a drama scene about to spiral into something stupid and irreversible, and there he was—yuuta okkotsu, fucking alive, standing barefoot in the doorway like he’d just walked off a fever dream you had eight weeks ago, except realer and worse, because reality had done something to him that memory never could: it made him taller.

not metaphorically taller, not emotionally expanded, not some symbolic “he grew while he was away” bullshit—no. he was literally, absolutely taller, which was rude as hell because you were already tragically average and now standing in front of him, your face came up to his stupid newly-broadened neck and you had to tilt your head back to look at his face and that made your neck hurt and now everything was his fault. again.

“whoa,” he said, voice a little low and scratchy like he hadn’t talked much today, maybe a little sleepstill lingering at the edges, but then he smirked, and it was the kind of slow curling thing that should’ve come with a health warning. “what the hell are you wearing?”

you didn’t answer. couldn’t, really. because your brain short-circuited the moment your eyes tracked the line of his collarbone visible through that worn white t-shirt—the one clinging just enough to expose the ghost of his abs underneath, because apparently he had those now, just a casual six-pack sculpted out of trauma and climate change and moral injury—and then lower, to where the hem of the shirt barely brushed the waistband of those indecently low athletic shorts. shorts that screamed “i don’t own dignity” but in a confident way. and legs. endless, lean, travel-worn legs like he’d gone on a side quest for new muscles.

his hair was parted to the side, a little messy but shaped like it meant to be, probably from running his fingers through it a hundred times, and his eyes were brighter than you remembered—not in that overworked, glassy way he used to have, but something steadier, like he’d seen some shit and come back joking about it. and his smile was sharp now. not mean. just sharper. more boyish menace than anxious darling.

“you okay?” he asked, still holding the door open, leaning one shoulder against the frame like he’d taken a class in posing over there. “you’ve been standing there like i’m a ghost. is this the part where you tell me i’ve been dead the whole time?”

“no,” you blurted, then immediately hated how your voice cracked like a teenage boy about to confess his love to the back of a girl’s head in a shoujo anime. “no, you’re just—i didn’t realize you’d... grow vertically.”

he raised an eyebrow, eyes flicking down, dramatically, then back up. “you’re just short.”

“liar. you’re taller than before.”

“am i?” he tilted his head. “i thought you just shrank. maybe that’s what all the strawberry-print shorts are doing to your brain. estrogen shrinkage. is that a thing?”

“you look like a backup dancer for a washed-up j-pop group,” you fired back, finally stepping past him into the dorm, brushing his shoulder on the way, pretending it didn’t buzz like an electric fence when you touched him. “no right looking like that at home. i almost dropped the snacks.”

“the what now?” he snatched the bag from your wrist with a dramatic flourish and held it up like it was the holy grail, peering inside. “is this—are these shrimp chips? you do love me.”

“i didn’t say that.”

“your shorts said it for you.”

“fuck you.”

he shut the door behind you with a little too much smugness in the click, dropped the snack bag onto his desk like it was a reward for something he didn’t work for, and turned to look at you fully. “okay, but seriously. hi. you look... like you lost a fight with a dryer, and then won the war of being adorable.”

“you’ve been back for five minutes and i already regret everything.”

“but you missed me.” his voice dropped just half a note, not sultry, not teasing—just confident, and you hated that it made your stomach go soft and fluttery like a tragic anime side character about to say something embarrassing and get hit by a car. “you missed me so bad, didn’t you?”

“i missed you like a hole in the head.”

“that’s still a kind of love,” he grinned, stepping closer, just a little, enough to tilt his head down so his forehead almost bumped yours. “cursed and irreversible.”

you tried to back up, hit his desk instead. fuck.

“you’re an idiot.”

“you look like you wanna cry.”

“i do. because of your face.”

“because you love my face.”

“yuuta.”

he laughed, that soft exhale kind of laugh, warm and real and too close. his fingers grazed the snack bag again. your heart forgot how to perform basic rhythm.

you hated him. you hated how he looked better than before. more whole. more like himself. and that he wasn’t scared anymore. and that now you didn’t know if you were allowed to want him without breaking something.

“so,” he said, turning to open the mini fridge, crouching slightly, letting his shirt ride up so you could see the shadow of his lower back and the waistband of his shorts pulling low, “what’s the plan, captain? movie night? tears? declaration of undying devotion? all of the above?”

you hated him. you hated that he knew. that he was waiting.

but you were here now. no takebacks. and your knees had already lost the ability to lock.

you said, “movie night.”

he grinned again, not looking back. “mmhm. coward.”

you stared at him for a second too long, a long dumb second where he was still bent over with the fridge door hanging open and the lamplight just so, highlighting the curve of his spine and the soft dip of muscle above his waistband, and he was rattling a soda can around like it owed him something, humming some godawful off-key jingle under his breath while absolutely oblivious to the fact that you were contemplating both murder and marriage at the same time. and that was dangerous. because the moment you started thinking thoughts like his back looks like a religious experience and i want to punch him in the throat, you were in too deep.

so you did the only thing your tragically flustered nervous system allowed: you walked up and kicked him square in the shin.

“ow—fuck, what the hell,” he yelped, straightening with the drama of a man shot in war, dropping the soda in the process which landed with a thud and rolled under the desk like it knew what was good for it. “was that necessary?”

“yes,” you said, stepping around him like he was debris, heading straight for the tiny kitchenette shoved into the corner of the dorm like an afterthought. the popcorn bag was already in your hand, pre-buttered and microwavable and honestly the only real symbol of stability in your life at the moment. you yanked open his one cabinet, found a bowl shaped like it had been purchased in a panic, and set it down with the finality of someone trying very hard not to scream. “i am asserting dominance.”

“by kicking me like a rabid toddler?” he called from behind you, and you heard the stupid amusement in his voice, the I’m-smiling-but-I’m-also-plotting kind of grin that made you want to wrap your legs around his head and drown him in it. “wow. you really did miss me.”

you ignored him, shoved the bag into the microwave and typed in numbers that weren’t the time but felt emotionally correct. then you heard it—that sound. the soft, quiet approach. sockless feet brushing linoleum. and then—

his fingers in your hair.

it started small. just a gentle flick, like he was testing the texture, maybe reminding himself what it felt like to touch you. and you told yourself you weren’t going to react. you were strong. you were composed. you had kicked him in the shin, for god’s sake.

then he twirled a strand, slow and deliberate, looping it once, twice around his index finger like he was braiding the concept of being insufferable. and he was close. not body-pressed-close, not oh-no-we’re-about-to-kiss close—worse. emotionally close. best-friend-who-knows-what-makes-you-crack close. and that was the real danger zone.

“i don’t remember giving you permission,” you mumbled, not looking back, hands busy pretending to rearrange popcorn bags that didn’t need rearranging.

“you didn’t,” he said, twirling harder, tugging it gently like he was testing how far he could go before you screamed. “but it’s not like you’re gonna stop me.”

“you’re violating the geneva convention right now.”

“it’s hair. not nuclear arms.”

“i will scalp you.”

“hot.”

you froze for a half-second, horrified by the small laugh that slipped out of your own throat, because how dare he be funny and disgusting and weirdly charming all at once. and the worst part? the actual worst part? his fingers were still in your hair. just resting there now, tangled lazy, like he belonged. like you were a thing he was allowed to touch. and your whole body was doing that thing again—heat in the gut, soft static under your skin, a flush crawling its way up your neck like shame dressed as desire.

“i hate you.”

“you keep saying that but you’re not convincing,” he said, voice close to your ear now, low and amused and awful and warm. “you didn’t even flinch.”

“i’m biding my time. waiting for the perfect moment to shiv you with a butter knife.”

“you are so bad at pretending you don’t love me,” he whispered, fingers giving your hair one last tug, then releasing like he hadn’t just incinerated every single one of your higher brain functions.

you whipped around, popcorn forgotten, bowl cradled in your hands like a weapon. “you’re the most annoying man i’ve ever met.”

“you’ve only met like four men.”

“and three of them were fictional.”

“and you still picked me.” he grinned, then leaned in so close you could count every unfair eyelash, all fluttery and boyish and violent. “tragic.”

you opened your mouth to say something—anything—but the microwave dinged, loud and shrill like an alarm you didn’t set, and both of you jumped. he stepped back, smirking like the devil in gym shorts.

you hated him.

you also loved him.

but that wasn’t the point.

you reached past him to yank open the microwave, your arm brushing his chest on the way, and you could feel the heat of him, the bare skin under that translucent white shirt, like he’d been designed in a lab to make you clinically insane.

he didn’t move.

you didn’t either.

not yet.

fast forward past the microwave war crimes and the traumatic realization that the strawberry-print shorts rode up every time you bent even slightly, past the part where he insisted on filling a second bowl “for tactical snack separation” and then immediately kept both within his reach like a possessive gremlin, past the flickering mental images of throttling him versus maybe gently kissing him just to shut him up—it was later now, and you were on his bed, which felt like a decision made under spiritual duress.

you were laying on your stomach like a lazy sea creature, arms folded under the ridiculous puff of one of his old pillows, probably the one he drooled on based on how aggressively it smelled like shampoo and existentialism. the tv on his desk across the room played soft flickers of color over your bare legs, the blue hue of a night scene washing over your skin like cinematic bathwater. the pillow squished your ribs uncomfortably but you refused to move because you were locked in a delicate standoff between comfort and pride. your shirt had ridden up, naturally. you ignored it. you were committed to the bit.

he was leaned back against the headboard beside you, long legs stretched out like a relaxed golden retriever who knew he owned the whole damn room, the popcorn bowl balanced delicately between the two of you, technically for sharing but realistically under his complete jurisdiction. every now and then, when you reached for some, he’d shift the bowl slightly like a petty little landlord, then smirk when you glared without heat.

“this is a hate crime,” you muttered, palm in the bowl fishing blindly for something that wasn’t just kernels and betrayal.

“this is a romantic crime,” yuuta corrected, chewing obnoxiously loud next to your ear. “we’re bonding. we’re creating memories. you’re gonna look back at this one day and cry.”

“i’m gonna look back and sue.”

“i’m gonna bring this up in my vows.”

“what vows—are you marrying my corpse?”

“god, you’re so dramatic,” he said, nudging the bowl toward your face just as you gave up. “here. have a sympathy handful, you absolute victim.”

you grumbled something incoherent but shoved your hand in before he changed his mind. your fingers touched his for a second and he didn’t flinch, just looked down at you with that dumb fondness in his eyes like he’d won a prize at the fair and couldn’t decide whether to eat it or keep it on his shelf forever.

on screen, ana steel was currently having her lip bitten by christian grey for the twelfth time in twenty minutes.

“i can’t believe you made me watch this,” you groaned, mouth full of popcorn, turning your face into the pillow like it might drown out the secondhand embarrassment.

“excuse me?” he gasped, mock horror fully engaged. “i am blessing you with culture.”

“you made me watch a billionaire man-child stalk a woman into a bdsm contract.”

“and he bought her a car,” yuuta pointed out, as if that somehow absolved the war crimes happening on screen.

“he sold her car without asking.”

“okay, that part was unhinged,” he admitted, stuffing another handful into his mouth. “but also kind of hot, like in a ‘don’t do this but also do this if you’re rich and emotionally damaged’ way.”

you turned your head to look up at him, chin digging into the pillow, eyebrows furrowed. “so you identify with him?”

he didn’t miss a beat. “i identify with ana.”

you snorted so hard you nearly inhaled a kernel.

“what, like you want someone to rescue you with their trauma and a playroom full of sex toys?” you asked, half choking on laughter.

“no,” he said, stretching his arms behind his head with criminal smugness, “i want someone to look at me like that and let me sign a contract that outlines exactly how often i’m allowed to be annoying.”

you rolled your eyes so hard you almost left your body.

“god, you’re insufferable.”

“but lovable,” he added, nudging your shoulder with his knee. “admit it. you like watching horny garbage with me.”

you didn’t answer right away, just flopped your face sideways into the pillow again, watching the screen, because the thing was—this was maybe the dumbest and coziest version of hell you’d ever experienced. the soft weight of his blanket tangled over both your legs. the occasional crunch as he kept eating your popcorn with the rhythm of a man chewing through existential dread. the quiet hum of the fan above you both. his presence looming, always just close enough to lean into. or over. or on.

“you’re the garbage,” you finally said, voice muffled. “the movie is fine.”

“awww,” he cooed, leaning down, voice dripping with weaponized smugness. “is that your love language? bullying me into intimacy?”

“don’t flatter yourself, grey.”

he reached over and tugged at your shirt gently, pulling the hem down over the small of your back, only to immediately pull it back up again like he was testing how much he could get away with. you smacked his hand blindly, but it made you laugh anyway, because this was him—yuuta fucking okkotsu, sweet and mean and flirty and dumb as a brick in love’s stupidest architecture. and you hated how soft it made you feel, how completely unguarded and ridiculous and… happy.

“we should recreate the elevator scene,” he whispered suddenly, like a war criminal.

“i will push you down the stairs.”

“you’re no fun. i could be your emotionally stunted dom.”

“you literally cry at those dog rescue videos.”

“emotional depth isn’t a crime.”

“you own one pair of handcuffs and they’re for cosplay.”

he gasped like you’d just ruined his career. “you promised never to bring that up.”

“you wore them to the school halloween party and said you were ‘sexy rehabilitation.’”

“and it worked! i won second place! gojo voted for me!”

you couldn’t breathe. your face was buried in the pillow again but this time from hysterics, your body shaking against the mattress while the movie’s dramatic music swelled in the background, completely ignored. he reached down and started playing with your hair again, soft and absentminded, fingers running over strands and occasionally tugging just to make you twitch.

“you’re the worst,” you muttered into the fabric.

“i’m your worst,” he said, and it was so quiet, so offhand, so horribly gentle that you had to close your eyes for a second and hold your breath just to survive it.

the tv glowed soft and blue. the popcorn was half gone. and yuuta’s fingers were still tangled in your hair like they’d never stopped.

you don’t remember when the popcorn bowl was exiled to the floor like a fallen soldier, when his knees bent to cage your hips in place, one on either side like he wasn’t subtly climbing you like a tree, like he didn’t just decide that personal space was a capitalist lie invented to keep you from enjoying the sheer horror of his presence, but suddenly there he was—perched over you like a smug gargoyle with perfect posture and absolutely no sense of shame, one hand tangled in your hair again, the other casually draped over the small of your back like he was claiming territory or maybe measuring how far he could push you before you screamed into his pillow.

you were still lying on your stomach, still pinned to his stupid bed with your stupid dignity melting through the mattress like slow death, still pretending you were unaffected by the fact that he was now fully lounging on top of you like a sunbathing menace, his weight gentle but inevitable, like gravity got a personality disorder and started flirting.

“you know,” he drawled, voice sliding right beside your ear like a heat rash in audio form, “if i didn’t know better, i’d say you planned this.”

you tried to lift your head but his palm gently but very firmly pressed it back into the pillow with the same exact energy as someone telling a golden retriever to “stay.” your voice came out muffled, somewhere between indignation and a breakdown. “planned what? the fucking suffocation?”

“you brought snacks,” he said with a completely unserious shrug you could feel vibrate through your entire spine. “you wore the shorts. you’re lying on my bed like a sacrificial offering. i’m just connecting the dots.”

“you’re connecting shit. you’re a conspiracy theorist with a god complex.”

“mmm,” he hummed, tracing a lazy circle between your shoulder blades with one finger. “god’s out of office. i’m your problem now.”

you flailed halfheartedly, kicked one heel back into his thigh. “i’m filing a complaint.”

“please do,” he said brightly. “i love getting fan mail.”

“you’re so—so annoying.”

“you’re blushing,” he said.

“i’m overheating under your weird emotionally co-dependent weight.”

he bent low enough that his breath tickled the back of your neck and you wanted to slap him and kiss him and throw yourself out the window in equal measure. “you like it. just admit it. you like when i’m all clingy and dramatic and a little mean. you missed me. so bad. like it hurt.”

you choked on a noise that wasn’t a denial. it might’ve been a dying bird. maybe a baby crying. the tv was still playing in the background, some intense jazz instrumental under a scene where christian grey was earnestly making eye contact while unzipping something. you hated this. you loved this. you wanted to throw the remote at his head and then press your mouth to his collarbone like you could bite the word finally into his skin.

“you’re getting cocky,” you whispered, tilting your chin just enough to glance up at him, your face twisted in dramatic pain. “something happened to you out there. in africa. the mosquitoes gave you a superiority complex.”

he laughed, short and loud and delighted, collapsing just slightly more against you, his chest brushing your back in a way that felt like someone turning a page too slowly. “nah. you just forgot i was a menace before i left. it’s all coming back now, isn’t it?”

“i blocked it out for my mental health.”

“you missed me so much you forgot your own coping strategies.”

“you’re projecting.”

“you cried when i posted that video of the meerkat hugging the baby goat.”

“because i have empathy.”

“you sent it to me with ‘this is us.’”

“because you’re the goat and i’m the burdened soul holding on for dear life.”

he snorted, finally rolling just enough to the side so his weight settled against your hip instead of directly on your back, one leg still draped over yours like he was trying to win a game of human jenga. “you love me.”

you groaned, pulling the pillow over your face. “stop saying that.”

“say it back, coward.”

“no.”

“say it.”

“absolutely not.”

“say you love me or i’ll quote the contract scene verbatim.”

“i dare you.”

he took a deep breath.

you shrieked, flung the pillow directly into his face, which he caught with both hands while wheezing with laughter. “you fucking menace. you—how do you still know the words? do you memorize garbage?”

“yes. and you. same folder. same cherished label.”

you glared at him. he was laughing so hard his cheeks were flushed, his hair a mess again from rolling over too much, one curl sticking to his temple with sweat and popcorn grease, and the sight of him—real and here and loud and breathing all over bed space—hit you so hard you went still for a second, like your body realized before your brain did that this was the moment, the moment, the breath before you said something you couldn’t walk back.

his eyes caught yours. quiet for once. sincere. amused, yes, always, but... waiting.

“you are so fucking annoying,” you whispered.

“you’re stalling,” he whispered back.

“you smell like corn butter and laundry detergent.”

“say it.”

“you’re ugly.”

“say it.”

“you’re literally the worst person—”

he grabbed your jaw. not hard, not rough—just enough to tilt your chin up and look you in the eye, eyes glinting with something unbearable and infuriating and stupidly, ridiculously beautiful. “say it, or i’m gonna say it first and you’ll be mad about it for the next thirty years.”

your chest hurt.

your legs tingled.

your mouth was dry and also stupid.

“i love you,” you said, like it was a dare.

he blinked.

paused.

then, grinning like a man who just pulled off the greatest heist of his life, he leaned down, brushed your nose with his, and whispered—

“took you fucking long enough.”

you wanted to hit him. not with your fist. with a book, probably, or maybe a bag of frozen peas, or something heavy and full of metaphor like the complete works of shakespeare annotated by someone with too much time and a vendetta. because he was smiling now, but it wasn’t even a normal person’s smile—it was a stupid, slow, predatory, cat-that-ate-the-whole-zoo grin, the kind of smile that said “i’ve already won and now i’m just here to gloat about it while reclining dramatically on your grave.”

he was leaning in, still half-laughing, half-devastating, his forehead brushing yours again like he couldn’t quite resist the gravitational pull of your face and the disaster inside it. your breath hitched and your brain short-circuited and all your blood decided to throw a rave in your ears. you couldn’t look at him. so, obviously, you did.

“say it again,” he whispered, and the worst part was that he wasn’t even trying to be hot. he was just obnoxious and needy and chronically underloved in the most annoying way possible, which made it ten thousand times worse, because now he’d tasted victory and he wanted seconds.

“you didn’t even say it back,” you said, mouth dry, fingers curling into the pillow like it owed you emotional support. “why should i go again if you’re gonna keep holding your words hostage?”

“oh,” he said, tilting his head dramatically like a villain who just heard a plot twist. “do you think this is transactional?”

“everything’s transactional when your heart is on fire,” you snapped, voice high and stupid and a little wobbly.

“jesus christ,” he breathed, grinning wider, “you are in love with me.”

“no, i’m just suffering.”

“same thing.”

you made a sound. an actual sound, like a dying kettle or a kettle that’s just learned about taxes, and buried your face in the pillow again, except this time he didn’t let you escape. he grabbed your shoulders and pulled you back, just enough to keep you looking at him, just enough to make you feel every inch of him, the soft weight of his thigh over yours, the heat of his hand wrapped around your arm, his breath a lazy ghost near your cheek.

“okay,” he said, voice lower now, still soft but stupidly smug, “you ready?”

“for what,” you mumbled.

he raised a single, unnecessary eyebrow. “i’m gonna say it back. you better not cry. or kiss me. or cry while kissing me.”

“i am deeply unattracted to you right now.”

“shut up.”

you did.

he took a breath. unnecessarily long. dramatic as hell. he looked like he was about to deliver a monologue on a stage with a spotlight, except instead it was just you and him and the flickering tv in the background showing a guy tying a tie around someone’s wrists, and the half-empty popcorn bowl on the floor like the saddest metaphor for your relationship.

“i love you,” he said, finally, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, like it wasn’t news, like he hadn’t already been living it out loud every day since you met.

you blinked.

he blinked back.

then: “there. now we’re even. now it’s not weird anymore.”

“it’s still weird.”

“you’re weird.”

“you love someone who’s weird.”

“you’re right,” he said. “i’ve got horrible taste.”

you tried to shove him off the bed. he caught you by the waist and laughed so loud you swore someone in the next room probably heard, and you didn’t even care anymore because it was so easy now—laughing with him, being angry with him, being alive with him—it all made the same kind of impossible sense.

you fell back against the mattress, still tangled in him, still dumbfounded by how something so long-simmering could feel so sudden, so now. and he was staring at you again with that specific kind of expression that should be illegal—soft and knowing and just a little too satisfied with himself, like he’d cracked the code to life and it was just your name on repeat.

“you’re gonna marry me one day,” he said casually, like he was mentioning the weather.

“oh my god,” you groaned. “please shut the fuck up.”

“you are,” he insisted, lying flat beside you now, one arm under his head, the other tracing the hem of your shirt with a pinky like he wasn’t doing it on purpose. “we’re gonna fight over dishes and have a weird little dog named knife and every time we argue i’ll remind you that you confessed first.”

“you’re a walking restraining order.”

“and you fell in love with me. tragic.”

you turned your head to glare at him. he was so close his breath hit your cheek every time he exhaled. his eyes were stars and graveyards. his mouth was curled in that same stupid smile that made your stomach try to escape out your knees.

“yuuta.”

“yes, my beloved nemesis.”

“if you don’t shut up in the next five seconds i’m going to kiss you so hard it’ll reset your nervous system.”

“that’s the opposite of a threat.”

you lunged.

and he caught you.

and he kissed you like he’d already been kissing you for years. not perfect. not polished. just yours. messy, crooked, smiling into your mouth kind of kissing, hands in your hair, your fingers twisting in his shirt, legs tangled and breathless and stupid. kissing like a fight and a promise and an inside joke all at once.

when you pulled back, he was already laughing.

“told you you’d cry while kissing me,” he said, wiping under your eye with his thumb like the smug idiot he was.

you slapped his hand away.

and then you kissed him again.

it was deranged, truly, how fast the air changed—one second you were sprawled like a corpse of sarcasm and poor life choices on your stomach, cheeks warm, laughing against his mouth, his fingers still in your hair like they’d grown roots there, like they were meant to stay, the whole room vibrating with that ridiculous bubble of mutual idiocy and love and “did that really just happen?”—and the next thing you knew, he was shifting, moving with that new, awful confidence like he’d been holding back for years and the dam finally cracked. your brain barely registered the shift in weight before he sat up fully, legs folding beneath him, his hands sliding down your sides with terrifying purpose, and you were the one who ended up on his lap, straddling him like you’d been doing it since the dawn of time and the world just hadn’t caught on yet.

the tv was off. when had the tv turned off? it didn’t matter. the screen was black now, and you could see your own reflection in it behind his shoulder—wide eyes, wild hair, expression like someone who’d just been told the apocalypse was romantic—and the room was dim, barely lit by the single desk lamp glowing soft yellow, its bulb on its last legs, everything cloaked in that kind of warmth that made skin look flushed and intentions look softer than they really were.

you didn’t remember putting your hands on his shoulders. you didn’t remember him pulling you closer. but there you were, knees pressed against the outsides of his thighs, his palms anchored at your waist like you were something solid, something worth holding onto even now, especially now, and his thumbs were rubbing gentle circles through the hem of your stupid strawberry-print shorts and you could feel the electricity behind his breathing, tight and shallow and not teasing anymore.

no more games. no more sharp-edged banter. just this.

“you’re quiet,” he whispered, voice the softest it had been all night, reverent almost, like he was afraid if he said it too loud the moment would fold in on itself.

“i’m overwhelmed,” you answered, honestly, stupidly, because you couldn’t lie to him anymore, not now, not when his mouth was this close and his hands felt like home. “you’re being—serious.”

he blinked, slow and soft, then smiled—not the usual grin, not the toothy, boyish mischief. this one was small. sad in the corners. sweet in a way that hurt.

“i’m always serious with you,” he said, brushing his nose against yours like punctuation.

“no, you’re not,” you laughed, even as your voice trembled. “you’re a menace.”

“a menace who’s in love with you,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the edge of your jaw, a soft thing that made your entire ribcage vibrate. “deeply. irrevocably. stupidly.”

“you forgot ‘violently’,” you whispered.

he kissed the corner of your mouth. “violently,” he echoed.

then he kissed you. properly. finally. again.

but this time it was different—no more smirking into the press of lips, no more tongue-in-cheek or cocky little nips meant to drive you crazy. this was slower. deeper. like something he’d been holding in his lungs for a decade and now he could finally let it out. he kissed you like he wanted to memorize every reaction, every shift in breath, every way your hands trembled slightly against the curve of his neck when he tilted his head just right and exhaled into you like a confession he couldn’t quite say out loud yet.

his mouth moved against yours with that awful sweetness that made your knees weak even though you weren’t standing, the kind of kiss that said stay. the kind of kiss that didn’t have to ask.

your hands slid into his hair before you even thought about it, fingers tangling in those soft strands, pulling him closer like it wasn’t enough, like it would never be enough. and he let you, of course he did, tilting into your grip, mouth parting just enough for your teeth to catch his bottom lip and make him sigh—a sound so soft and desperate it knocked every thought straight out of your head.

his arms wrapped around you tighter, one slipping under your shirt like he needed proof you were really there, fingertips ghosting up your spine, warm and shaking and tender. he kissed you again, and again, in between breaths like he was scared the distance might kill him.

“fuck,” he breathed against your mouth, his voice breaking around the edges now, none of that performative sass left, just raw affection and nerves and that unbearable sincerity that always lived under the mess. “i missed you so much it made me fucking sick.”

you closed your eyes. rested your forehead against his. let your nose bump his cheek. let your entire body lean into him like the safest place in the world.

“i thought about you every day,” you whispered. “like a freak. like some pathetic little lovesick idiot.”

he kissed your cheek. your temple. your chin. “yeah,” he said, “same. we’re freaks together.”

“soulmates in idiocy.”

“co-presidents of the tragic dumbass society.”

“yuuta.”

he looked up at you again, eyes wide and stupid and full of too much feeling.

“yeah?”

“don’t stop,” you whispered.

so he didn’t. he kissed you again. again. again. slower now. messier. the kind of kiss you fell into and never came back from. the kind that changed your blood type.

you didn’t know where this was going. you didn’t care. all you knew was this—his hands on you, his voice in your ear, his mouth against yours like he was trying to rewrite your entire existence one breath at a time.

and god, it worked.

he kissed you like he was running out of time and breath and restraint, like every press of his mouth against yours was both apology and reward, thank you and finally, and it didn’t feel like escalation, didn’t feel like foreplay or some slippery slope into the inevitable—it felt like something older than either of you, something pulled up from under your skin and cracked open between your teeth. you could barely think. you were breathing through him, your whole world tilted on its axis and centered now around the place where your hips were pressed against his, knees bracketing his thighs, your hands still tight in his hair because if you let go you might float straight out of your body and never come back.

his palms splayed across your back like he was trying to memorize the exact pressure needed to keep you tethered, moving in soft little circles that made you shiver even though the room was hot, and his tongue flicked against your lower lip again and again, coaxing little sighs out of your throat that made him groan like he was the one unraveling. and maybe he was. maybe you both were. maybe this was the only way either of you knew how to be real—half-laughing, half-crying, wrapped around each other like idiots in love and out of options.

you dragged your mouth away long enough to gasp, “we’re so dumb.”

and he, breathless and flushed and grinning like the devil had just offered him a promotion, replied, “yeah, but we’re hot.”

you snorted, chest heaving, and dipped your head into the crook of his neck, lips brushing against the column of his throat as you laughed directly against his pulse. “you’re ridiculous.”

“you’re hesitating,” he shot back, and it took you a second to realize what he meant, to follow the trail of thought through the haze of heat and affection and general hormonal disaster. your hands had shifted, were now fisted lightly in the hem of his shirt, that worn, thin white thing clinging to his chest in soft folds, semi-transparent under the lamplight. you’d tugged it up just a little—just high enough to expose the first dangerous inch of his stomach—but then stopped. froze. like a coward.

“i’m not hesitating,” you muttered, because lying was easier than having a panic attack mid-makeout.

he pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and amused and way too full of affection for someone being slandered. “you’re totally hesitating. you’re scared of my abs.”

“i’m not scared of your abs.”

“you’re scared of my hot, missionary-sent-me abs. you’re intimidated.”

“you’re literally the most annoying man alive.”

“you love my annoying abs.”

“yuuta,” you said, trying to be serious, trying to slow the momentum of the joke before it took over everything again. “i just—i don’t know.”

he went quiet. not in a bad way. not in a oh no now he’s overthinking way. just soft. aware. like he’d felt the shift in your hands, your posture, the way you were still touching him but also thinking too much.

he brought his hand up to your cheek, tilted your face back toward his with two fingers under your chin, and whispered, “hey. look at me.”

you did. of course you did.

his eyes were stupidly gentle, like a blanket you didn’t ask for but needed anyway.

“we don’t have to do anything. we don’t have to do anything,” he said, clear and calm and slow like he wanted to make sure every word landed in the right place. “i just wanna kiss you. i could kiss you for, like, seven years. we can pause for snacks. maybe a nap.”

you blinked, suddenly a little breathless again but for a different reason.

“you’re so dumb,” you whispered, but it cracked halfway out.

“and you’re still holding my shirt like it personally offended you.”

you looked down at your hands, still clenched in the hem like it owed you rent. the skin under your fingers was warm, soft, the faintest hint of tremble under his calm like he wasn’t nearly as unaffected as he pretended to be.

slowly, carefully, you moved your fingers again. just a bit. tugged the fabric higher.

yuuta didn’t move. didn’t help. just watched you. patient. still.

you pushed it up over his stomach, revealing more—soft skin, lean lines, that ridiculous little dip under his ribs that was definitely not helping your composure, and finally, the undeniable definition of his abs. stupid. taut. completely unnecessary. like someone designed him with the express purpose of making you go into cardiac arrest.

“jesus,” you mumbled. “i thought this was just the lighting earlier.”

he smirked, tilting his head. “you can say it. you’re turned on.”

“i’m not gonna feed your ego.”

“baby, you’re literally in my lap.”

“on accident.”

“sure.”

your hands slid higher, just a little more, and he leaned back slightly to help you, finally, tugging the shirt off the rest of the way and over his head, tossing it to the side with a casual flick that really shouldn’t have been so hot but unfortunately was. his chest was bare now, lit golden in the low light, the shadows making every line look sharper than necessary. he sat there, proud and obnoxious and gorgeous, arms resting loosely around your waist, eyes half-lidded and waiting.

“so?” he said. “what’s the verdict?”

you stared for a beat too long, then shook your head. “i hate you so much.”

he leaned forward, mouth brushing yours, and whispered, “you’re drooling.”

you kissed him before he could finish laughing, kissed him hard and hungry and full of frustration and gratitude and longing that had nowhere else to go. his hands slid back up your spine again, then down, slow and warm and steady, and you pressed your chest against his, skin to skin now, breath tangled and mouths moving in sync like it was muscle memory.

this was different now. not just soft. not just playful. it was still dumb, still full of laughter and half-whispers and too many feelings, but it was honest. real. the kind of closeness you only earned after months of pretending not to want it.

his mouth moved to your jaw, then your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the curve until you shivered, his hands holding you like you were fragile and indestructible at the same time.

“okay,” you breathed, fingers threading through his hair again. “okay. maybe i am turned on.”

he laughed against your skin, a low hum that made your whole body vibrate.

“yeah,” he said, voice low and satisfied. “me too.”

you felt it before you saw it—his fingers sliding under the hem of your shirt, slow and reverent, like he was approaching a religious artifact and not your tragically old white cotton tee that probably still had mystery stains from dorm laundry hell and smelled vaguely like microwaved snacks and anxiety. his hands were warm, thumbs dragging along your ribs, and your breath caught halfway out of your throat because he wasn’t being cocky now, wasn’t making jokes or weird noises or doing that thing where he said something infuriating just to watch your face implode—no, he was focused. soft. maddeningly gentle. like he was scared of spooking you. like he was trying to do this right.

he looked at you the entire time, didn’t glance down once, even as the shirt bunched under your arms, his fingers pushing it up your back and then over your head in one smooth motion that felt too intimate to be legal, too slow to be real, and the way his eyes locked on yours as the fabric peeled away? criminal. unhinged. deeply dangerous. you could feel your heart trying to claw its way out of your chest cavity and throw itself out the window.

and then, like an idiot, like a grinning stupid horrible soft idiot, he said:

“whoa.”

“if you make a single joke,” you warned, voice threatening but also fragile, the kind of tone that cracked around the edges like old ceramic.

“no jokes,” he said immediately, holding up both hands like he was surrendering to the law but still resting them dangerously close to your spine. “i swear on gojo’s dumb designer sunglasses. you’re—shit. you’re so pretty. it’s actually rude.”

you didn’t know what to do with that. so you stared at him, blinking like someone who just got told they won a sweepstakes they didn’t enter, and tried not to melt into a puddle of hormonal regret.

you were still in your bra, obviously. thin-strapped, slightly crooked from his earlier manhandling, one cup sitting a little askew like you’d been in a romantic fender-bender. you felt like a hot mess. he looked like he wanted to write poetry about it.

“yuuta,” you murmured, unsure of what you were even trying to say.

he leaned in, kissed your collarbone with a soft press of lips that made your head tilt back instinctively, then trailed down—slow, slow, like a river taking its time to flood. and then his hands moved again, sliding up your back, thumbs brushing your shoulder blades, one finger hooking under the band of your bra in that way that made your stomach absolutely plummet.

his mouth was still on your skin when he said, half-muffled and far too casual:

“can i?”

the bastard had already found the clasp. one hand resting over it like it was a button to a secret door. your entire body was stiff and molten at once.

you breathed. shallow. shaky. said, “you’re asking now?”

he had the decency to chuckle into your shoulder, the vibration making your skin break out in chills.

“consent is hot,” he whispered, “even if i’m already halfway there.”

“yuuta,” you said again, but softer this time, more like a prayer than a warning.

he pulled back to look at you, and fuck—his face. flushed. open. stupidly beautiful. eyes wide and waiting, not pushing. not assuming. just there.

you nodded. slow. a little dizzy.

“yeah,” you whispered. “you can.”

his fingers moved without hesitation now—not rough, not rushed—just sure. the clasp gave way with a quiet click, the tension in the band loosening, and he slid his hands under the straps as if to say, i got you, even though he didn’t say anything at all. the fabric slipped down your arms like surrender. you let it. let him.

his eyes dropped, finally, but the look wasn’t hungry. it wasn’t some cliché moment of ogling. it was worse. it was tender. reverent. like you were something to be memorized, not devoured. like he was seeing you for the first time and the only thing in his brain was thank you.

his voice cracked a little when he said, “holy shit.”

you wanted to laugh. or cry. or combust. maybe all three.

so you did the only thing you could: you grabbed his face, held it in both hands like you were trying to mold it into something you could survive, and kissed him again. desperate. grateful. a little shaky. and he kissed you back like you were the only thing tethering him to earth.

he didn’t touch your chest—not yet, not even a hint of suggestion. he just wrapped his arms around you, full body, buried his face in your neck and whispered, “you’re gonna ruin me.”

and you whispered back, “good.”

and meant every word.

the air in the room shifted like it had caught on fire, not the loud kind, not the dramatic blaze that engulfed buildings and screamed for attention—no, this was the slow, creeping kind, the burn that started in your chest and worked its way outward, cell by cell, inch by inch, until even the dim, flickering lamplight felt like it was watching you both a little too closely. and there you were, bare from the waist up now, still straddling his lap like a disaster waiting to happen, like a headline, like a statistic in a very affectionate cautionary tale, his arms around your ribs so gently it felt like gravity was being polite about it, and his face buried in the crook of your neck like he was hiding from his own goddamn feelings.

he hadn’t moved since you said it—good—hadn’t laughed or made some snarky little comeback, which was alarming in itself because that was his whole brand, wasn’t it? being a menace in the shape of a boy you stupidly trusted with your life and now your shirt. but instead, he just exhaled. slow. hot. reverent. like that single word did something to him he wasn’t ready to admit.

and then, of course, because he couldn’t help himself—because silence was a threat to his personality—he whispered, voice muffled into your throat, “you’re evil.”

“you’re clingy,” you muttered, even as your arms looped around his shoulders like anchors, like reflex.

“you just said you wanted to ruin me. do you hear yourself?”

“i said good, which was not a threat.”

“oh no, it was,” he said, finally pulling back to look at you, and he looked wrecked already, hair a mess, lips bitten pink, cheeks flushed, pupils blown out like he’d seen some divine truth in the curve of your collarbone. “you’re saying things like that while sitting on my lap and half-naked and then acting surprised when i combust.”

“you haven’t combusted yet,” you said, tilting your head, “do i need to try harder?”

his jaw dropped. his hands—those goddamn hands, all heat and reverence and menace—gripped your hips a little tighter, not rough but anchoring, like he needed to confirm you were real and also possibly prevent you from flying off the rails, which was ironic because you were the one currently holding yourself together with a thread and a half.

“okay,” he said, nodding slowly, eyes narrowing like he was processing a new kind of threat. “okay. so this is what we’re doing.”

“what are we doing?”

“you’re playing innocent while literally breaking me.”

“i’m not innocent,” you said, inching forward just slightly, just enough to make his breath hitch in a way that made you feel like you’d grown wings, like maybe you could ruin him if you tried. “i’m just not doing anything.”

“that’s the problem,” he said, and then, like he couldn’t help himself, he leaned in again, lips brushing against your neck, your shoulder, your collarbone, soft kisses dropped like punctuation marks in a letter he hadn’t finished writing. “you’re not doing anything and i’m still losing my fucking mind.”

you reached up, brushed his hair back from his forehead, your fingers sliding into the mess like they belonged there, like they’d always been there. he looked up at you from under his lashes, and it hit you all over again—how stupidly pretty he was, how unfair his face was in this lighting, how every expression on him looked like a confession.

“yuuta,” you whispered, and it wasn’t a warning this time. it wasn’t even a question. it was just his name, soft and unsteady and full of every terrible, wonderful thing you hadn’t had the guts to say before.

“yeah?” he breathed, hands still on your waist, fingers twitching like he was trying so hard not to move.

you kissed him again. because what else could you do? his mouth opened under yours like it had been waiting, like it knew how to respond to your rhythm, your breath, your hunger before you even gave it a name. this kiss was slower, but not gentler. it was deep, exploratory, a little unhinged, teeth catching his lip, your hips shifting against his thighs without permission, and he groaned into your mouth like it surprised him, like the noise escaped before he could trap it.

“fuck,” he gasped when you finally pulled back for air, forehead pressed to yours. “you kiss like you’re trying to make me pass out.”

“good,” you said again, and he made a sound, something between a growl and a laugh and a strangled plea.

“you keep saying that,” he muttered, hands sliding up your sides now, not pushing, not groping, just holding, like he needed the contact, needed the skin-on-skin like it was a lifeline. “and it keeps getting hotter.”

you shivered, not because of the cold—there was none, not here, not with him breathing like that, not with your skin pressed against his, not with your heart trying to climb out of your mouth and build a shrine to his name in the back of your throat—but because of the weight of it. all of it. everything you’d kept hidden between laughter and fake arguments and eye-rolls. it was all out now. and he was still looking at you like you were the best decision he’d ever made.

“what happens now?” you asked, not quite trusting your voice.

he smiled, slow and devastating, one thumb rubbing a line across your waist like he was signing something unspoken.

“whatever you want,” he said. “this—” he kissed the corner of your mouth, “—is yours.” he kissed your jaw, “you call the shots.” kissed the dip under your ear, “you tell me when to stop.”

you leaned into him, breathing fast, laughing a little even though it felt like you were about to cry.

“god, you’re such a dumbass romantic.”

“only for you,” he whispered, and meant it so hard you could feel it in your teeth.

and you believed him. like a fool. like someone ready to fall and call it flying.

you kissed him again. and this time, you didn’t hesitate.

the words slipped out like a crime, like you hadn’t meant to say them but also had meant to say them every second since you walked through his door with that bag of snacks swinging from your wrist like a peace offering and a loaded weapon—your lips grazed his, your mouth half-open from breathless kissing, brain so loud and full of him it almost cracked, and then there it was, out in the air between you, all soft and stupid and sharp at the edges:

“i want to do it.”

it wasn’t seductive. it wasn’t breathy or pornographic or dripping with confidence. it was shy and shaken and maybe even a little too high-pitched, like your body knew what it wanted before your voice had a chance to rehearse. but the second you said it, you felt it click. like the moment when you find a light switch in the dark and flip it without knowing what room you’re in.

he stilled. for once, yuuta didn’t grin. didn’t make a joke. didn’t even blink for a second. his hands were still on your waist, bare skin under his fingers, and his forehead was still against yours, but something in his eyes shifted—some soft, wide-eyed mix of holy-shit and are-you-sure and oh-god-oh-god-oh-fuck.

he swallowed. slow. shallow. said, barely above a whisper, “are you sure?”

you nodded. once. twice. then whispered it too, because it was true now, every part of you humming like a live wire, “yeah. i’m sure.”

and then he kissed you like it was his last chance to memorize the shape of your mouth, slow and deep and gentle in a way that was almost reverent, like you’d said something sacred instead of something horny. his hands moved with the kind of patience that should’ve been illegal, every touch featherlight but confident, and when he finally laid you back onto the bed, his fingers never left your skin—not once. it was less like he was trying to get you naked and more like he was trying to hold you steady while the world spun off its axis.

he made you laugh in the middle of it, too. of course he did. you’d accidentally kneed him in the thigh while trying to scoot back and he made a whole dramatic performance out of it—groaning, falling onto the bed beside you like you’d mortally wounded him, then catching you with one arm and dragging you down with him, both of you breathless and flushed and laughing like the dumbass soulmates you were. he kissed you through it, kissed your laughter, kissed the corners of your mouth like they were the most important coordinates he’d ever mapped.

and when the laughing stopped—when the air got heavy and quiet and full of warmth instead of nerves—it was slow. careful. so gentle you almost cried. hands and mouths and breath, the soft sounds of skin finding skin and hearts beating too fast. nothing about it was polished or poetic. it was awkward and intimate and full of stupid sweetness, little whispered “is this okay?” and “does that feel good?” and “i think i’m dying but in a good way,” and god, it was so real. when it finally happened—when he was inside you, when his breath hitched in your ear and his hand squeezed yours like a lifeline—you realized it wasn’t about perfect. it was about him. about you. about finally getting to say i love you in a language you didn’t know you spoke.

and then, silence.

warm, golden, soft-edged silence, the kind that only came when everything was said and nothing had to be explained.

the room was still. the sheets a little twisted. your legs tangled with his under the blanket he must’ve pulled over you at some point, and your head resting on his chest like it had always meant to live there. you were both still naked, but the air didn’t feel cold—it felt right. safe. like you were inside a bubble that nothing outside the dorm could touch.

his hand was on your back. slow circles. absentminded. your name humming under his breath like a song he didn’t want to forget. you could hear his heart, steady now. solid.

“you’re weirdly quiet,” he murmured eventually, voice low and raspy like he’d been yelling all day when really he’d only been falling in love out loud.

you nuzzled into his collarbone, lips brushing warm skin. “i’m trying to preserve brain cells.”

“did i ruin you that bad?”

“yuuta.”

“don’t lie. i felt your soul leave your body halfway through.”

“i tripped over the blanket and headbutted your chin.”

“exactly. transcendent.”

you laughed. he kissed your temple.

and in the quiet that followed, he whispered, softer this time, “i love you.”

you smiled, eyes closed, body sore in the best way possible.

“i know,” you whispered back. “i felt it.”

and you did.

everywhere. still do.

you laid there in that post-apocalyptic emotional soup of skin-on-skin warmth and sex-brain fog, limbs tangled like a pair of cats that fell asleep mid-fight, the blanket half slipping off one side of the bed like even gravity was too blissed out to care anymore. yuuta’s arm was still looped around your back like a seatbelt he refused to unbuckle, his hand absentmindedly tracing lazy, reverent little lines up and down your spine like he was trying to learn braille from your vertebrae. your face was tucked into the crook of his neck, because of course it was—because it was safe there, stupidly comfortable there, smelled like him there: warm skin and detergent and sweat and something sweet, like caramelized embarrassment. and for a while you just laid there, breathing slow, matching each other’s exhales, letting your pulse learn how to stop breakdancing.

and then your dumbass brain did what it always did in quiet moments.

it started thinking.

you didn’t mean to speak. not really. it started as a thought, then became a hypothetical, then suddenly it was a sound pushing its way out of your mouth without warning, wobbling on the edge of hesitation and a laugh and full-on dread.

“so, um,” you mumbled against his collarbone, lips barely moving, “does this mean you’re, like… my boyfriend?”

he stilled. dramatically. completely. like a lizard who sensed danger. you felt every muscle in his chest lock up under your cheek like you’d just asked him if he believed in god and monogamy in the same breath.

and then: “wait,” he said slowly, blinking up at the ceiling like he’d been personally betrayed by the sudden emergence of consequences. “we didn’t define the relationship before having sex? we’re heathens. we’re criminals. we’re going to moral jail.”

you groaned immediately. “never mind. cancel the question. take it off the table.”

“no, no, you brought the table out. now we’re gonna eat off it. we’re gonna have a whole discourse. with sides.”

“shut up—”

“you shut up,” he shot back, turning to face you properly now, rolling you a little so your leg slid higher over his hip, his hand gripping your thigh like punctuation. “you asked. so let’s unpack. do you want me to be your boyfriend? is this an exclusive, high-stakes, one-man show?”

“you literally said you loved me like five minutes ago.”

“people say crazy things during sex,” he said, eyes wide, clearly holding back a laugh. “i once said ‘let’s go’ in the middle of sex in my dream like i was about to ascend. anything’s possible.”

you slapped his chest. “yuuta. focus.”

he caught your hand before it retreated, laced his fingers through yours, and looked at you with that annoying mix of mockery and affection that made your heart feel like it was doing cartwheels in a minefield.

“you want me to be your boyfriend?” he asked again, quieter now, like maybe he wasn’t entirely joking anymore. “is that what this is?”

you swallowed, suddenly shy again, the post-sex high replaced with an equally stupid rush of panic and oh fuck this is real. “i mean… if you want to. if you don’t already have, like, a girl in every jujutsu region.”

“first of all,” he said, gently squeezing your hand, “you are the only dumbass i’ve ever stripped for. and second, of course i want to. i already am. i’ve been your boyfriend in spirit since the moment you called me a ‘walking restraining order’ and then gave me your last shrimp chip.”

you blinked. “you really consider that the turning point?”

“i fell in love right then,” he said seriously. “i knew you were the one.”

“you’re so full of shit.”

“your boyfriend is full of shit,” he corrected smugly. “say it. call me your boyfriend. do it. you started this, coward.”

you groaned again, burying your face in his neck, which was a mistake because now he was laughing and smug and warm and his stupid heartbeat was right under your ear, reminding you that yes, you loved this idiot. and yes, apparently, he was yours now.

“yuuta,” you muttered.

“say it.”

“you’re my boyfriend,” you grumbled, barely audible.

“louder, babe.”

“you’re my fucking boyfriend,” you said, half-snarling, half-laughing.

he grinned so hard you thought his face might crack. “fuck yeah i am. lock me in. relationship status: unhinged and fully committed.”

“i hate you.”

“you love me.”

“shut up.”

he rolled you both over until he was on top again, elbows on either side of your head, his hair flopping down into your face, and he kissed you quick and messy and happy, like he couldn’t help it, like he didn’t care about breath or rules or what happened next.

when he pulled back, his eyes were shining.

“girlfriend,” he said.

you rolled your eyes. “boyfriend.”

he smirked. “horny and in love. what a time to be alive.”

and then he kissed you again, just to seal the deal, because apparently, that’s what boyfriends do.

[lokissweater]

pretty flower

{frat boy!yuta okkotsu x nerdy f!reader}

summary: yuta okkotsu is the most popular guy to ever exist on your college campus— president of his frat, throws the biggest parties nearly every week, and is absolutely obsessed and in love with you, his nerdy cutie girlfriend who knows so much about everything and funnily smartens up his dumb frat boy brain, the two of you having been together for a year now and absolutely smitten every moment you spend together. and while the both of you are happy, the rest of your college campus isn't— specifically yuta's crowd, as they can't seem to accept he's no longer the man whore sleaze they once knew, opting to creating non-stop gossip about the two of you and yuta's supposed infidelity, absolutely scaring the shit out of him as he tries to get rid of the rumor before it reaches you.

warnings: MDNI. afab!reader, cursing, pet names, angst w/ comfort, FLUFFFF yuta LAUUVS YOUU, mentions of alcohol and drinking, lovesick yuta, sexual themes, SMUUUUTTT, p in v sex, unprotected sex (wrap it y'all), yuta talks you through it MEOOOWWW, missionary, riding, mentions of cheating, dirty talk, inexperienced shy cutie reader, praising, mentions of reader having ‘pink cheeks’ is only to amplify and over-exaggerate feelings of embarrassment, shyness, and everything in between, and not to be taken literally! this is a work of fiction, and you can imagine many things for yourself :)

word count: 23.3k (TEEHEEE—)

authors note: ALLL HAAAILLL FRAT BOY!YUTA I LOOVEEE HIMMMM i need him like i need water i am OBSESSEEEDDD!! i hope you guys love the ficcc ahhh !!! <3333 she was such a TREAT to write and i hope y'all are equally obsessed with sir yu like i am !!! I LOVE YOUUUU ALL SO SO MUCH MWAHHHH !!! <333

if you would like to know the origin story of this au, you can read it here! but it can also be read without it :)

yuta okkotsu was a changed man because of you, and his life was entirely different now than it was almost a year ago.

“oh yu! look at this one!”

yuta looked up from the other side of the jellyfish tank, lifting his submerged hand from the lukewarm water and walking over to you, careful not to trickle any residual droplets from his fingertips onto the floor below.

“what flower?” he smiled, bending over a bit to see what you were excitedly pointing at.

“it’s a baby...” you spoke softly, your hand slowly delving deeper into the tank and inching closer to the specimen, your index finger out.

“oh that’s right…” he murmured, his tone matching the quiet serenity of the exhibit as a whole, inching closer to you and gently bending down to rest his chin on your shoulder.

“what kind of jellies are these again?”

“moon jellyfish!” you turned your head and smiled at him, pecking the side of his forehead. “their sting isn’t strong enough to penetrate the skin… that’s why it’s safe to pet them.”

he hummed, eyes watching you caress the little baby jellyfish softly with your finger, the rest of them fluttering and pumping about around your wrist as you giggled, the sensation of their soft tentacles tickling you.

“they’re cute!” he smiled contently, lifting his head from your shoulder to then dive his nose into your neck, you laughing and squirming at the feeling.

“do you know any other facts about them baby?” he muffled against your skin.

you simmered down and thought for a moment, your hand moving from the baby jelly over to a bigger one and running your fingers over the top of its head— the smooth slimy texture fascinating to you as yuta picked his head up to stand upright.

“whenever they’re short on food, they can shrink down in size and save their energy that way.” you lifted your arm, little droplets of water sliding down your skin and tattering down quietly to the surface below, your hand drawing back to grip the edge of the tank and looking sweetly at yuta. “so it’s less demand for food and things.”

he stared at you warmly, a literal lovesick stupid smile on his face as he listened to you continue on with your little list of facts about the moon jellies, his ears basically perked up and alert as they drank in everything that you had to tell him— it being that way ever since your pretty timid self came to one of his frat parties two years ago.

and yuta loved to hear you talk about your interests and the smarty things you knew, that still unchanging and him in absolute wonder every moment he spent with you at how much information your little mind held, and he felt like his idiot num nut brain was funnily smarter now solely due to you.

because yuta before you was an absolute dick, and every time he thought about his former lifestyle he cringed at the stark difference— throwing rowdy parties each night as the president of his frat, playing beer pong for the hell of it, and getting shit faced with not an ounce of regret in his system, him sleeping with anyone he wanted and desired, and never even having to lift a finger in efforts at it either until he met you.

but yuta was ashamed.

so incredibly ashamed of his awful habits, and thanking his rotten luck that you gave him another fucking chance after blowing his first meeting with you, him working hard for an entire year straight just to get you to look at him the same way you looked at your friends, and to get you to trust him and win you over despite his awful reputation.

you changed him… wholeheartedly and for the better, his reputation no longer of a sleazy good for nothing piece of shit who whored around, but of just yuta okkotsu— president of his frat, still the most popular guy to ever fucking exist and throwing massive parties every week… but of also a guy who loved his girlfriend, a girl that took him off the market with just her presence alone, and a girl he was lucky enough to have by his side despite everything.

but though yuta’s new reputation was flourishing and grand, it didn’t mean his old one just— eradicated and didn’t follow him everywhere he went.

everywhere you went.

because it did, and he knew of the whisperings of his past every time he walked you to your lectures in the halls… how he had slept with so and so that one time, or how he did this that other time, and he was utterly remorseful over the fact that you had to hear those things too, knowing he wouldn’t like it in the slightest if it was the other way around no matter how many times you reassured him that it didn’t bother you.

and it’s precisely because of his old reputation that he was terrified of you thinking he was using you in anyway shape or form... that you were just another body count to him and that the minute he got you in bed with him he was going to leave— that particular gossip following him everywhere relentlessly and him feeling fucking sick over the thought of you hearing and believing it.

“can all jellyfish do that?” he asked, lifting a hand and mindlessly playing with a strand of your hair. “shrink in size?”

you shook your head. “not all! but a few others can too… moon jellies are just the best at it.”

he nodded, a content smile still on his face as he hiked up the straps of your purse over his shoulders, holding it for you and gladly doing so while you enjoyed yourself looking through the different informational panels of the exhibit— the aquarium being one of yours and yuta’s favorite places to go whenever you went out together on dates, the number of times you’d both been there literally irrelevant as it was deemed your designated special spot for the two of you, yuta often taking you there after classes, or randomly throughout the day to spend time with you and love on you-- doing it all amongst the fishies, jellyfish and penguins that you both had come to recognize and name.

“you having fun flower?” he asked, swinging an arm around your shoulders as you began walking out of the jellyfish exhibit. “you hungry at all? we could eat really fast before seeing buddy if you want.”

you smiled.

buddy was the penguin you and yuta decided to take ‘ownership’ of and was the sole reason why the two of you visited the aquarium so much to begin with— to see the chubby and puffy little penguin that was noticeably friendlier and more interactive than the rest of the flock, and you liked to think that buddy recognized you too every time you guys peered at him through the glass walls— your boyfriend always saying that the little furry thing was a part of his frat and second in command.

“oh let’s see buddy now!” you quickly interlaced your fingers with his hand that was around your shoulders, slightly nudging yuta in the direction of the penguin exhibit. “i don’t wanna keep him waiting.”

“heh, okay!” yuta’s cheerful breathtaking smile made the heat quickly rise to your cheeks. “and that’s very true… he’ll get grumpy like last time.”

you laughed. “i’m pretty sure that was because the staff was a little late on giving him food…”

“mmm— don’t think so!” you passed through the entrance of the exhibit and turned left, other families and kids staring intently at the different penguin habitats and nurseries as you walked by, majority of the enclosures housing from baby penguins to those who were just learning to grow and take independence. “it’s because he missed us flower.”

you both reached the primary habitat that contained a handful of adult penguins waddling about and jumping from big rock boulders, an ample sized body of ocean water in front that allowed them to go for a swim or splash their little wings if they wished, you and yuta approaching the front and eyes immediately scanning for buddy.

“do you see him..?” yuta spoke softly, his eyelids squinting over the rocks.

“nuh uh…” you shook your head, peering around and eyeing every penguin in attempts at spotting buddy in particular.

“oh! there! over there!” you speedily pointed to the far left, buddy on his chubby tummy on top of one of the highest boulders in the sanctuary, soaking in the cold icy temperatures of the habitat while taking a nap like a respectable little king, his body softly moving up and down in even breaths.

“really?! where?” yuta stepped closer to the glass wall, his gaze desperately scanning for buddy and shoulders slumping when he still couldn’t spot him. “oh no baby i think i need fucking glasses—”

you giggled, tilting his chin more to the left and pointing to the sleeping bird. “there silly… he’s taking a nap on his belly.”

“oh i see him!” his charming face broke out into a smile. “aw man we came at a bad time then flower… he might think we ditched him for the day and be mad at us next time we come back.”

you faltered and visibly frowned at the thought, yuta picking up on it and quickly fixing his demeanor.

“oh— but it’s okay! it’s fine!” he delicately patted the top of your head. “i’m sure he’ll forgive us… and maybe he’ll wake up before we leave?”

“hopefully…” you sighed softly through your nose, a little grin growing on your lips. “what if i just— start tapping on the glass to wake him up?”

yuta laughed and shook his head. “baby that’s something i would do don’t do that.” 

he brought you in by the arm around your shoulders and squeezed you lovingly into his chest.

“you’re hanging out with me too much…”

“well duh.” you giggled. “is this your way of saying you wanna cut back?—”

“oh what the!?—” his eyes whipped in your direction, frantically shaking his head side to side. “i’d actually rather give up my dumb frat position than do that flower.”

you gasped then, jaw running slack.

“yu it’s not dumb, and don’t gamble with things like that for me either… you work really hard for the status you have and i would hate to be the reason it goes away.”

that was the main concern you had when you first started dating yuta, and shamefully still a concern now actually… because throughout the year yuta spent trying to win you over and prove to you that he wasn’t a player, hot headed and awful anymore, something that you were so incredibly touched over and impressed about and so fucking happy that he did without you even having to ask— the worry of you being the cause of his depleting reputation because of your status never went away regardless, and it quickly bubbled up in your mind as soon as you saw the disgruntled reactions of his crowd.

and you normally wouldn’t care about things like that, the rumors and gossip that took no time at all to surface easily thrown to the back of your head because of yuta… for he was everything you’d ever wanted and more as he continued to shower you in that same amount of love, affection, and attention that he gave you when you first had met.

yuta's kind reassurance of the rumors and for you to pay them no mind wasn’t entirely necessary to you either, due to the fact that you adored his silly jokes and flamboyant frat boy behavior so much and loved him so much that you simply just didn’t need it.

at first.

until you started noticing that yuta never… initiated things with you past kissing or making out throughout your first year together.

but it’s not like you ever did either— your frustratingly timid and shy personality never allowed you to even utter a peep of suggestion about it no matter how much you wanted to take things further, though intimate things like that weren’t a deal breaker nor was it of great importance to you anyways, as just spending time with him was more than enough and all you wanted and needed… except—

you’d seen the way yuta was with girls before you.

so why was it so easy for him to be intimate with them and not with— you? 

and they never needed to ask either…

“flower?”

“huh?” you jumped slightly, your eyes shooting up and meeting a concerned faced yuta. 

“you okay?” he blinked. “did you… hear what i said?”

“oh! i’m sorry yu i didn’t…” you peered up at him shyly with pinky cheeks, your bashful look spurring his little heart on as he gave you a smile and quickly pecked your forehead.

“that’s okay! i just said you’d never be the reason for something like that baby…” he smoothed a hand down the back of your hair, mind a little preoccupied by how silky it felt. “and i don’t care if it goes away either. also buddy’s awake.”

you perked up, eyes immediately darting to his former sleeping place and seeing him now fluttering his furry wings, gradually stretching and moving his little limbs before hopping down from his rock and waddling, both you and yuta funnily gushing and waving your arms around to try and catch the birds attention, yet undoubtedly looking absolutely insane to the rest of the guests around you as you both hopped and flailed around.

“buddy!” yuta whisper-yelled. “hey! look look!”

you giggled as he jumped up and down then with floundering arms, his car keys that were hooked through his belt loop jingling with every hop along with the charms on your purse, your hand flying to your mouth then to stifle your laughter once you noticed the odd stares parents were shooting at him as they passed by, their gawking children clinging to their coats and sleeves.

“yu!” you spoke in between hiccups of laughter. “i think— you’re scaring the kids—”

“oh!—” he froze, hands still up in the air as he looked side to side over his shoulders, a sheepish smile creeping on his face once he realized that he was in fact eliciting bewildered glances and judgmental stares, his arms coming down immediately after as he peeked over at you with blushing cheeks.

“oh man...” he laughed, completely fucking embarrassed and scratching the back of his neck. “how much of a stupid idiot did i just look right now…”

you quickly shook your head and giggled some more, standing up on your tippy toes to plant a sweet kiss to his rosy cheek.

“i was doing the same thing yu it’s okay!” you cutely smiled, your eyes switching back to the habitat in front of you, pointing. “it got buddy’s attention though!”

the chubby bird excitedly flapped its wings before trodding over to where the both of you stood, you gushing and cooing as he hopped over pebbles and moved through other stubby penguins just to get where the two of you stood behind the barrier, the penguin tilting its little head to and fro in curiosity as he peered at you both.

“hey little man!” yuta grinned, bending down a bit and placing his palm flat on the glass, you doing the same as you leaned closer to get a better look at the bird. “you okay?”

you sent a tiny wave to the penguin, him flapping out his wings again in return and waddling even closer to the glass, you softly gasping and head snapping up to your boyfriend.

“i think—” your wide eyes shifted back to buddy. “i think he does recognize us…”

“that’s what i’ve been saying flower!” yuta laughed boyishly, swinging an arm over to place a hand on your waist, giving it an affectionate squeeze. “i know i’m a dummy dumb but never about buddy.”

you snorted and gently nudged his side with your shoulder. “you’re not a dummy dumb baby don’t be silly.”

“kay!” yuta funnily cheesed, leaning down to press a quick peck to your cheek before turning his attention back to buddy, the penguin oddly now excessively fluttering its wings and puffing up its chest over your interaction, honking and squawking more than usual as it waddled over to your side now instead of yuta’s.

“wha—” your boyfriend gawked, eyes narrowing at buddy. “what i can’t kiss my girlfriend? why not?”

buddy honked again and hopped in place on its little feet, yuta’s eyes only growing further into slits.

“what?” you giggled. “what’s wro— mpf!”

he cupped your cheeks and mushed your lips with his, buddy letting out a loud string of honks and squawking through the other side of the glass as yuta basically tongued you down, your cheeks instantly heating up at the random raunchy display of public affection.

he came off your lips with a smack and looked to the penguin again, his eyes then widening at the distressed state buddy was presumably in, jaw hanging open and frantic gaze switching to yours.

“buddy wants my girlfriend…” 

“huh?!” you laughed. “yu he’s—”

“you think i’m gonna let you in my frat now little man?” yuta let your face go and threw his hands up. “you were my second in command!”

“baby he’s a penguin what are you on about—”

“yeah a penguin that wants my girlfriend.” he mumbled, crossing his arms and bitterly looking off to the side. “i feel betrayed.”

you giggled, cheeks buzzing and pink as you reached up and patted the top of his head.

“c’mon yu let’s go it’s okay.” you interlaced your fingers with his and gently tugged him with you. “let’s go get something to eat—”

yuta pointed to buddy as you pulled him away.

“you’re out of the frat.”

“yuta!”

“what?!”

a total of ten more minutes was spent of you trying to drag him out of the exhibit and him still picking a fight— yuta in utter disbelief that buddy backstabbed him and wanted the same woman he did, him sulking and muttering the entire way to the sandwich shop to pick up lunch, you laughing at his silly behavior as you led him through the aquarium corridors and pathways to go to the flower exhibit, that being yours and yuta’s usual munching spot ever since you first came to the aquarium at the start of your relationship.

and although visiting the aquarium was something you both always did— specifically on a weekly basis and multiple times throughout it… the two of you loved it, especially yuta, for he was content in doing absolutely anything with you just so long as you were having fun and happy and with him, your regular endeavors of touching jellyfish, seeing buddy (even though he was currently on probation), and buying lunch at the usual deli spot next to the aquarium was something he loved and floored over just like you did, a thing he looked forward to everyday and unabashedly texted you constantly to see if you were up for another trip to your little usual spot.

but that’s precisely how yuta neglected to see how he was unawarely making you second guess yourself— your needs, because due to the fact that he was the happiest man alive by just your presence alone and didn’t need anything else, he failed to catch your disappointed frowns or taken aback blinking eyes when he rejected your shy little advances at a little something more than just a smoochie smooch, advances that were so humiliatingly tiny and fleeting that you never blamed him for missing them in the first place, and only blamed yourself for not being more obvious, frustrated for being upset over something like intimacy when it shouldn’t be on your mind as much as it was.

“did you want the same thing baby?” yuta asked, speaking over his shoulder with a little smile as you stood behind him. “or something different?”

“the same thing is fine!” you sweetly replied. “oh! but can i do curly fries with it instead of chips? if that’s okay?”

yuta laughed at your apprehensiveness, placing a hand on the back of your head and bringing you in to press a kiss to your forehead, fingers carding gently through your hair after.

“you don’t have to ask like that flower you know that.” he grinned, his hand moving from your hair to the side of your face, thumb softly caressing your pretty cheek. “whatever you need is always okay.”

you blushed, lips pursing shyly to the side as you nodded and thanked him gratefully, yuta shining another kind smile your way before dropping his hand and stepping forward to the cash register to order and pay— two delicious and stuffed deli sandwiches with chosen sides ready at the pick up counter within minutes.

the bag of food crinkled underneath yuta’s arm as he held it up against his chest, the other extending an offering hand out for you that you quickly took in response, the both of you leaving the deli shop and blissfully walking the familiar path towards the flower exhibit like muscle memory.

“let me have my bag yu, i feel bad that you’re carrying all of that yourself…” you spoke worriedly, arm already lifting for the strap on his shoulder.

“i’m alright!” he chirped, shoulder purposely moving away from your trying grasp as you passed through the entrance of the greenhouse— the complex fumigated with lovely mixtures of different floral scents that filled your nostrils as you walked through. “don’t worry flower it’s fine.”

you quirked a brow, a defiant hand reaching out for your bag anyways but it only met with yuta jerking his shoulder away from you again.

“yu!” you laughed, both hands now reaching out repeatedly and him playfully dodging every attempt you made, cute boyish snickers slipping past his lips as he moved quickly to avoid your grabbing fingers. “please you’ve been carrying it all day let me help you—”

yuta swiveled away from you and turned, him walking backwards as your purse jingled on the other side of him and unreachable from where you stood.

“nope!” he shook his head side to side. “but thank you baby! you’re sweet.”

you shot him a lighthearted glare.

“i’ll leave you for buddy if you don’t give me my purse—”

his jaw dramatically dropped and you giggled, a scoff leaving his open mouth as his eyes narrowed.

“now he’s done it.” you both stopped at your usual spot— a pretty little emerald green bench that sat underneath various potted voluminous flowers, hanging from the ceiling from chains and providing cooling shade from the slight sunny warmth of the greenhouse. “he’s gone behind my back and wooed you.”

you laughed, taking a seat with him as he set the bag of food in between the two of you.

“he ‘wooed’ me ever since we first met him silly.” you teased, reaching inside the bag and pulling out yuta’s sandwich, unraveling it from it’s wrapping for him before carefully passing it over. “he’s a cutie.”

he pouted, taking his food and setting it down on his lap. “and you don’t think i am?”

your cheeks heated at the cute face he was making, grabbing your own sandwich and unfolding the wrapping.

“buddy’s not president of a frat.” yuta spoke through a mouthful of his deli. “buddy didn’t try to win you over for a year straight. i did.”

you giggled, resting your head on his shoulder as you plopped a curly fry in your mouth.

“that’s very true.” you hummed. “but buddy did try to share his lunch with me that one time, remember? his fishy?”

yuta swallowed, looking down at you then and smiling fondly.

“you’re right he did.” he craned his neck and took the curly fry you were offering for him in between his teeth, chewing after. “i can’t compete with that can i?”

“nuh uh.” you grinned. “sorry yu! maybe if you give me a fish of your own i’ll reconsider hehe.”

he laughed loudly and kissed the top of your head.

“i can do that!” he spoke smugly. “shit i’ll give you five fish instead of just one. i bet buddy can’t do that.”

you giggled again and lifted your head up from his shoulder, carefully grabbing your deli and taking a bite out of it, plopping another curly fry into your mouth after to chew simultaneously.

“deal!” you chirped. “i’ll be waiting for my five fishies then.”

“but do i get something in return?” he smiled brightly, the suggestive tone in his voice making your face heat up and your heart simmer up with hope, you gnawing on the inside of your cheek as you tried to fucking calm yourself and not jump to conclusions.

“like what?” you asked, ever so cutely tilting your head to the side that it made yuta’s cheeks heat up.

“likeeee…” he looked up in giddy thought. “like you—”

a blaring ring cut through the tranquil atmosphere of the greenhouse, yuta dropping his sandwich on his lap and huffing as he dug through his pockets for his phone, him pulling it out and checking the caller i.d. before rolling his eyes and setting his sandwich down on the open bench space next to him, standing.

“i’m sorry baby it’s one of the guys…” he sighed, slight agitation in his chest as he diverted his attention to your pretty face. “i’m just gonna check what he wants really quick… is that okay?”

you frantically nodded and waved him off. “yes! yes yu that’s totally okay don’t worry! take your time.”

he gave you a soft smile, leaning down and pressing a kiss to your cheek, stepping away.

“i’ll be back!” he called over his shoulder as he walked, quickly answering the call after and pressing the phone to his ear, striding a short distance away from you.

“what man?” 

you laughed at his grumbling as you heard it from afar, you already used to him frequently taking calls from the boys in his frat about upcoming events, expenses and member behaviors— not minding one single bit every time he had to step away for a moment to take care of issues, because you knew and wholeheartedly understood that his role was the most prestigious and demanding responsibility in his life at the moment, your heart warming at how apologetic he was each time he was forced to take a call… and you more worried about him and how stressed out he must be about having to basically babysit and watch over 35 different men and take care of their fuck ups.

“oh my god…” you heard him mumble, taking a bite out of your sandwich as you curiously listened in on the call. “why would he do that?”

your brows slightly furrowed in concern, a little anxious as you watched the way he rubbed a hand over his forehead exhaustedly.

“this is the second time he’s done this and i’m gonna get marked for his stupid shit again.”

marked?

you’d heard yuta use that phrase before… but the logistics of it you still didn’t really get nor remember clearly from what he had told you previously, the only thing you could really recall was that he’d already been marked once in the past.

he heavily sighed.

“no… no— tell him he’s banned from leaving the frat until i get there later tonight i’m serious. he can’t leave.”

yuta slowly started making his way back over to you, his eyes to the ground as he held the phone up against his ear.

“alright… thanks for calling. make an announcement to the rest of the boys that i’m holding a meeting when i get there please.”

you heard him bid his final goodbye’s before hanging up the phone, him stuffing it back in his pocket and lifting his other hand, scratching the back of his neck in irritating thought as you watched him come over, wide eyed.

“what happened?” you asked softly, gaze following him closely as he slumped down next to you on the bench with crossed arms, his brows pinched together.

“hm?” his eyes flickered to yours. “oh nothing flower… the VP just called me about some frat stuff.”

he made it seem like it was nothing, but the bouncing of his knee and the way he used his index finger to pick at the skin around the nail of his thumb… told you otherwise.

“yu…”

“yeah?”

you reached over and untangled his crossed arms, gently taking the hand he was picking at in yours to stop him from doing it, an anxious expression on your face.

“what does marked mean? and who’s banned from leaving the frat?”

an amused smile slowly spread across his lips, his grip on your hand tightening earnestly.

“you being nosy baby?” 

you blushed.

“sorry!” you blurted. “i didn’t mean to… you just looked really upset so i got worried.”

he shook his head, bringing your interlocked hands up to kiss the back of yours.

“i’m just teasing flower it’s okay.” he spoke quietly, a weird far-off look to his eyes as he stared down at your hands, the gnawing feeling in your chest only growing the longer he sat there without saying anything to you— a pinch between his brows.

“what’s wrong?” you tenderly squeezed his hand. “are the guys okay?”

“they’re being baboons.” he heavily exhaled, annoyed. “do you remember toma?”

“toma?” you tilted your head. “the one who started a fight with that other frat?”

“yeah, him.” he picked a curly fry from the food on your lap and took a bite. “he went back to their house with a few other guys and threw bricks at their windows.”

you gasped.

“and they lit off a firework inside.”

a hand flew over your mouth, your eyes blown fucking wide as yuta continued to irritably shove curly fries in his mouth.

“and the fucked up part is, is that i’m gonna be the one that eats shit from it by administration.” he continued, swallowing and bitterly shaking his head. “i really shouldn’t have let toma off easy from last time…”

“but why would you get in trouble yu?” you asked. “you didn’t do anything it was toma.”

he looked at you a little sadly, but more stressed out than anything.

“because i’m president baby…” he let go of your hand and picked up his sandwich. “i’m responsible for whatever they do and go down with them if they mess up. that’s what being marked means.”

you frowned, feeling totally annoyed at toma for being such a selfish stupid idiot for what he did, but feeling more agitated over the fact that yuta always seemed to get the short end of the stick when it came to their mishaps just because he was president, when all he’s ever actually done for the frat is keep them out of trouble and amicably successful, it’s level of popularity and recognition one the previous president failed at as yuta had thousands of applications each year with new brothers trying to enroll.

“toma’s a freshman so… i get it, but—” he took a small bite of his sandwich and spoke through a mouthful. “he’s fucking stupid.”

you giggled softly, leaning back on the bench and crossing your arms before speaking.

“what’s gonna happen with you and administration?” 

“depends on how much that other frat complains.” he swallowed. “it’s destruction of property and basically almost killing someone with that firework… so i could be expelled. and toma.”

you froze, your head whipping in his direction and you baffled at the way yuta continued to chow down on his sandwich like he didn’t just say something like that.

“are you kidding me?” you breathed out. “expulsion?”

“that or i lose my position.” 

and yuta still didn’t show any signs of fear or anger as he stole more curly fries from your lap… but you on the other hand… were freaking the fuck out.

“yu oh my god—” you placed an exasperated hand over your forehead, chest ragged as you thought of all of the things yuta could lose when he worked so fucking hard to get them throughout his entire college career. 

“there— there has to be some kind of appeal we can do maybe— maybe if we get the rest of your guys to back you up it could be just toma getting expelled or—”

yuta slowed his chewing and looked your way, an expression of endearment crossing his face over how much you cared about him and his life, a little laugh escaping past his lips.

“it’s okay flower… don’t worry.” he reached up and placed a flat hand on top of your head. “i’m on good terms with administration so they won’t do anything like that.”

“how do you know though?” you murmured, eyes falling to your lap. “toma committed a crime yuta. i don’t think they’ll let you guys off that easy.”

his hand slid from your head down to cup under your jaw, gently lifting your face to look at him.

“i’ll handle it… okay?” he pushed softly. “don’t stress yourself over my frat stuff baby it’s not good for you.”

he leaned and placed a cute peck to your lips, letting your jaw go after and smiling at the blush on your cheeks.

“the most they’ll do is put us both on social probation or give us a warning… but either way i’m personally putting toma on social probation for being a fucking airhead.”

“social probation?” you softly spoke. “what’s that?”

yuta felt a sense of pride for himself every time you asked him about specifics on frat boy terms or rules, it being the only thing that he could really teach you and help you learn as he was a dummy dumb and didn’t know much about anything else, a complete contrast from your smarts and knowledge that he loved to drink up any time you told him special facts, or explained to him things he didn’t get (and would sometimes pretend he did when he actually didn’t to save himself the embarrassment…).

so whenever the opportunity came up of your sweet shy voice asking him about his fraternity? he was absolutely floored.

“we basically can’t host parties or events for some time.” he explained. “i try my best to never land our frat in social probation because it fucks up our relevancy… we basically go dead for a bit and other frats or sororities forget about us until we host the next event.”

“what?!— that’s bad tooo!” you whined, a hand flying over your forehead again as your brain tried to come up with ways to avoid this in addition to the potential expulsion, yuta only laughing and wrapping a hand around your lifted wrist.

“baby no— it’s okay!” he spoke between giggles, lowering your arm. “its really not that bad… i want social probation.”

“why the hell would you want that?” you pouted.

“because i get to spend more time with you.” he grinned, a big and shiny one too as he quickly smooched your cute cheek and leaned back on the bench, shoving the rest of his sandwich in his mouth. “i won’t have to spend time organizing parties or events and instead hang out with you flower.”

your heart fluttered on fucking overdrive in your chest, you shyly looking away then and mirroring him by leaning back on the bench, a silly smile on your face.

“more time to visit buddy too?”

“no.” he spoke firmly, and you giggled. “i put buddy on social probation we can’t go see him.”

you giggled some more with a hand over your mouth, yuta looking at you with hearts in his eyes as his ears greedily swallowed down your precious laughter to commit to memory, him reminded once again of how much of a sweetheart you were— but also of how easy it was for a man like him to lose you entirely because of his social stance and the people that he was surrounded with.

and at the thought of that, yuta subconsciously reached over and wrapped his arms around your waist, slowly pulling you snug and flush against his body as his insecurities overtook his thoughts for a moment.

“yu?” you snaked your arms around his neck and embraced him back, your brows furrowing. “are you okay? what’s wrong?”

“i’m fine.” he replied simply, but his hold on you only tightened.

you frowned. 

“are you finally worried about what administration’s gonna do?”

he snorted and shook his head against your shoulder. 

“fuck no.” he pulled back just enough to plant a kiss on your forehead. “i don’t care what they do flower… and you shouldn’t either okay?”

he was worried about driving you away.

and it wasn’t too often when his mind drifted to the thought, but it happened often enough that it sometimes kept him up at night on particularly bad days, and especially when he happened to catch another rumor about either of you that made him hope with everything he had that you didn’t end up catching it too.

but you always did. and you kept it to yourself that you did.

but funnily enough, it was like you and yuta were sitting pretty on a see saw and the stupid metal thing switched positions to you being the one at the top instead of him— you now lost in your thoughts as he remained grounded and okay, driving you home at the end of the day after your aquarium date with your hands folded tightly over your lap, silent as the quiet murmur of his car radio filled the air.

maybe if you just— sort of made a move now… yuta would get the hint? and maybe something intimate would finally happen? … maybe?

you anxiously gnawed at your bottom lip and stared out the window, swallowing down your nerves as you tried to come up with a way to instill something steamier between the two of you for the time being, and a way that wasn’t out of your comfort zone either as you were too pathetically shy to try something obvious.

but you knew that either way… you had to just— attempt it.

“oh! your parents aren’t home baby.”

you snapped out of your thoughts and looked up, your parents car sure enough not in the driveway as yuta pulled in, your heart hammering in your rib cage as you took that as a definitive sign to initiate something with him in the best way you knew how.

“do you wanna…” you pursed your lips. “do you wanna come in? for a little bit?”

he unknowingly beamed and nodded. “yeah! i do flower.”

you let out a nervous breath and nodded, hands shakily opening the passenger side door and you both stepping out of the car, shutting them behind you before beginning to walk up the path to your front door, you getting your keys out to unlock it and pushing it open once you did.

yuta had been to your house plenty of times before already, but your parents were always home.

this is the first time he was over where they weren’t.

“do you want something to drink?” you asked sweetly, him walking over and plopping down on your living room couch. “like… like soda? or beer? i think my dad just bought a pack—”

“oh no it’s okay!” he patted the spot next to him. “just sit with me baby.”

butterflies swarmed in your stomach as you nodded, nervously walking to the couch then and sitting down next to him.

“do you have a lot of homework for tonight?” yuta gently placed an arm around your shoulders. “i won’t stay too long if you do so you can do it.”

you quickly shook your head.

“no! no i don’t have any. you can stay as long as you want.”

he grinned.

“sweet!”

his handsome face sent another wave of nerves and need through your body as you breathed in deeply through your nose, your hands going cold over how anxious you were.

“tomorrow we should—”

you grabbed his face and brought him down, shoving your lips to his and cutting him off as his eyes blew wide, his cheeks immediately growing a bright shade of red while you kissed him in such a way that you’ve never ever done before, yuta’s palms quickly clamming up as he tried to simmer down the nasty thoughts that flew through his mind then.

why did he always have to be such a whore?

your hands slid down and around his neck before he even had time to think, his flying to your waist as smooching wet noises from your moving lips only fueled the fire and had him breathing erratically, knowing he was so fucking fucked if he didn’t put an end to this now.

“flower—”

you muffled his attempt with your god sent kisses, the way you were so aggressive with it shooting blood straight to his cock and causing him to completely miss the way you pulled him on top of you down on the couch, your pretty plush thighs around his waist making him choke against your mouth and force himself off of you without another second.

“w—what?” you drew your hands back against your chest, fearing that you did something wrong as he stared down at you with swollen lips and a heaving chest, his back upright.

“i—” he wiped his wet mouth with the back of his hand, shaking his head and trying to look at anything but the sight of you under him and the way your legs were spread around him.

“nothing! heh!” he laughed nervously, bashfully scratching the back of his neck as he moved away and created distance between you both, failing at catching the hurt flashing through your eyes.

you felt like you did something wrong.

“s—sorry if i squished you or—”

“no!” he blurted. “no you didn’t. it’s okay.”

then what?

you shyly tried to lean in again to continue, when yuta suddenly sprang up from the couch and stepped back, the abruptness of it making you flinch and stare at him wide eyed.

yuta needed to take a breather now before he ended up stripping you naked and— and hurting you…

but unaware of the fact that he already did.

“i’m gonna—” he struggled. “i’m gonna call one of the guys.”

what?

“i’ll be outside.”

“yu—”

he hastily walked to the front door and opened it before he stepped out, quickly closing it behind him and cutting you off, leaving you dumbfounded as you slowly sat up in silence and thinking you had done something wrong… you were sure of it.

horrifying embarrassment flooded your entire being then as you tried to blink back tears, feeling like a total loser and awful that you didn’t know how to properly initiate anything with him, you growing a little sick over the fleeting reminder of his past rendezvous and other girls doing it so successfully… that you were ashamed of yourself for being unable to do something as simple as fucking make out with him.

you quickly wiped the little tears that managed to slip from your eyes and stood, unsure if you even wanted to see him now because of your pathetic mess up, your desperate gaze searching around the kitchen for something to do to take your mind off of it as you walked over, your line of sight landing on the small pile of dishes left by your parents and you immediately going towards the sink— turning the faucet on.

a couple of more minutes passed before you eventually heard the front door open and click shut, your heart rate fucking escalating and feeling mortified again as footsteps came up from behind you, your eyes literally gorilla glued down to the dishes you were washing.

“the boys are killing each other right now.” yuta sighed, leaning against the counter next to you with his arms crossed. “the VP told me they’re divided in half trying to see if they should kill toma or not.”

you laughed softly, rinsing off a small glass cup under the running warm water and thankful that your hair was blocking your view of him.

“i thought they would all want to kill him for what he did.” you spoke.

“most of them do!” he slid closer. “but some of them think it’s funny… and the others are losing it over landing in social probation.”

you hummed, setting each rinsed off dish carefully on the rack next to you as you went.

“what about toma? do you know if he regrets—”

you stiffened at the feeling of yuta taking your hair in between his fingers and gently pulling back, brushing it behind your ear as you finally made eye contact with him, yuta shooting you a breathtaking smile— one that was so fucking contagious that you couldn’t help but reciprocate.

“sorry baby… i didn’t mean to cut you off.” he leaned back and crossed his arms again. “i couldn’t see you.”

you shook your head, standing on your tippy toes and pressing a sweet kiss to his cheek.

“no it’s okay!”

yuta had the power of having anyone and anything on their knees and at his feet with simply just a look of his godly face, and whether he knew it or not you weren’t sure of— only that the population of anyone and anything included you as well, for the minute he smiled at you in the way that he always did, you forgot entirely the shame and embarrassment you were shitting yourself over from the events prior.

though yuta did know…. he’d always known. but he stopped giving a fuck about it from the moment he met you— the only person he wanted by his side and the only opinion he cared about and strove to please, completely disregarding anyone else and putting you first above anything in his life, including his fraternity, him never listening when you fought him about it and told him he shouldn’t do that, because he felt as if he definitely should.

always and without fail.

“i feel bad keeping you here though if they’re having a full blown melt down over there...” you smiled sheepishly. “you should be there with them yu.”

he pouted.

“but what if i said i didn’t want to?” he quipped, tilting his head. “hm?”

you shot him a look, and he sighed, shoulders dropping.

“i know…” he took a step towards you and swung his arms around your shoulders from behind, mushing his cheek against the side of your head as you continued to wash dishes. “the VP was literally crying on the fucking phone and i couldn’t hear him well over the yelling in the back.”

you laughed, picturing the silly vision of a bunch of frat boys arguing and fighting over not being able to throw parties or go to events for a while, it probably seeming like the end of the world for them if they’re not able to interact with other sorority girls, and living instead on what felt like a dead deserted island devoid of alcohol and beer pong until yuta came to be the saving grace and lift their violations.

drying your hands on a nearby kitchen towel, you turned around in yuta’s hold and gave him a cute smile.

“go baby.” you pushed softly. “they need their papa.”

he playfully rolled his eyes.

“they’re full grown men and yet i still have to teach some of them how to do their laundry.”

you quirked a brow.

“didn’t i show you how to do that?”

“…no.”

you burst out laughing again at the embarrassed and flushed look on his face, his eyes darting away from yours and looking off to the side.

you craned your neck to kiss the tip of his pink nose and grinned, his gaze shifting back to you with a slow smile spreading across his lips.

“i’ll see you tomorrow.” you spoke gently. “and keep me updated on what happens when you get there okay?”

“mkay.” he loosened his hold on you and stepped a bit back, you affectionately squeezing his side as he did. “i’ll call you tonight if i make it out alive.”

you giggled, nodding as he released you entirely and began walking over to your front door, you following closely behind and opening it for him once you both got there.

“bye flower!” he leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to your lips. “i love you.”

you shyly smiled and leaned against the side of the door as he stepped out. 

“i love you too yuuuu.”

he stopped and turned his head to look at you from over his shoulder, sheepishly pursing his lips.

“can i just stay—”

“no!” you laughed, extending an arm and gently nudging him away by the shoulder. “go silly…. your frat’s gonna end up in flames if you don’t.”

yuta chuckled, knowing you were funnily actually correct and not over exaggerating in the slightest, the two of you well aware that his fraternity brothers had the tendency to be a bunch of reckless morons if he wasn’t there to guide them or make sure they weren’t stepping over the line.

and sometimes… (almost always though), he wished he could stop everyone in his damn college campus from stepping over the line like he could with his frat guys, their ridiculous and ludicrous rumors about his relationship with you never failing to set him off and make him anxious that you’ll worry your precious mind over it and believe them.

yuta tried to keep you away from that as much as he possibly could.

anytime you both took strolls throughout campus, or decided to visit that nice little student run bakery that you loved so much every morning, if he ever saw someone— anyone that was in his circle, that he knew for a fact had insinuated those rumors, or if they simply just had a nasty fucking attitude and he didn’t want you to get caught in the middle of it, he would gently steer you the other way with a hand around your shoulders and a loving little smile on his face, shielding you from a world of undeserving popularity, dishonesty, and calculated disingenuous foolery that only served to benefit the wrong people.

and yet still… all of that was his world after all.

and yuta couldn’t shield you from everything.

“who? yuta okkotsu?”

your ears perked up, gaze flickering from your notebook up to the two girls that sat in front of you during your afternoon lecture, pencil stilling in your hand.

“yeah him! the one that got with layla a while back.”

layla?

you pursed your lips in distaste, sighing a little through your nose and shifting your attention back to your notes, feeling a little silly for being bitter over a girl yuta got with before you.

but he got with her nonetheless… something he still hadn’t done with you.

“oh to be her…” one of them sadly sighed. “i would give anything to get dicked down by him.”

your jaw silently dropped, not knowing whether you should be bothered by that statement or laugh.

“i heard he has a girlfriend now though.” the other spoke.

“hah?! who?”

“dunno.” she shrugged. “someone told me it’s some nerdy girl that’s in the same year as him. she’s really easy to miss.”

you internally rolled your eyes and lightly pushed your notebook to the side, deciding to divert your attention towards your laptop screen instead.

“you’re fucking joking right?”

“nope!”

“that’s such a waste.” she expressed. “why would he be with that when he could be with layla? everybody wants layla shit— even i want layla sometimes.”

“you’re such a bitch!” her other friend cackled and smacked her arm. “but no yeah… i give it a year max. i heard he doesn’t whore around anymore, but considering how long he chased after me for a quick fuck? there’s no way he’s suddenly just— a saint.”

“do you regret rejecting him?” 

“yes oh my god— i was trying to be mysterious and different but he ended up just fucking someone else that same night—”

you hadn’t noticed how hard you were gripping your pencil until a cramping pain shot through your knuckles, you instantly relaxing and setting it softly off to the side.

“fuck! you know what?” one of them jumped up excitedly. “i actually heard he’s still seeing layla!”

the other gasped. “you’re lying!”

“no i’m not i swear!” she snatched her phone from the desk and frantically typed away. “ricky— you know ricky? he said one of layla’s close friends spilled that they talk so much and meet up sometimes to fuck—”

“stooop his poor girlfriend! oh my god someone needs to tell her—”

you slammed your laptop shut and stood, you never one to skip out on lectures or leave early but not giving a single fuck at the moment as you packed up, physically unable to hear anything else and feeling straight up nauseous at everything they were saying, drowning out the rest of their rambling as you swung your bag over your shoulder and pushed your chair in, walking out of class and leaving your lecture hall as a whole.

they’re just rumors.

they’re just two bitches with nothing better to do and were weirdly obsessed with your boyfriend's personal business.

yuta would never do that to you…

but was he— was he that obsessed with layla before you? and did he seriously fuck around with every girl he could possibly get his hands on?

so what was so different about you? his actual girlfriend?

“flower?”

you stiffened, eyes snapping up from the floor and landing on a surprised looking yuta, waiting for you by your class like he always did.

“you’re out of class already?” he tapped on his phone to wake it up. “it doesn’t end for another thirty minutes i was gonna go get my car from the parking lot to get you—”

you hated yourself for feeling like he was the last person you wanted to see… but you just couldn’t help it.

“i left.”

your simple quiet reply took him a bit off guard.

“you left?” he tilted his head. “but you never leave class early… are you feeling a little rebellious today baby?”

he smiled big and expected a pretty giggle from you at his teasing then— but he got nothing.

your face was still stoic, and with a small pinch in between your brows.

“mhm.”

his smile wavered.

“o—okay…” he put his phone back in his pocket. “well— the boys are organizing for our fundraising event… and i— i was gonna ask if you could help me with our booth banner and decorations baby? everything we made looks like chicken scratch and you have pretty handwriting…”

your heart clenched so fucking hard in your chest, wanting to say yes with everything in you, but the annoying stupid gossip from earlier soliciting bitter jealousy in your mind that unfortunately overpowered everything else.

“i’m sorry yu…” you mumbled, eyes looking away. “i don’t feel that great today so i’m just gonna go home. i’ll help tomorrow though if that’s alright.”

“oh— you don’t feel good?” yuta frowned, stepping closer. “what’s wrong?”

yuta caught the way you took a step back, and he blinked.

“i just feel nauseous is all.” you weakly smiled. “i’m gonna go home for the day and hopefully feel better in the morning.”

you felt nauseous?

“what did you eat today? let me take you to get some meds—” 

he tried to place a soothing hand on your back, but the way you moved away from him again set off a thousand blaring alarms in his head.

“i—it’s okay!” you stammered, hugging yourself and starting to walk in the opposite direction towards the parking lot. “i’m just gonna head home yu i’ll text you—”

“flower wait—”

yuta quickly caught your hand, his eyes flooded in absolute worry and confusion as he looked at you.

you were never like this with him.

and— and any time you were sick you always wanted to be with him to let him take care of you.

“what yu?” you mumbled, your sad gaze finally dragging up to look at him in the eyes.

“baby what’s wrong?” he asked softly. “i feel like it’s something else.”

you bit down on the inside of your cheek.

“i just feel nauseous.”

“well then come to my frat okay? you can— you can take a nap in my room and i think i have some nausea meds somewhere—”

his grip on your hand tightened a little.

“or maybe we can take a walk somewhere and that’ll help? like at the aquarium? we can visit buddy—”

yuta’s frantic blubbering to try to get you to stay with him sent a shooting pang of guilt through your chest, it breaking you from that weird and awful headspace you were in as your eyes softened.

you shamefully realized then that it really wasn’t fair you were treating him like this… especially because he quite literally didn’t do anything at all— you feeling silly and awful that you rejected his advances and were off with him when all he was trying to do was help you feel better.

the rumors and gossip was something that was completely out of his control… and you shouldn’t punish him for that.

you took a small step forward then, giving him a tiny hesitant smile.

“we can… go to your frat yu.”

he perked up.

“yeah?” 

“yeah.”

you timidly reached up and softly slid your arms around his neck, yuta immediately responding by pulling your body snug against his with a squeeze, relieved that you agreed to come home with him and that you were letting him touch you again— pecking the side of your head before letting go and gently leading you to his car.

but the tight feeling in his chest didn’t go away.

it was nagging at him, and annoyingly so as he tried to dumb down his stupid insecurities and not overthink on the drive to his frat house, trying to settle himself with the reasoning you had told him and trying not to think about the way you kept dodging his hands, that you were just a little sick is all…

so then— why had you looked so upset?

and yuta’s turmoil only grew once he started to juggle the possibility of it being not something you felt, but something you heard.

a rumor.

“a woman! yuta brought a woman!”

“it’s y/n idiot.” yuta shot back to one of his frat brothers, sending you a playful eye roll as he closed the door behind you upon arrival.

“oh it is! hiii yyy/nnnn!” a different one spoke up, a handful of them huddled over a large table in the dining room with a sheet of white poster paper laying in the middle.

“hiii.” you shyly spoke, a sweet polite smile on your face that yuta swooned over as he placed an arm around your shoulders, leading you to the table.

“what the—” yuta’s eyes squinted over the poster paper as you slapped a hand over your mouth, stifling a laugh and your eyes darting over how horrid the layout design of the banner was for their fundraising event, your boyfriend not exaggerating in the slightest when he said it looked like chicken scratch.

men.

“how did you guys manage to make it worse?!” yuta exclaimed, loudly laughing as he leaned over the table and pointed at specific weird smudges and drawings. “i was only gone for an hour!”

you giggled and leaned over with him, some of the boys making room for you so you could properly take a peek at their so-called vigorous work, your amused eyes gazing over the messily painted bold black lettering and the odd random drawings of smiley faces and money.

yuta burst out laughing again.

“who the fuck drew this?!” he pointed to a specific drawing of a weirdly shaped stick man holding a tray of cookies, the smile on its face so cartoonishly huge and toothy that you had to bite down hard on your bottom lip to prevent yourself from laughing, not wanting to offend whoever it was that drew it.

“it was toma!” someone from the crowd spoke up.

“toma?!” yuta shook his head incredulously, scanning the faces of his brothers until they landed on an annoyingly familiar pair of eyes— the culprit hiding behind a few other guys and snickering.

“what?!” toma whined, stepping through the boys and crossing his arms. “i was trying to help out.”

this was the first time you’d properly seen toma up close (and meeting him altogether actually), you not particularly accustomed to him yet like the other guys since he was a freshman, him having just come in for the year and you not really knowing much about him besides from the stories yuta’s told you, your recollections of the shit he’s done and said making it obvious that toma was rowdy and reckless in nature.

“with that?” yuta laughed again. “why’s the mouth bigger than its own head?”

“because he’s happy.” toma shrugged, a playful little curl to his lips. “he’s just so jolly to be selling cookies at a fundraiser, and i wanted to show off my rare artistic talent for the frat!”

“oh yeah? that’s what you wanted?” yuta leaned his weight on the side of his hip. “draw me some cute pictures on a piece of paper then, i’ll put them on the fridge for you and your probation buttheads to see.”

several brothers snickered while toma slumped, a distressed look on his face.

“yuta please i helped out so you’d lift my probation!” he exclaimed, freezing and cowering under your boyfriends sudden glare. “…maybe?”

in regards to toma’s outbreak, administration ended up just giving yuta and his entire frat a warning upon him meeting with them last week, leaving it ultimately up to him to decide what he wanted to do with toma and the pack he led to the other frat house, and yuta keeping true to his word to you, put them all on a three month social probation with no fucks given.

“are you nuts?” yuta chuckled. “you’re looking for parole with a drawing like that?”

“your girlfriend likes it! look she’s laughing!” all eyes shot to you and you froze, your giggles instantly halting and a hand flying over your mouth.

“sorry! i don’t—”

yuta shot him another menacing glare, deadlier than the last one as he picked up a marker from the table and chucked it at toma, it landing right smack on his forehead and clattering to the ground, the rest of the boys boastfully laughing.

“i’ll tell yuta to make your probation four months if you don’t get out of my face right now.” the vice president spoke up, moving through the crowd until he reached the front. 

yuta shrugged. “oh i was already gonna do that.”

“no! why?!” toma threw his hands up in desperation. “for what reason?! because of a drawing?!”

“it’s the only poster paper we have toma.” your boyfriend grumbled. 

“and you’re not even supposed to be down here around the fundraising shit.” the vice president spat. “you’re supposed to be upstairs with the rest of your—”

“i came down ‘cause i was thirsty!—”

“you drew on the poster paper!—”

“yu.” you murmured through their continuous bickering and yelling— tugging on his shirt to try and get his attention, his eyes flickering to yours and head quickly coming down to listen.

“what happened baby?” his grip on your shoulder tightened a little. “is it your nausea?”

“oh! no i’m okay now!” you smiled. “i can do your guys’ fundraiser poster still, i’ll just flip it over to the blank side and work there.”

“aw flower that’s okay! not when you’re feeling a little sick...” he looked at you fondly, a kind half grin on his lips as he placed a flat palm on top of your head.

“no honestly i’m alright!” you quickly shook your head and looked towards the poster and the rest of the boys, them still fighting and blaming each other over nonsense that had to do with social probations, the ruined poster, and sorority girls— wanting to ease them a little in anyway you possibly could, as well as mentally make up for the stupid white lie you had told him earlier.

yuta’s hand slid from your head back down to your shoulder, apprehensive.

“are you— are you sure?” his eyes shifted to the poster. “i feel bad making you do the work i’m supposed to be doing…”

“you’re not making me do anything silly.” you reassured with a small laugh. “i wanna help yu… its really okay. honestly.”

a gradual beaming smile spread across his face then, the hand on your shoulder pulling you in and yuta pressing a big fat kiss to the side of your head, enamored by everything that you were as he leaned back and nodded gratefully, letting you go.

“thank you flower—”

“okkotsu these beasts are out of control.”

the vice president struggled through the moving pushy crowd to reach the both of you, looking so utterly pissed off and overwhelmed as he elbowed and shoved to get face to face with yuta, a tad bit out of breath.

“they’re freaking out over toma’s fuck up and now they somehow think the fundraiser’s fucked up and i actually do think we fucked up—”

“hey— it’s okay! relax.” yuta placed a hand on his shoulder. “why do you think that? we’re not—”

“because the posters fucked.” he huffed out, trying to even his breathing. “so then we look like the biggest shitheads at the fundraiser by default and everyone’s gonna buy the sorority girls cookies instead of ours so then we’re gonna be broke and we can’t throw parties without money— why are you laughing.”

yuta covered his mouth and shook his head.

“i’m not— sorry—”

“this is serious man my god!” he slapped yuta’s hand off his shoulder and glared. “they’re about to brawl over toma’s stupid drawing i can’t control them and you’re laughing?!”

his gaze quickly shifted to you.

“y/n he’s awful dear god help me—”

“alright okay— i’ll deal with them don’t worry.” your boyfriend looked at him pointedly. “you do that too much.”

“what, give a shit? my bad sir honestly my effing mistake—”

you giggled and yuta laughed at his sarcasm, lightheartedly shoving his shoulder.

“go to bed man you’ve been dealing with this all day.” he sent him a sympathetic smile. “y/n offered to do our poster and i’m gonna help so we’ll be done by morning—”

surprise crossed the vice president’s face, his eyes flickering to yours once more.

“actually?” 

you nodded with a smile.

“oh thank god—” the color seemed to return to his face, him placing a hand on his chest and feeling relief wash over him as he looked at you, reciprocating your smile. “thank you y/n. seriously.”

“mhm! no problemmm.” you responded kindly. “but rest please. you’ll make yourself sick if you keep stressing like this…”

you’d lost count how many times you’d seen the vice president lose his shit over anything that had to do with the frat, it evidently obvious how much he cared for the boys and the fraternity despite his humorous verbal abuse— him being possibly the only brother in yuta’s frat that you respected and trusted out of anyone else in there, and often went to him whenever you had questions about their upcoming events or things in relation if yuta wasn’t available.

“alright.” the vice president sent you both a small smile before turning around to face the rowdy men-filled crowd, raising his hands up.

“okay away from the table! everybody leave and go to bed we have a fundraiser tomorrow! cabinet will deal with it just away— toma what the fuck are you still doing down here?!”

“i have to talk to yuta!” he whined. “you were hogging him the entire time.”

the crowd began to disperse as toma made his way forward.

“he’s not gonna lift your probation stupid.”

“i know!” he spat. “it’s about something else.”

yuta quirked a brow.

“something else?” 

there was a devilish glint to his eyes, and yuta internally rolled his, turning to the vice president.

“it’s okay.” he placed a gentle palm on your lower back and softly ushered you forward. “can you show y/n where the materials are for the poster please? i’ll be there in a minute.”

the vice president nodded and smiled politely at you, beckoning you over to the table where the ruined poster lay, markers and paint brushes and little cups of paint scattered about in disarray as you approached.

yuta’s attention shifted to toma, crossing his arms.

“what is it? you alright?”

“are you cheating on your girlfriend?”

yuta froze, brows immediately pinching together.

“what?”

toma shrugged. “are you? it’s what i’ve been hearing.”

“hearing?” he stepped closer. “from who?”

“dunno. like— almost everyone. too much to say.”

yuta’s heart dropped.

who the fuck was saying that?

“no you moron i’m not.” he snapped. “but… if you can figure out who’s spreading it… i’ll— consider lifting your probation.”

toma lit up.

“will you?!”

“i said consider.”

yuta’s face was blank and cold, wanting to quickly put an end to the conversation as it was making him fucking queasy, nodding his head up towards the stairs.

had you heard this rumor?

“go up before the VP chews you out.”

“good idea!” toma flashed him a goofy thumbs up and scrambled away to his designated room, yuta shaking his head as he walked over to you and the vice president, his eyes cast down to the ground in pensive thought.

why couldn’t people just leave you and him alone?

“—and we literally only have blue, yellow, red, and green like the most rancid colors—”

“oh that’s okay!” you laughed. “they’re primary colors i can mix to make new ones if i need to.”

“great!” the VP smiled. “i’m going to bed.”

“go man.” yuta chuckled, patting a friendly hand to his back. “thank you again.”

he nodded and began making his way to the staircase, hopping up the steps. 

“i’ll set up in the morning for the fundraiser and handle the guys!” yuta loudly mentioned. “will you just check attendance for me please?”

“yeah!” the vice president called out from down the hall, his voice gradually fading with each step until he was out of earshot, leaving just the two of you in the middle of the huge dim living room.

you looked to the poster and grabbed the ends then, flipping it over to the clean blank side and picking up a nearby spare pencil to begin sketching.

“i was thinking of writing your fraternity's name in calligraphy up here—” you pointed to a spot a little above center. “and then ‘cookie sale’ down here? do you like that?”

“sounds great flower!” yuta smiled big. “what’s calligraphy?”

you giggled, picking up a ruler and drawing a faint straight line across to make sure you weren’t going crooked as you went. 

“it’s kind of like cursive but just a bit chunkier.” you explained softly, starting to sketch out the loopy lettering. “it looks really pretty on projects and advertisements.”

yuta hummed, peering over your shoulder from behind you as you worked.

“and then i was thinking of drawing little cookies floating around? and stars? or maybe—”

“you know i love you right?”

you stopped, shifting your body slightly in his direction to reveal an anxious looking yuta, worry splattered all over his face as he waited for your response.

was… he okay?—

“of course i d—”

“and you know i’d never do anything to hurt you right?”

you fully turned your body around now to properly face him, your eyes filled with concern as you put your pencil down.

“i do baby…” you softly replied. “are you okay? what’s wrong?”

yuta sighed through his nose and shook his head, placing his hands at the edge of the table on either sides of you, his head slumping down to gently rest against your forehead.

“nothing.” he muttered. “i just— think.”

“you just think?” you lifted your arms and slid them around his shoulders, giving him a little comforting squeeze. “about what… hm?”

“you.”

he was always thinking of you.

every morning, every evening, every night.

there wasn’t ever a time that yuta wasn’t thinking of you— of how you were, if you were feeling okay and if you’d gotten enough to eat in the morning… if you still loved him.

because unfortunately, there also wasn’t ever a time that yuta wasn’t thinking about the different ways he could lose you, since his past always seemed to come back to haunt him and damage the only good fucking thing remaining in his life, fearfully living on the edge and awfully insecure despite his reputation, one that was programmed for him to be thoughtless and careless and something he actually was once before.

but yuta wasn’t that person anymore.

except it still wasn’t enough.

“really?” a blush rose to your cheeks with a cheeky smile, you leaning back the tiniest bit. “and what about me yu?”

the corner of his lip quirked up— his face a little tired, but soft.

“how smart you are.” he spoke quietly. “and pretty. with pretty handwriting.”

you giggled, the sound filling yuta’s chest with warmth and the crinkles by your eyes making him stupidly swoon, bringing you in closer by the waist and pressing a delicate kiss to the tip of your nose.

“please tell me you know that.”

your brows furrowed a bit.

he’d never been this— serious with you before and stating things that were already the obvious, the way he clutched tighter at your waist and the sunken defeated expression he wore, was something that indefinitely alarmed you as your eyes quickly scoured over his features. 

“yuta.”

his eyes flickered up to yours.

“yeah flower?”

“what’s wrong.” you pushed gently, your hands slipping down from his shoulders to cup his cheeks. “why are you telling me this?”

“because i need to.” his head slowly tilted, cheek leaning into your touch. “i need you to know.”

“but i do know.” you shook your head. “you’re telling me things i’ve known since we became friends yuta…”

he still didn’t look alleviated in the slightest by your words, and you frowned.

“remember earlier when you asked me what was wrong? after i’d left class early?”

he silently nodded against your hands.

“the way you felt then about wanting to know is how i feel now.” you explained. “i can tell when you’re thinking too much about something baby…”

he sighed deeply through his nose and his eyes fluttered shut.

he didn’t want to bombard you with his insecurities or make you feel like it was your job to pull him from those agitating depth full thoughts… and he didn’t want to make you feel responsible for any of it either.

it was all just— him.

and everybody on campus who didn’t know how to shut the fuck up too, for it made his overthinking worse.

“i’m scared i’m gonna mess up.” he admitted, laughing humorlessly. “and ruin what we’ve built.”

“huh?” your eyes slightly narrowed. “why do you say that?… you won’t—”

“the rumors flower…” he mumbled, head lifting from your hands. “everyone’s apparently waiting for me to fuck up just because they like who i used to be better.”

your eyes softened, palms coming down to rest flat against his chest as you listened.

“i hate that they can’t accept i’m with you… and i hate that i let them bother me so much.” 

his hands and arms lifted from your waist to wrap around your head instead, caging you into his embrace. 

“i hate that they talk about you.” he whispered in your hair. “i hate that i can’t do anything about it.”

everyone on this stupid freaking campus could drag yuta through the dirt and say he was a loser and a sleaze, that he was an awful human being and deserved to rot in the deepest pits of hell— as he wouldn’t mind any of it in the slightest if it meant sparring you completely.

if he could, if you’d let him… he would drop it all for you.

“you’re not gonna mess up anything...” you breathed out a soft laugh as you pulled back, your fingers coming up to card and caress through his soft raven strands. “and if you do, that’s okay! we’ll just fix it baby.”

the scent of his citrusy cologne wafted through your nostrils, the smell one of the most comforting things in your fucking life as you sunk your nose further into the fabric of his clothing then.

“i’m sure there’ll be moments when i mess up too.” you murmured against him, gently. “but we’ll deal with it together… so you shouldn’t let what anyone says about anything affect you so much okay?”

you leaned back again and gave his head a little pat.

“you look so stressed and i don’t like it.”

he chuckled softly and picked his head up, eyes peering down at you for a moment and staring before he lifted his head completely, his posture a little straighter as he nodded.

“i’m sorry.” he sheepishly smiled. “i just get in my head sometimes.”

you smiled back warmly, shaking your head and understanding to the fucking max where he’s coming from, for you were silently in the same exact position right at this moment and yet too cowardly to seek reassurance like he was rightfully doing.

“s’okay!” your hands slid from his hair down to his chest, standing on your tippy toes to give him a tiny peck on the lips. “don’t be sorry.”

yuta couldn’t control the rumors or what people had to say about the both of you.

but what he could control, were his actions and his words to you… and it was almost like he wanted to prove a point to every single dickhead on campus and make them see, believe and comprehend that you weren’t just a toy for him to disgustingly use and have a simple fling with, deciding in that moment to prioritize your happiness and satisfaction above all else.

he needed you to know that he wasn’t using you.

so he created distance.

and although it wasn’t distance that was detrimental or cruel to you or your relationship, it was enough of a distance that you noticed right away while helping out at his fraternity’s fundraiser the next day— you offering to assist the vice president in keeping track of the total number of cookie sales and stock, refilling the stands and glass casings whenever it was needed while yuta dealt with the boys, him networking with other frat guys from several different universities as well and charming them with his usual second nature charisma, anyone who spoke to him succumbing up to it so much that they’d be swayed enough to buy packs and packs of cookies.

you’d even witnessed stampeding crowds of sorority girls and staff buy dozens of batches simply because yuta kindly flashed them a handsome smile and an enthusiastic hello, you sat at the booth blinking in dumbfounded amazement as the vice president worked the register and cashed in wads of dollar bills, the shelves cleaning themselves out quicker than you thought.

but every time you tried to talk to yuta or give him a kiss… it was almost hurried from him— interlocked fingers that were fleeting and only lasted a couple seconds, yuta squeezing your hand with a grin before letting go and walking a different direction without even letting you get a word in, or embraces that were too short and fucking weird, him sort of treating you like a best friend instead of his girlfriend as he barely pecked your forehead or cheeks or literally anywhere that wasn’t your lips.

you tried to tell yourself that he was just busy and probably had a lot on his mind, understanding completely that he had responsibilities to attend to for the day and feeling irritated at yourself for being a bit upset.

though you couldn’t help but wonder why this time it felt so… different.

because usually, even when yuta had things to do for the frat or events to cater to, he never once let you off on your own for too long, and he always showered you with affection and kisses that made your cheeks heat up and heart palpate into literal oblivion that you’d have to cup a hand over his mouth to get him to simmer down, a bashful silly sorry from him muffling against your palm in return.

and you realized then just how attached to your boyfriend you actually were… and way more than you initially thought.

you missed him.

the vice president glanced at you from over his shoulder and smiled, chuckling a bit as he finished up tending to the latest customer and closing the register.

“you okay?” he waved to someone in the crowd on the other side of the booth before turning back to you. “you look bothered. is it too hot?”

“oh! no i’m okay! thank you.” you shook your head, smiling politely.

he smirked.

“you miss yuta?”

your cheeks went pink and he burst out laughing, reaching to type a few things on the register’s touch screen.

“us selling cookies is one of our biggest fundraisers, and its where we make most of our money for the year so— yuta’s usually all over the place during it.”

you listened intently, nodding along as he breathed out tiredly through his nose and walked a bit away from the booth, sitting down on the chair next to yours.

“i don’t know how i’m gonna do this by myself next year man…” he mumbled with closed eyelids, tiredly crossing his arms. “yuta’s like a machine. i don’t know how he handles the guys and the frat and whatever else in between without crashing out like me.”

a sense of pride for your man bubbled up in your chest then, it always nice to hear the vice president or anyone for that matter speak highly of yuta and his abilities, the work he’d put into the fraternity for the majority of his college life so insane and admirable, that there was no doubt in your mind he’d leave behind a blueprint and had set the standards fucking high for the next presidents to come.

“are you applying to be president for next year?” you asked.

he snorted.

“fuck no. i could never fill yuta’s shoes.”

he peeked an eye open and you gave him a look, him laughing in response.

“what?”

“i’ve seen you handle the frat so well all of the time what are you on?”

“four cans of energy drinks.” he muttered. “and cookies from the batch of burnt scraps.”

you giggled, leaning back against the chair and looking on ahead— yuta in the middle of the grassy field surrounded by girls, members from other fraternities, and anything alike as you watched him converse and be silly with them all, a sweet smile on his face that you wished you could see up close for a bit, since he hadn’t stopped by the booth at all for the majority of the day and was instead working the field to bring in customers.

“i think you’re the most qualified out of anyone to take over yuta’s position next year.” you spoke gently. “so i hope you do apply.”

“i yell at the boys too much… yuta knows a good in between when needed.” his head lulled tiredly to the side. “and i don’t know if i’m gonna be able to handle the rejection if he says no.”

your jaw hung open, a bewildered look on your face.

“why would he say no? if anything it’s already yours—”

his head snapped in your direction.

“is it? how do you know? did he tell you? i feel like you’d know tell me right now—”

“tell you what?”

you straightened up upon hearing the familiar voice of your man and looked, a big smile stretching across your face once you saw yuta standing there on the other side of the booth, a cute half grin on his lips as he leaned against the table with palms on the surface.

“yu!”

“hi flower!” he beamed. “you okay?”

“uh huh!” you stood up, stepping closer to the table and leaning against it, mirroring him. “are you…?”

“i am!” he nodded, walking around the table and swinging an arm around your shoulders. “i’m exhausted though i don’t wanna talk to any more people i can’t do it.”

you giggled, little butterflies fluttering in your tummy at finally having him next to you and his attention for the time being.

“i feel like a walking corpse.” the vice president huffed out. “we can pack up early? we hit our goal in the afternoon i think we should send the boys back to the frat to set up for the after party.”

“sounds good!” yuta smiled, turning his head down to you. “you’re still going right? to the party?”

“mhm!” you nodded. “i just need to go home and get ready… do you need help setting up for it?”

“oh no flower that’s alright!” he squeezed your shoulder lovingly. “you’ve already done so much for me… just go get ready baby and call me so i can pick you up okay?”

“kay!” you cheesed, leaning up to give him a kiss when yuta suddenly turned his head to the side, your lips landing on his cheek instead.

what—

you pulled back, trying to keep a neutral expression on your face as you took a step forward and out of his arm around your shoulders, a growing ache in your chest over the fact that he’d been doing this all day.

did it look like you were going in for cheek kisses? or kisses that were anywhere but his mouth? it wasn’t— obvious?

maybe… maybe it was just you. 

maybe you were messing up again.

“thanks for making the poster by the way and helping out y/n.” the vice president mentioned, snapping you from your thoughts. “it looks so freaking good i don’t think we’ve ever had a banner look that great.”

you smiled brightly and nodded. “it’s okayyy! i hope i helped you guys out a little bit.”

“flower you did more than a little bit.” yuta laughed. “we sold so many cookies because i heard there was a pretty girl by the register… heh.”

a wave of heat rose to your cheeks and you playfully rolled your eyes, waving him off as you stepped away from the canopy tent.

“call me please when you’re ready!” yuta called out to you, you turning your body a bit and showing him a cute thumbs up before facing forward again, him and the vice president watching you walk across the busy field and towards the campus parking lot.

the vice president spoke up after a few seconds of silence.

“is it true?”

yuta’s gaze switched to his.

“what is?”

“that you’re cheating on y/n with layla.”

his face dropped, brows furrowing as yuta moved his body to look at him properly.

“you’ve heard the rumors too?”

he nodded.

“where?”

“everywhere.” the vice president responded plainly. “i hear them in class, out of class, in the student lounge, when i go take a piss—”

“from— from who?”

the borderline frantic desperation in yuta’s tone made the vice presidents gaze flicker to his, eyeing his solemn eagerness to know information that he regrettably couldn’t give concretely, but also eyeing his body language and expression to see if yuta was indeed guilty, or just a victim to annoying gossip once more.

except this time around… it was cruel. 

“it’s from multiple people that i don’t really know.” he sighed. “i just hear it floating around.”

yuta groaned and ran both hands down his face in exasperation, bitterly shaking his head while his mind ran rampant for the thousandth fucking time over the rumor of his supposed infidelity.

“so is it true?” the vice president repeated.

“no.” yuta spoke firmly, harshly. “no i would never do something like that to her. ever.”

there was another moment of silence.

“alright.” the vice president leaned back in his chair, his eyes tiredly closing again. “because it’d be a shame if you were… she’s a nice girl.”

“i know she is…” yuta mumbled, sluggishly walking over to the seat next to him and plopping down on it. “i’ve been trying to figure out who’s spreading that rumor but it’s fucking everywhere that i can’t figure it out. even toma asked me about it.”

the vice president snorted. “toma?”

“yeah.” yuta put his elbows down on his knees and leaned forward, an arm coming up to rest his cheek against the heel of his palm. “i told him if he could figure out who was doing it i’d consider lifting his probation.”

“huh?!”

yuta looked at him apologetically.

“i know… i hope it’s okay with you.” he dropped his arm and gazed on ahead. “i was only gonna lift a month off, and that’s even if he can find out who.”

“toma’s gonna stop at nothing to figure out who just because of that.” the vice president laughed. “it’s alright man... i’d do the same if i were you.”

yuta solemnly nodded.

“i’m scared of what she’s heard. i don’t want her to get hurt by any of it.”

“have you talked to her about it?”

he shook his head. “kind of… only generally but not specifically about the cheating rumor—”

“wha—” the vice president gawked. “that’s the one thing you should be talking to her about yuta she’s gonna hear it eventually—”

“but that’s the thing if— if she hasn’t yet i want it to stay that way…” he mumbled, head hanging low. “so i can try and get rid of it before it upsets her.”

“i don’t know if that thought process is a good idea or not.” the vice president spoke warily. “it kind of looks like you’re trying to cover up the fact that you are cheating—”

“i’m not—”

“then do something about it.”

the vice president stood up, arms raising up over his head to stretch and loosen up his tired limbs, them falling limp at his sides after. “talk to layla directly at the party tonight and find out if it’s her or not, then go from there.”

yuta’s brows pinched.

why the fuck didn’t he think of that sooner?

“i’ll ask around for you too.” the vice president swiped his backpack from the grass and shrugged it on, taking his jacket then from the back of the chair and tossing it lazily over his shoulder.

“but your best bet is toma.”

and the vice president was right.

because the minute yuta picked your stunning self up for the party later that day, utterly obsessed with the way you dolled up and him trying to take it all in for himself, his phone wouldn’t stop fucking buzzing inside the pocket of his pants and breaking his looney trance— him having to literally rip his eyes away from you and begrudgingly shove his hand around for his phone until he found it.

“who is it?” you laughed softly, buckling your seatbelt once you got in the car and reaching up to pull down his sun visor, sliding open the small vanity mirror and readjusting your hair a little.

yuta nearly drooled.

“oh! uh—”

he snapped his head down to see message after message pile in from toma, all of which were back to back and without a freaking break as they nearly blew up his phone, the nonstop vibration against his palm irritating him as he unlocked his device and went to toma’s contact.

toma: yo

toma: prez

toma: hello

toma: answer me right now

“it’s just toma.” he shook his head, thumbs prepping to type a response.

toma: HELLO

toma: YUTA

toma: ARE YOU IGNORING ME

toma: I BRING NEWS ABOUT YOUR CHEATING SCANDAL!

his eyes widened.

toma: LIFT MY PROBATION

yuta: say that again and i’m extending it

yuta: what did you find?

toma: wouldn’t you like to know ;)

toma: bet your girlfriend sure would!

toma: let me stay at the frat for the party and i’ll tell you

yuta: five months

toma: NO OKAY FUCK IM SORRY

toma: seriously though come to the house before i leave and i’ll tell you

toma: it’s too much to type and i’m lazy

“is he okay?” you asked kindly, sliding the mirror shut and closing the sun visor, turning your head to look at him.

“yeah he’s fine baby.” he looked up and smiled, leaning across the console to press a sweet kiss on your cheek, settling back in his seat and shifting the gear into reverse to pull out of your driveway. “you have everything?”

why wasn’t he kissing your mouth?

“mhm!” you nodded. “how many people did you guys invite?”

“it was an open invite.” he pushed the gear to drive and accelerated down your street back to his fraternity.

you scoffed in amazement.

“open invite?”

usually the parties yuta threw with his frat brothers were of select invite only, ones that consisted of anyone with any type of popularity alongside whoever they decided to bring also of status, you realizing that you were probably the only one there who didn’t have anything to their name in comparison to the others.

but with the invite now extending to absolutely anyone? and his parties already to begin with rowdy and insane?

you expected yuta’s frat house to turn into a shit show.

“what?” he laughed, turning his steering wheel to the left. “it’s a lot of people isn’t it?”

“you’re gonna have half of the student body in your house.”

he laughed again and shot you an apologetic look, him continuing to drive through the familiar avenues and paths that led up to his fraternity, when you quickly noticed the streets looked a bit more packed than usual— almost every single curb lined up with mass amounts of vehicles that were parked damn near back to back with no room left to even get out, you spotting small portions of dressed up crowds walking down the sidewalk the closer you got to his frat, already being peppy and noisy as they cackled and carried down packs of alcohol in their arms.

yuta had invited nearly the entire student body on purpose.

to find out who it was that was spreading that piece of shit rumor about his infidelity.

your boyfriend pulled into the driveway, your ears already picking up on the booming bass of the music inside as yuta flashed his lights at people who were in the way, him slowly inching through to get in the open garage as your eyes wildly scoured over the amount of students crossing the lawn or surrounding his car, empty red solo cups and trash littering the grass out front when the party had literally just started an hour ago.

there were so many people, more than you had ever seen at his previous parties.

yuta lifted an arm and pressed the small garage remote that was hooked above on his sun visor, the wide door loudly sliding shut in response as he drove in a little further before cutting off the ignition, him pulling his keys out and hooking the carabiner through one of his belt loops.

“you okay baby?” he smiled kindly, lifting his head to look at you and setting a hand down on his steering wheel. “i’m sorry about all the people… i know its a lot.”

you shook your head and gave him a cute grin, actively pushing down the fuzzy nerves that started to push up your throat for the sake of not being a burden, you not wanting to be annoying in the slightest about the crowds and just let yuta have fun, with this being his last fundraising after party and all.

“don’t be sorry yu its okay.” you reached across the console and took his hand, interlacing your fingers together. “you guys deserve to unwind like this after today right?”

he beamed and nodded, his grip tightening and eyes flickering down to your pretty little dress that made him swallow and quickly divert his gaze away, lips pursing to the side with pinky cheeks as he tried to get his head straight and remind himself over and over of the distance, of not playing into everybody’s stupid beliefs and hurting you.

but it was so fucking hard to when you were just so gorgeous to him, fondness creeping up in his chest then as he randomly thought of the night he first saw you at that one party he hosted a year ago— just as pretty if not more.

yuta was so unbelievably glad that you had rejected him then, for it woke his entire self up to the possibilities and beauty of actual genuine love rather than just quick fucks, the normalcy of meaningless hook ups something he had shamefully grown accustomed and desensitized to since high school.

your rejection had woken him up to you.

“yuta..?”

he blinked, eyes snapping back to you.

“yeah! yes flower?”

you giggled softly. “i asked if you wanted to go inside? i’m sure everyone’s been wanting to see you…”

he simply shrugged and brought your hand up to his lips, kissing the back of it.

“but i wanna see you.”

you snorted. “you are seeing me silly… you see me everyday! hehe.”

and yet it wasn’t nearly enough. it was never enough.

yuta reached across the console with his unoccupied hand and ran his thumb over your precious cheek, his touch delicate as he silently looked at you with a little glimmer in his eye, taking in the sight of you before retracting his arm and smiling.

“stick to me the entire night please.” he squeezed your hand. “if at any point you get tired or a little nervous baby just let me know. we’ll go up to my room and call it, okay?”

your heart fluttered at how considerate and sweet he was, you nodding in response.

“mkay!”

you had never seen the frat look so full and feel so humid in your fucking life, you gripping tightly onto yuta’s hand as he led you through sweaty drunk bodies and narrow hallways, keeping close to him and trying to ignore the curious confused stares you got that eyed you both as you passed, shyly switching your gaze or turning your head altogether to evade it.

the stares weren’t anything new to you, as practically with every event or party yuta threw you received them without fail, the act a given at this point as no one seemed to ever remember your face or what you looked like no matter how long you had been around yuta already, you actually preferring it that way as it allowed you to be on campus without any weird instances from random individuals asking about your relationship with him.

yuta periodically looked over his shoulder at you to make sure you were still there and okay, his head turning back ahead and scanning every single fucking face he saw in the hopes of recognizing the vice president, or better yet— toma, him desperate to find him and get as much information as he possibly could to put an end to that horrific rumor before it got to you.

“okkotsu! heeey man! how’s it going?—”

you’d lost count of how many people had come up to your boyfriend to greet him or pat him on the shoulders, you next to him through it all and not minding one bit as you kept your fingers interlocked with his— your other hand clutching at his bicep while he mingled and charmingly laughed with his crowd, some even greeting you as you surprisedly reciprocated and shyly replied back, each time yuta caressing your knuckles reassuringly with his thumb— encouraging you, a kind look to his face that eased your nerves like nothing else ever did.

“you still doing okay flower?!” he yelled over the thumping music, pulling you to a little corner by the kitchen and leading you to stand against the wall, him shielding you from the crowd as he turned his back and faced you. “you feeling tired?!”

you shook your head no and sweetly grinned at him. “i’m good yu!”

he smiled and nodded, setting a hand on top of your head and giving it a gentle rub, careful of not messing with your prettily styled hair too much.

“you want anything to drink?!” he looked up and craned his neck around the wall to scope out the kitchen. “i bought a pack of sunny d and had one of the boys put it in the fridge for you!—”

“yo! okkotsu!”

yuta snapped his head over his shoulder, your own eyes peering around your man’s frame to see one of his frat brothers standing just a few feet away, pointing out into the crowd behind him with his thumb.

“toma’s still here! he’s looking for you!”

your brow quirked a little at the way yuta instantaneously straightened up and turned out a little more, wondering why toma’s presence elicited that reaction from him as his hand went from your head down along your arm, his thumb reaching your fingertips and lightly grazing over them.

“where is he?!” he asked over the music.

“out front on the porch! he’s getting ready to leave!”

yuta raised his other palm and thanked him before quickly turning back to you.

“i’m gonna go see what he wants okay flower?” he hurriedly kissed your forehead, you a bit perplexed at his urgency as you hesitantly nodded along.

“let me look for the VP really quick so you won’t be alone—”

“no yu its okay!” you let out a breathy laugh and shook your head. “go baby ill just wait here until you get back.”

he held your gaze for a moment, apprehensive.

“i— i don’t know flower!” he looked over his shoulder again, angling his body around and sweeping the crowd with anxious little eyes, turning back around to you. “i don’t wanna leave you by yourself i’d rather have someone with you—”

“yu.” you pushed gently. “it’s fine. i won’t move from here ill be in the kitchen waiting for you… okay? go baby go see what toma wants.”

yuta’s pupils were swimming in worry as he stared, feet planted on the floor and hesitant to move as he thought about the millions of things people could say or do to you while he was gone, him gnawing at the bottom of his lip as he continued to anxiously caress over your fingertips.

“o—okay—”

“okkotsu here!—”

both of your heads snapped to the right and saw the vice president, his face flushed red and goofy like as he extended a beer bottle out to yuta.

“why are you empty handed—”

“oh thank god!” yuta breathed out, taking the bottle from his awaiting hand and pulling him in with an arm for a heavy pat on the back, the VP drunkenly quirking a brow and blinking.

“what i do—”

“can you stay with y/n for like— ten minutes?” he quickly ushered. “i just gotta talk to toma really quick!”

“toma?!” the vice president spat. “the fucks he still doing here he’s supposed to be out of the house—”

“he will be once i talk to him!” your boyfriend replied by his ear. “but can you please just be with y/n for a few? I don’t wanna leave her by herself!”

the vice presidents gaze switched to where you were standing then, seemingly just noticing that you were there as his eyes lit up and he nodded, a friendly big smile growing on his face that you responded with a bashful timid one of your own.

“okay great! thanks man!—”

yuta took a few steps towards you and wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you in snug and craning down a bit to rest the side of his head against yours.

“i’ll be back okay?” he spoke in your ear.

“o—okay but— you really didn’t have to get the VP to babysit me—”

“no i know baby i’m sorry.” he ran a soothing palm down your back. “but i worry...”

he peeled away from you and pouted. “but just hang tight alright? stick to him.”

you sighed a little through your nose and nodded, you going on your tippy toes then with puckering lips to give him an obvious goodbye smooch, when yuta turned his head again and made your kiss land on his cheek instead.

it looked like he had rejected you.

and yuta failed to see the hurt flash across your face once more as he stepped off to the side and turned, slipping his way through the crowd and basically get swallowed whole by the mass of it, you quickly losing sight of him as your shoulders drooped a little in disappointment.

what were you doing that was so wrong? usually yuta never went more than literally thirty minutes without a kiss from you… but so far he had broken his own record and went the entire day.

what was so wrong with you?

“y/n! do you want a sunny d?”

you jumped a little and turned, seeing the vice president in the kitchen now rummaging through the fridge, a small singular giggle slipping past your lips as you watched him struggle to even get his arms through, him shoving hoards of beer cans and alcohol packs off to the sides just to get his hands in the back.

“i’m pretty sure— fuck— one of the guys put a pack in for you—”

you walked over and carefully crouched down next to him by the fridge, peeking your head in and trying to spot the familiar orange liquidy bottles, more giggles tumbling out as you realized that the sunny d pack was quite literally right in front of the vice presidents face— front and center amongst the mountains of alcohol and trash.

“wait— hehe— i think—” you pointed through your little snickers. “i think it’s right there— oh!”

your arms shot out and you quickly grabbed onto his shoulders just as he was swaying off a little too much to the side, stabilizing him as he cackled and shook his head, his own hands fumbling for the edges of the fridge and gripping them.

“sorry! sorry i’m drinking my sorrows away so i’m drunk also here—”

he loopily pushed a bottle of sunny d in your arms, you scrambling slightly to retrieve it before it dropped to the ground from your hands, the both of you standing from your crouched position.

“thank you.” you smiled sweetly, your brows furrowing a little then. “why are you drinking your sorrows away?”

“because yuta’s graduating and i’m gonna have to deal with this shit on my own.” he swiped an open beer bottle from a nearby counter and took a swig. “he told me just before the party that i’m— hic!— president for next year—”

you gasped, eyes blowing fucking wide as you slapped a hand over your mouth in shock.

“oh my god!” you grinned. “congratulations! you should be so proud!—”

“i should be dead.” he muttered, dramatically drooping his upper body over the kitchen island and sulking. “i’m a dead man. after the fundraiser toma ran around the house naked which then turned into everyone running around the house naked and i couldn’t get anybody to put their fucking clothes on—”

“you—”

“i’ve never seen so many dicks in my life i didn’t even want to see any of their dicks—”

“hold on—”

“whatever happened to asking first? to consent?— OH GOD!—”

the VP sprang off the counter, spun in your direction and grabbed at your shoulders, you stiffening with big eyes as he shook you.

“you’re graduating too! what am i gonna do without you and your calligraphy?! the— the banners?!” his gaze darted over your face as he looked at you crazed and in a state of utter psychosis. “i don’t know any girls! just you by default! i’m gonna have to do bake sales with toma’s stupid fucking stick figures—”

you’d given up in trying to bring the vice president down from his erratic panicked high, deciding the best thing to do then was to just keep your mouth shut and let him ramble on his drunken worries and fears as he shook you, you laughing through it and lightly patting him on the back in comfort, knowing that deep down the VP was elated to have been granted a position so prestigious and accomplishing as you’d heard him wish on it ever since you’d met him, his emotional meltdown just a given and something that came with accepting a position as demanding as yuta’s.

he would be filling shoes that were seemingly impossible to do so in the first place… but you were more than sure that he was the one man that was actually more than qualified for it out of the flock.

and you’d wondered then as the vice president continued to shake you, if yuta had successfully sought out what toma wanted and if he was making his way back over to you sometime soon…

he wished.

“i need names toma names!”

“i tried!” toma flailed his arms out. “i swear to god i tried! but how do you think it looks when i try to come up to layla’s posse and chat them up?! they chewed me out every time i tried!”

he had a point…

“the only info i could get was that it’s her minions who are spreading the rumor.”

yuta’s gaze moved to his, arms crossed as the two of them stood in the middle of the front porch, the area thankfully deserted as the majority of students were inside.

he suspiciously eyed him. “how do you know that?”

“i stood outside the girl’s restroom by the east wing for an hour.” toma replied plainly. “god knows what the hell they were doing in there but— some of her friends were talking nonstop about it.”

yuta snorted, a palm cupping over his mouth as he thought about how much of an idiot creep toma must’ve looked standing outside of the girl's restroom like that.

he had initially planned to confront layla directly, but learning now that it may have not even been her that was at fault, made him feel a little bad and apprehensive about accusing her out of nowhere inside…

he dropped his hand and nodded. “and— and what about layla? is she spreading anything?”

toma shrugged. “dunno. didn’t get that far because i got yelled at.”

yuta laughed and shook his head, raising an arm to pat a heavy hand on toma’s shoulder in gratitude.

“alright, thanks man.” he smiled. “i’ll lift a month off your probation.”

“a month?!” toma gawked. “i thought you said the whole thing!”

“you barely gave me anything idiot.” yuta bent down and picked up his beer bottle from the ground. “you’re lucky i’m even lifting time off otherwise i would’ve added—”

“NO!” toma screamed in absolute terror, hands latching out to desperately clutch at his shirt. “i’m sorry thank you mister president...”

“okay.” he chuckled boyishly. “now go before the VP sees you—”

“i love you mister president—”

“go.”

“say hi to your pretty girl for me—”

“five months probation—”

“NO!”

you’d lost track of how long it had been since yuta left, as you were too preoccupied babysitting the VP— trying to keep him from blacking out and stay on his two feet as he swayed about the kitchen, blubbering about his position next year and then randomly switching from time to time to some girly he had a crush on in his economics class, your heart warming every time he spoke about her cutesy smile, but most of all genuinely worried about him as he almost nearly tipped over one of the keg stands in trying to perform a cartwheel in the middle of the kitchen.

if yuta saw the way that he was when he was supposed to be looking out for you… you figured your boyfriend wouldn’t be to happy with it— the biggest fear you’ve had yet quickly brewing in your chest over the vice president getting his up-and-coming position revoked.

“hey! let’s drink some water yeah?”

the VP whipped his head up, him funnily crouched in a corner and hugging his knees to his chest.

“is this what its like?”

you tilted your head as you opened the fridge, your eyes frantically scouring for a bottle of water and grabbing it once you spotted one, closing it back up and walking over to his sniffling self.

“what is?” you softly asked as you crouched to his level, uncapping the water bottle and offering it out to him.

“to have a girl give a shit about you?”

you giggled, shaking your head side to side as you watched him gratefully take the drink from your hands, chugging it down.

“just talk to her… i’m sure she’d love to go out with you!” you tried to reason. “you never know unless you just— try.”

his puffed out cheeks made you laugh again as he swallowed. “y/n you don’t get it i’m a loser she could never look my way—”

you playfully rolled your eyes. “you’re vice president of a frat. next year president. if that doesn’t get her i don’t know what will.”

he miserably shook his head and hung it.

“the difference is i’m ugly. yuta’s handsome. my boy has no trouble at all—”

“you’re not ugly—”

“layla! have you spoken to yuta tonight at all?”

you stilled, your face falling a bit as you kept your eyes on the VP, him still too drunk and teary to realize there were people in the kitchen now, you grateful that the both of you were out of sight in a tiny little corner so you could take a listen without them noticing.

“no.” she heavily sighed. “i haven’t seen him much at all actually… shame.”

you heard shuffling and the clinking of glass as you eavesdropped, praying that the vice president didn’t blabber out anything else and spoil your cover.

“i did.” a different voice spoke. “he’s with his girlfriend that’s why.”

you heard an exaggerated gasp from somewhere else.

“you saw her? what’d she look like?!”

“i couldn’t really see she was a bit far… but she is here with him.”

“geez, i’m surprised he’d even bring her around after just being with you layla. that’s embarrassing.”

your heart dropped.

“that’s their business not mine.” another spoke, you recognizing it to be layla’s voice again. “if he wants to humiliate her like that, that’s on him.”

… what?

the vice president stirred, about to open his big fat mouth when you sprung out and muffled him, his dazed little eyes confusedly looking at you.

“you’re so lucky though layla!” one gushed. “no one has been able to sleep with him lately except you.”

maybe… maybe the reason why yuta never initiated anything with you, the reason why he evaded your kisses and flat out treated you sometimes like you weren’t his literal girlfriend—

was because he was getting his fill somewhere else.

and somehow through your mental storm, the vice president realized that there were people in the kitchen now, but not just any people… but exactly who and what they were talking about, his own eyes blowing wide in panic.

the girls continued to chat as your hand slid away from the VP’s mouth, your gaze casted downward as you made an attempt to stand, when his hand suddenly shot out and grabbed yours.

“y/n—” he fought with everything in him to push down the alcohol for two fucking seconds and get his head straight. “where are you going—”

“i’m just gonna go find yuta… okay?”

your voice sounded it’s usual sweet and collected, but it was your body language that completely gave it away to him that you were not okay in the slightest.

“wait— just stay for a bit don’t— don’t listen—”

“stay here i’ll be back.” you mumbled, shaking his hand off and standing upright. “don’t try to stand please you’ll fall.”

“sweetheart whatever you heard it’s not true alright? you know that yuta would never—”

your mind wasn’t even registering what the vice president was saying at this point, you feeling your heart actively shattering in your chest as you made your way through the kitchen, passing by the group of girls and guessing that the one in the middle was layla— stunning and breathtaking and everything you’d expect yuta to hook up with and choose over you.

they didn’t even spare you a glance as you walked past them and out of the kitchen, weaving your way through the waves of sweaty people as you tried to spot yuta— you having no idea where he was and just going by the piece of information you had learned earlier of toma being out on the front porch, hoping that he somehow was still there as you squeezed through bodies, the air still humid and suffocating and it for some reason making your chest ache even more.

you wrongfully felt like you had to prove a point… like you were just as capable of being the embodiment of someone like layla that earned a rightful spot at being yuta’s girlfriend, something he not once ever made you question and yet— you shamefully succumbing up to the beliefs of his crowd no matter how many times you told yourself it wouldn’t happen.

you could only take so much… and the thought of losing yuta shook you like nothing else.

it made you desperate.

just as you practically shoved your way out of the main area to get to the front door, you spotted yuta— sitting on a short random stool by the entrance with a half drunken beer bottle in hand, cheerfully conversing with a few of his brothers with that same charismatic smile and attitude that swooned millions, you swallowing the lump in your throat as you hugged yourself and slowly walked over.

“yu..?”

your familiar quiet voice made him stop talking and snap his head in your direction, him straightening up as he sent you a kind smile.

as soon as he went back inside after speaking to toma, yuta got caught up with a few of his frat members in regards to details about upcoming events, kicking himself over the fact that he didn’t realize how long he was actually gone for as he noticed how upset you looked right now, wondering where the hell the VP was.

“hi pretty flower!” he grinned, faltering when you didn’t smile back at all.

“can we—” you stammered. “um—”

yuta extended an offering hand out, you hesitating for a moment before you decided to just take it, him gently pulling you in to stand in between his legs and moving that same hand to cup over the back of your thigh.

you hated that his touch sort of… stung.

“sorry baby i couldn’t hear you.” he gently spoke, looking up at you with such sweet eyes that it nearly made you want to forget what you’d heard in the kitchen. “what’s wrong? i’m sorry i was gone for so long i got caught up with some of the guys.”

“n—no its okay.” you weakly smiled, and his brows furrowed at that, his hand beginning to caress over the back of your thigh.

had something happened while he was away?

“i need to um… talk to you in your room upstairs.” you shyly pursed your lips to the side. “if that’s okay…”

oh!

he reached up and took your chin in between his thumb and pointer finger, bringing your face down to plant a little kiss to your cheek.

“it’s always okay flower.” he beamed, standing and taking your hand in his as he took a swig of his beer. “you wanna retire for the night?”

not exactly.

but you nodded, him then immediately bidding some of his brothers goodbye while he tugged on your hand and led you upstairs, your head facing the ground and anxious as you both walked through the hallways of the frat house and away from the noise, eventually arriving at yuta’s door as you chewed the shit out of your bottom lip, him pushing down his lever door handle and opening it.

“you feeling a little tired?” he asked gently, closing the door behind him as you both stepped inside, facing you after. “we can call it a nigh—”

you fisted yuta’s shirt and yanked him down, cutting him off with your mouth on his as his eyes flew open, your raunchy little kisses feeling awfully familiar to that one night he was over and almost stripped you naked over them, already catching himself getting dangerously close to that again as he squeezed his eyes shut and gripped at your delicious waist.

stop stop stop—

but he couldn’t bring himself to put an end to it as he deepened the kiss, your heart fluttering at that as you led him to his bed through your sloppy make out, moving about until the back of his legs hit the edge of his mattress and he plopped down, you instantly climbing onto his lap and straddling him.

yuta felt like he was about to die over the overwhelming feeling of you perched pretty on his lap, or the way the straps of your tiny dress loosened and fell erotically over your bare shoulders— revealing a little more cleavage to him that took everything he had not to flip you on the bed and stuff his face in there.

he had to stop this… he needed to stop this to avoid losing you like everybody wanted him to, like everybody expected him to.

at the feeling of you taking his hand from your waist and sliding it down your godly body to cup your ass, yuta’s eyes snapped open and he forced his lips off yours, the both of you staring at each other in alarm with heaving breaths.

“wh— what yu?” you spoke breathlessly, you dazedly leaning in again to continue smooching when he literally dodged your lips and moved his head back, like— like you were just some random that tried to kiss him.

that was your final straw.

you sat there frozen and heartbroken as he shakily grabbed your hips and carefully sat you down on the bed next to him, him standing and wincing at the feeling of his hard dick being choked out by his jeans as he tried to block out the sight of you on his lap like that.

“man i’m so tired heh!” he began. “i’m gonna go take a quick shower—”

the sound of you suddenly sobbing made him whip his head down to you, his face utterly falling once he saw your trembling shoulders-- crying into your hands as broken hiccups and whimpers filled the air.

holy shit.

“baby? baby what’s wrong—” he quickly bent down and cupped your cheeks, his heart dropping to his ass when you practically ripped his hands off you through your tears, sniffling as you scooched back on his bed to get away from him.

oh god.

had you— had you heard the rumor?

“oh my god.” he breathed out. “you heard didn’t you? the— the rumor about layla—”

you sobbed harder at the mention of her name, and yuta’s fingers flew to dig inside the strands of his hair.

“flower i swear to god—” his chest grew erratic as he was one hundred percent convinced you were about to end things with him. “with everything i have that it’s not true—”

he dropped his arms and desperately dug around the pockets of his jeans, pulling out his phone once he found it.

“here!” he shakily unlocked it and tossed it on the bed in front of you. “here baby here please take it there’s nothing in there that—”

but you only slowly shook your head and continued to cry in your little hands, yuta feeling like he was about to lose it.

“no?” he breathed out. “why not? why—”

he frantically shoved his hands in his jeans again and pulled out his car keys, tossing it out in front of you as well as his wallet and anything else he could find in there that he thought would somehow help you believe him.

“here my— my keys are there and— and my wallet please look at them and please don’t cry—”

yuta reached out again for you, his trembling hands just barely cupping over your upper arms when you tore yourself away from him again, each time you did that making it feel like his skin was on fucking fire, burning and blistering and stinging with every hiccup that slipped past your lips.

he’d done what he was terrified of doing all this time.

he’d fucked things up with you.

“baby please don’t break up with me—” his voice cracked as he spoke, him sinking down on his knees with arms over the bed. “please i don’t know— i don’t know if i can take that i—”

“why don’t you want me?”

he froze, the little quiver in your voice absolutely shattering his heart.

“what?—”

“you never— you never touch me you never initiate anything with me—”

“flower—”

“you don’t even fucking kiss me anymore yuta…” you sobbed, wiping at your flooding tears as you sniffled. “and then— i’m in the kitchen with the VP and layla is in there talking about how you sleep with her and—”

he stood, grabbed your upper arms and held you still over your squirming and nudging to push him away, keeping you in place with wild eyes as he forced you to look at him.

“i would never in a million fucking years cheat on you y/n.” he seriously pushed. “never. everything that her and her friends are saying is fake i even— i even got toma to spy on them so i could figure it out—”

“you still don’t get it!” you sobbed. “the issue is you’ve never wanted me like you’ve wanted layla—”

“what the fuck?” he spoke incredulously. “baby i’ve never wanted that girl—”

“then why don’t you ever do anything with me?! or— or want me—”

you realized then how silly you sounded, embarrassment quickly washing over your system as you looked down and diverted your gaze with pinky cheeks, quieting down with your sniffles.

yuta’s eyes softened then, the dots clicking in his stupid pea sized brain over what you meant, the ache in his chest only growing in mass at the realization that whatever idiotic fucking plan he had about not hurting you, about enlisting distance and avoiding being affectionate with you to prove a point to everybody else, was utterly and entirely wrong.

of course it was wrong… how could he ever think that it wasn’t? how could he ever think that you’d respond positively to it or— or be okay with it?

if you ever did what he had done, he would absolutely die inside— hating himself for letting the speculations of others get in the way of his relationship with you.

his hands slowly slid up from your arms to your cheeks— gently cupping them and wiping your tears with his thumbs as you trembled.

“you have no idea how badly i’ve wanted to do things with you—”

“you’re lying!—”

“no!” he lowered his hands and wrapped you up tight in his arms, stuffing his nose into your neck. “i want you baby i want you so bad i go fucking nuts—”

how could he have neglected his girl and her precious little needs for this long..?

you continued to sniffle and shake in his arms, trying to steady your breathing as he then leisurely let you go, you too preoccupied in your thoughts of regret and ashamed at yourself for being a brat, that you failed to notice the way yuta was unbuckling his belt until you heard the tiny metal clasp clang, his face still in your neck.

“m’sorry pretty flower…” he murmured, your teary eyes widening at him slowly tugging and sliding his belt through the loops of his jeans. “i haven’t been taking care of you have i..?”

“yu—yuta—”

he planted a knee on the bed and crawled on, his upper body coming onto you and giving you no choice but to go down with him— you softly landing on your back and frozen in place with a palpating heart, him in between your thighs.

“i’ve never wanted to fuck a girl so bad in my life.” he hotly breathed out in your neck. “since we met baby…”

he picked his head up and casted his gaze down, placing his palms on either sides of your plushy thighs and sliding up your dress, further and further until it pooled around your waist and revealed your god forsaken pinky panties— see through and showing him your pretty glistening lips that made him suck in a breath and groan.

“i don’t give a shit about layla.” yuta hooked an index finger in the underside of your panties and pulled it to the side, taking a pervy peek at your pussy in the flesh. “i don’t give a shit about this stupid frat or anyone but you.”

butterflies swarmed wildly in your tummy as you watched him pop open the button of his jeans with his other hand, tugging it a little down along with his boxers until his cock literally jumped out, your words caught in your throat as you drank in the sight of him giving it a slow yummy pump, his tip already leaky and red.

“i’ve been ignoring my pretty girl and not fucking her like she deserves…” he murmured, the sudden feeling of his tip running up and down your gaping cunt making you squeak, you quickly gnawing on your bottom lip after and trying so hard to bite back your moans out of embarrassment, but it nearly impossible with the way he kept teasingly rubbing his dick over your swollen clit over and over.

“i’m sorry flower—” he positioned himself. “but i’m too impatient to take off anything else okay?”

you blinked up at him, yuta looking directly at you and fucking possessed by your gorgeous face and your gorgeous body and your gorgeous pussy, his chest heaving as he tried his best not to just throw you around and shove his cock inside.

“o—okay—”

he lined his dick up with your hole. “and m’not using a condom.”

your walls clenched at him saying that, him hovering over you as he took your wrists and set both of your hands on his shoulders before moving an arm down, pulling your panties out to the side even more.

“mkay?”

he absolutely refused to use a condom— another obvious factor that set you apart from his previous hookups, something your silly little mind shouldn’t have even compared yourself to in the first place.

why fucking would he if he’d decided the moment he saw you he would never let you go? never let you out of his sight?

you frantically nodded, your hands clutching at his shoulders then as you eagerly opened your legs a little wider for him, yuta losing it at that and shooting you a wild horny grin.

“good job baby…”

he placed both hands on your soft hips and slowly eased himself in your slippery little cunt, you immediately gasping at the sudden yummy unfamiliar stretch and tightening your grip on his shirt, a whimper escaping your throat as you attempted to loosen your hole and let him in.

“i know flower i know—”

yuta was aware that he had to go easy and gentle with you, that you (thankfully) weren’t used to cock in general… but he nonetheless found that he had to physically restrain his hips from pistoning inside you and making you cry on his dick, something he’d thought about for what felt like ages now.

your little moans and mewls spurred him on as he carefully pumped inside you, his head thrown back with a wide-open mouth and closed eyelids, practically drooling as he got off to the sound of your squelching pussy sucking him in, the mattress rocking underneath you both.

“you— you okay baby?” he lulled his head down to look at you, struggling to even keep his eyes open as he kneaded at your hips and fucked you.

“mhm!” you nodded, your sultry sparkling eyes peering up at him so sweetly that he nearly busted inside of you. “but— mm!— yu—”

“what happened baby..?”

“wanna— wanna go on top—”

yuta swore he saw the heavens then, the grip he had on your hips tightening as he held your gaze with desperate eyes, unbelieving of the privilege he was about to experience as he without another word pulled out and flipped you both over, you letting out a tiny squeal mixed giggle as he excitedly settled beneath you.

“tell me how okay?” you softly spoke, and he quickly nodded, placing a sweaty palm on your torso and carefully guiding your hole to his tip again, you holding the base of his cock as you tried to contribute and line it up, yuta assisting you by stretching your panties to the side out of the way with his free hand.

“just— sink down on it pretty flower—” he panted, you listening and slowly letting your pussy engulf his puffy tip again.

“like— like this?—”

yuta licked his lips and nodded, him unable to fucking speak as his hands found yours and interlaced them, his heart pounding and head reeling in euphoria as you started gradually lifting your hips and submerging him inside of you— your cute little self whining and bouncing so cute on it.

“gooood baby good.” he heaved. “just— god just like that please—”

your pace quickened and his jaw dropped, you absolutely lost in the feeling of him stuffing you so full as you felt his warm cum already leaking outside of your hole— sticky skin slapping together and yuta’s moaning and groaning only growing louder by the second.

“am i— hic!— am i doing okay?”

“jesus more than okay—” he took you by surprise and snapped his hips up, your tits nearly spilling over your dress at the force as he started thrusting into you at a rapid pace, you crying out as you tightened your interlocked hands and squeezed your eyes shut over the pleasure, already feeling your orgasm itching itself into your system and tickling at your swollen clit.

"f— fuuuck yu—" you gasped, your pretty moans going directly in his ears making him fucking shudder and mess up the rhythm he had going for a split second, never in his life hearing something so sugary and sacred.

"m'so fuuuull—"

"yeah?" yuta wildly smiled as he pounded, loving that he was the one that got to stuff you full of his cock and snatch you up before any other stupid man got to, your red plump lips and pinky cheeks that read nothing but an expression of being fucked out spurring him on so much that he nearly choked, wanting to be the absolute only one that ever got to see you this way.

"you're being so fuckin good for me baby—"

never in yuta okkotsu’s career of being a former man whore did he ever cum this quickly into sex.

but the sight of you pretty and angelic on his cock, bouncing through his pounding and whimpering your little heart out while he watched you literally squirt over his dick as you finished, his head struggling to register that he was finally fucking you full on his bed after all this time—

was the perfect explanation as to why he broke his own record.

yuta let go of your hands and lunged himself at you, wrapping his arms around your torso and yanking you down to lay on top of him, the cage he had around you locked tight as he shoved his nose into your hair and drilled his hips up to fuck you faster, your eyes rolling to the back of your head at his ruthless speed.

“m’gonna cum.” he choked out. “o—okay?”

“fuck! yes yes yes—”

“inside.”

“yes yu please please!—”

at the sound of you begging for him he released, shooting his heavy stringy load through your gummy hot walls as he loudly groaned into your neck, both of you gasping and heaving for air as he stilled his hips and let his balls completely drain inside, him holding you like his life utterly depended on it.

eventually yuta slightly loosened his hold and moved you up a little to slide his dick out, the air steamy and humid as you both panted and swallowed— trying to catch your breaths and come down from the blissful horny mess the two of you just participated in.

yuta slid a hand up to hold the back of your head, him turning his to press tiny little kisses to the side of your forehead, waiting and basking in the tender moment you just shared before speaking.

“i’m sorry i haven’t been paying attention to you flower…” he spoke gently. “i let what the rumors were saying get into my head and i—”

he struggled for a bit, you carefully pulling back to look at him properly and pouting over the guilty expression on his face.

“i wanted everybody to stop saying and thinking that i was just using you for a fuck.” he mumbled. “and i was trying to prove it to you too so… i thought it was best if i stayed away like a fucking idiot.”

you giggled softly and pressed a sweet kiss to his cheek, him blushing at that.

“you’re so silly yu...” you kindly smiled. “you’ve never needed to prove anything to me. ever… you know that.”

“i know but— everyone was saying so much shit and i got scared that it’d make you upset and it did—”

“yuta i’m dating you not them.” you gently emphasized, your hand coming up to card through his raven locks. “i couldn’t care less about what they have to say… but if you start letting it get into your head like that yu, its gonna bleed onto us and affect us. okay?”

he solemnly nodded, eyes looking up at you in shame.

“so don’t let it.” a gorgeous smile grew on your lips then. “i’ve always believed in you yuta… i don’t need anybody else’s two cents to know that, much less if they’re saying the awful things they’re saying now. they’re stinky for that.”

yuta laughed and gave you a kiss, wholeheartedly agreeing.

"i love you pretty girl."

and he believed in you.

from the moment he met you in his kitchen, from the moment your shy pretty voice rejected him in the sweetest way possible, from the moment he started working his ass off to win you over for a solid year straight— yuta believed in you.

in the both of you— in what you could purely grow and create despite the two of you being born and raised on complete opposites of the social wheel, defying the idiotic supposed laws of society and finding love in the most unlikely circumstances.

the chances of life bringing you together was one in a million, and yuta was grateful to have landed in it despite everything, for he couldn’t imagine a life where he wasn’t your man and took you on frequent trips to the aquarium, visiting a silly little penguin who wanted his girl just as much as he did, and eating lunch with you in the loveliest of flower gardens that withheld the nickname he had for you so fittingly.

his reputation upon graduating was no longer of a sleazy good for nothing piece of shit who whored around, but of yuta okkotsu— president of his frat who reigned for three years straight, the most popular guy to ever fucking exist, the only one who ever managed to throw massive parties every week…

but of also a guy who simply loved his girlfriend.

taglist!! <33 (THANK YOU THANK YOU!):

@softbun0 @the-lazyyy-artist @cheeyah @ag-zio @luvvmae @blue-musingss @as1yasss @oporotheca @aqkermxan @cookey-lock @startwithrecords @mayacheiko @ackermanrage @pocoom @nervousshinnie @beekaboi @vickylovesochako @iloveoldermenn @uhnosav @jvpit3rr @monchxriella @slr3v @kissesazula @hqnge @featheryvee @allurearia @haokanie @wwwbriworld @aksqui @dee-writes-anime @floruilaa @skittleluverr @qwicksilver @getosangels @childesblanket @almostdelightfuldragon @spidergirlnr1 @naammiii @evelynxxo @hiithess @sophiejiro @l1v1ngzomb1e @aronkiepronkie @tori8760 @bbatzvil @jameinfrau @eva-616 @kokoiinuts @when-worlds-end @typicalkhani

[summer-oil-inactive]

contents; okkotsu yuuta x gn!reader. aftercare scenario; suggestive, but sfw! bottom reader implied. hissy reader propaganda. yuuta is genetically incapable of not loving you to bits. plenty of animal & monster imagery; yuuta is scary in the weight of his devotion (as akutami ordained) wc; 2.4k

commissioned by @assmaster-8000 !! thank you for commissioning me .. ily…. it was an honour to write your sweet boy of all time …..

The ache between your thighs keeps you awake.

Vacantly, one faint corner of your mind protests; you probably should be sleeping right now. Tomorrow is a work day, and you had the misfortune of getting stuck with an early shift. Yuuta will without a doubt try to convince you to call in sick, velveteen and sure of himself, almost cloyingly sweet— a tone of voice he saves for when you're tangled up in bedsheets and he needs you home with him— but you're not going to listen. Twice in one month is two times too many. You can't keep letting him have his way just because he's charming in the morning, bleary streaks of sunshine ruffling the black locks of hair kissing your pillowcase, half-shut eyes that seem to see nothing but you and your slumber-worn features. Nope. No more.

Maybe you shouldn't have slept with him tonight. Maybe you need to get better at not needing him after long days. Or maybe he needs to get better at not indulging you so blindly.

Whatever the case, your shift starts in eight hours, and you're too sore to fall asleep. The moon has its crescented face pressed flush against the windows, intent on keeping light in. Your boyfriend is rummaging through the kitchen in search of something for you to eat, which means you're free to wince and whine and flex your calves as much as you'd like to, no use in pretending you weren’t just tenderized. The glass of water in your hand is almost empty; per his half-suggestion, half-instruction, you have to drink it all before he gets back with your food. He'll pout if you refuse him. You've done this song and dance before. Having sex with Okkotsu Yuuta is like signing up for a weekly subscription and clicking on the yearly payment plan on accident— you get more than you bargained for, and give more than you can handle. 

He likes the routine of it. 

(You'd be lying if you said you didn't, but that doesn't make it any less overwhelming. It shouldn't be, but it is. If you ever thought fucking him might tucker him out, you were sorely mistaken— the energy boost he gets after putting you through the mattress makes no sense, but it's a fact of life with him. One moment he's on top of you, slippery chest weighing you down, and the next he's hopping out of bed to stretch his limbs and ask if you're hungry. 

When you first met, he called himself a monster. You've begun to think he was right about that. It's what kind of monster he is that he seems to have misunderstood.)

The door creaks, and a beautiful boy walks in, his quiet gaze catching yours across the room: a seamless kind of clicking together. Magnet eyes and magnet heartbeats. It responds when you catch sight of him, still disheveled, shoulders glistening with residues of sweat, but eyes bright and wide like a lion catching sight of a gizelle in the dark. Ba-dump, ba-dump. He's worn you down with his love, made your pulse his own. You can't look away from him. He's wearing nothing but boxer briefs and an old white shirt, no doubt the first article of clothing he saw when he dug through his closet— balancing a tray with three bowls placed atop of it, steam rising from the porcelain— a warm, hearty aroma wafting through the room. 

"I made you miso soup with rice," he calls out softly, the dimples on either side of his lips catching moonlight through the window curtains. Dreamy cerulean hues. "And eggs. I wanted you to have some proper protein, but we're all out of beef..."

"We already had dinner, Yuuta." 

"Huh? What's that got to do with anything?"

You squint at him. With thick blankets pooled atop your body and drawn up to your chin, it probably looks more comical than dubious. Your boyfriend tilts his head, clammy locks falling sideways. He doesn't look like he's even washed his face yet. 

"… Nevermind," you sigh. "I don't need beef, is what I mean. I'm not that hungry."

"You're always hungry after we have sex," he shakes his head. Smiling sweetly, taking brisk steps towards you. Heat blooms across your collarbones, lips curling into a frown, thoughts louder than your voice. No, you don't. "Or are you going to tell me you could just go to sleep like this?"

"I could." 

"Mhm." He downright giggles. Evil, evil man. Awful, charming man. He seats himself at your bedside, the tray kept steady on his lap, and leans forward to cup your cheek with the dip of his palm. When you give a pointed glare— mostly for show— his lips curl up like dragon flowers, threatening another bout of laughter. "You don't need anything, do you? Cutie."

"I-I don't," you protest. You've half the mind to shove at him, but your heart couldn't take that. You don't need anything, but there are some things you'd rather not go without. "You're acting like you broke my back. Literally. Cut it out."

He licks his lips absently. They're still rosy and swollen, a far cry from the chapped skin spring usually has him deal with, and his voice falls softer when they part. "… Well, you cried." 

"Okay. I'll kill you."

"Baby," he croons. "I'm not trying to embarrass you—"

"If anything," your voice grows sharp, "aren't you more wrecked than I am?"

Pointedly, you look him up and down. Purple hickeys sucked into his skin. Check. Imprints of teeth like a wreath around his neck, evidence of your hunger for the places where he's most tender and you feel his pulse the clearest— check. Scratch-marks on his back? Probably. You'll check up on them tomorrow morning. He'd never bother with the bruise cream otherwise.

Sheepish laughter clouds his words, peach-fuzz dusting his cheeks. One of his slender hands go to cup the root of his throat, feeling for the bite marks. Shameless. "It's not that bad… I like it, actually."

"Oh, I know. I just don't think you should be fussing over me when you're the one who looks like he got jumped by a raccoon." You cross your arms over your chest, ignoring the very much still present ache between your legs. If he notices their trembling, it's game over. He won't be able to stop himself from massaging your calves. "We had sex. That's all. It wasn't even that inte—"

"Say 'aah,' honey."

… Suddenly a spoon is poised in front of you, and your boyfriend is wearing an innocent smile. Unbothered by anything you've said so far. That's not surprising, only frustrating. More frustrating is the fact that his feeble distraction actually works. He's scooped up a mouthful of homemade miso soup, a square of tofu sitting pretty and waiting on the cutlery. Despite your insistance that you don't need anything from him right now, that you'll be just fine without the five star meal he was hoping to magically throw together in the span of fifteen minutes, your stomach growls at the promise in front of you— drool pooling under your tongue. It's a struggle not to duck under the covers when the sound makes him beam. As you reach for the spoon held between his fingers, he tuts and pulls away. 

Figures. Why did you even try?

"… Yuuta," you huff. "I can eat by myself."

"I know you can." He doesn't let go of it. Simply moves it back to where it was before you tried to turn the tables on a man this determined to spoil his partner, resting pointedly in front of your closed mouth. There's that look in his eye again: a hunter that just spotted its prey. Polished obsidian. Nothing you say or do will convince him to let you win this.

Reluctantly, your lips part. Curse your stomach. 

"Good job," he croons, watching you chew on the silken tofu. It's not spoken with condescension, which somehow makes it worse. He scoops up a bite of rice next, blowing on it quietly before feeding it to you. The warmth of the meal settles in your chest like a heated blanket, your hunger growing with each bite. Curse Yuuta Okkotsu. As you eat what he's made you, you feel yourself being moulded into someone more pliant, a shadow of you that only comes out on these long nights, sneaking into his bed and your body like a monster under the floorboards when you're too weary to resist. Before daybreak, after dusk. Yuuta loves that monster. He wants nothing more than to feed into it. To feel its teeth under his greedy fingertips.

He's gross. You're gross for wanting it. You're both rotten and perfect for each other. That’s not something you should feel happy about.

"… There you go, pretty baby." He carefully places the tray and empty bowls on your nightstand, next to a short pile of unread books, a bookmark he made you in high school, the glass of water you'd been drinking from before. There's still the slightest layer of water pooling at the bottom— your stubborn, feeble resistance— but when Yuuta notices he only gives you an indulgent smile. "Was it tasty?"

You manage a nod, allowing your body to melt into the mattress. Limp as a noodle, toasted from top to bottom. "Thanks for the meal," you call out with your eyes closed, drowsy, softer than before. Softer than you meant to. The bed creaks, a kiss planted between your brows; he smells faintly of vanilla and sex, traces of sage from the cologne he likes to spray on his neck in the mornings before hectic work days. It's a scent that makes you feel at ease. He dips his head down to give a peck at your lips next, chaste and sugary, locks of his hair tickling the pulse-pocket at the base of your throat. 

"You're welcome." He smiles against your skin. "Should we freshen up? Or do you want to sleep?"

"Sleep," you rasp. "I have work tomorrow."

… At that, a low, thoughtful noise coils in his throat. You can almost feel his Adam's apple bob under its vibrations. For a moment, all is quiet.

Then he whispers: ”Alright. Sleep it is."

Your body is still slick with sweat and fluids, but that doesn't bother you right now. You can take a shower in the morning without falling behind your schedule. Yuuta's compliance is suspicious, but you try not to pay it any mind. The ache is still there, but its begun to be dulled by the warmth of the meal and insistent tugs at your consciousness, pillowed under the weight of your exhaustion. It's only a matter of time before it overtakes you. Yuuta lowers the window-blinds before he slips beneath the covers, tangling your limbs together: exhaling a breath of relief, like this was the only thing missing. His leg under yours, his arm curled comfortably around your midriff. Tethered together like Tanabata-wishes on worn branches. He gives small, wet kisses to the apple of your cheek, knowing you're too fatigued to grumble about it.

"How are you feeling?" he whispers. "Sore?"

"… Just a little."

A soft, knowing sound. "Sorry. I missed you today, so I might have gotten carried away."

For a second, you think you'll laugh. This is what makes him so lethal. He doesn't realize what his voice does to you when it sounds like that, when it's saying things like that—

Your heart threads itself into a knot. Knocks against your trembling ribs. For a moment, being peeled open doesn't frighten you. 

(For a moment, you think you'd let him unravel you however he likes, for however long he likes.

Just a moment; nothing more. If he weren’t kind, and didn’t love you, it would mean the end of you.)

"I'll massage your hips," he promises. Nosing at a tender spot below your jaw, a hound sniffing for buried weaponry. Surely, he should already feel satisfied. He got to break you open and stitch you back together again. Make love to you until your throat felt too rigid to make sound with, soundless tears dribbling down your cheeks, on your pillowcase, into his mouth. Your Yuuta is greedy. He's the greediest. That's the only reason you feel comfortable being greedy back. "Tomorrow. Or right now. You can sleep, I'll handle everything."

"I can handle myself," you protest, slurring your words. An ocean wave of slumber laps at your shaky legs, wades over your body, threatening to swallow you under. But you aren't afraid.

"I know you can." 

Quiet breaths. Mingling pulses. Outside the walls of your apartment, unbeknownst to either one of you, the crescent moon succumbs to slivers of creaking dawn.

A kiss at your pulsepoint. It flutters beneath.

"I just don't think you should have to."

…

With what little remains of your willpower, you stifle a yawn, reaching over to wrap your arms around his neck. He's all too eager to make space for you. His body used to be eerily scrawny, but now there's more muscle mass to it. Enough for you to feel underneath the fabric, thrumming faintly, like a steady reminder of how strong he can be. How gentle he chooses to be. 

There's no need to have your guard up. You know that's what he's saying, near constantly, without opening his mouth. You can close your eyes around me.

So you do.

"Yuuta," you call.

"Mhm?"

"You didn't eat anything."

Faintly, he chuckles. You can picture his smile in the dark of the room. As if your concern alone could fill his stomach, or soothe the ache in his lower abdomen. "I'm okay, baby. I'll eat something tomorrow."

"Promise?"

"… Yeah," he sighs. Wrapping you into him, pressed taut against his ribs, like even that isn't as close as he'd like you to be. If you fell asleep right now, you'd dream of it; dream a bird's dream, sitting pretty on a bone-white branch, next to a heart too big for his body. "I promise."

Yuuta is nothing if not meticulous. He's never broken a promise he made you. Intertwined pinkies mean more to him than written contracts.

So you believe him.

(His love is insurance. Reassurance. You fall asleep with it around you, inside of you; a quiet, mutual love. The trust that comes with it.

Tomorrow, you'll wake up past your bedtime, too late to catch your shift. The morning alarm you have set to ring isn't on: Yuuta's doing. Your compliance. You know you're losing one way or another, and he knows you'll let him win.

Despite yourself, you like the routine of it.)

[eddieslooneymooney]

I Never Knew (Well Now You Do)

You might let Clark get away with too much because you know he needs a break. But a woman can only handle so much when she didn’t even want to date Superman in the first place.

Yeah I lowkey needed a cry but instead raw dogged this random angst shot of David’s Supes (because I’m fucking obssessed)

Warnings: uhh like one reference to suicidal thoughts, reader is super emotionally confused, Clark is sweet but super super dense, hurt no comfort, reader dumps supes but in a really too nice way even though she’s been through the ringer, Clark CANNOT process this and really the man is too shocked to speak, reader is way too nice even though Clark ditched her on her 30th birthday

Let me know if I should make a pt 2 because I’d probably be interested in doing so.

————————————————————————

There was something you could never admit to yourself even if you really wanted to.

You deserved better.

Way better than a beautiful meal that slowly turned cold because of the man who just couldn’t pull himself away from the world.

Especially today.

Honestly you couldn’t even be mad at Clark because he was out there saving people. Plural.

Stopping wars, holding buildings together so they wouldn’t play dominos after a villains tantrum- and probably kissing babies and kittens afterwards.

But damn it you were only human and you hadn’t wanted to date Superman.

You had fallen head over heels for Clark.

And now…..

You were sitting pretty for yourself-

because you knew he wouldn’t be home until sunrise at this point. You could still see explosions of light beaming infrequently on the city line.

Who knew that desperately chasing the tall clumsy loser of the Daily Planet would land you with a mandatory side of savior complex.

Clark was all you had ever wanted and Superman wasn’t even in the credits.

But you unknowingly signed up for big blue, who just so happened to have a terrible habit of making an appearance when he got too excited. (Clark accidentally floated the two of you about 5 feet in the air during your first kiss.)

You still tease him about it just to see his ears flush crimson.

Crimson like the dress you wore tonight. His favorite color.

So silly. Because it was YOUR birthday. You should’ve worn your favorite color. But you wanted to look nice for the man you fell for,

even if a small part of you had whispered when you bought it that he might miss out on seeing you in it.

Which was why the tags were still on it.

You’d take it back first thing in the morning.

Then buy yourself a damn espresso machine instead to make up for the emotional damage.

After slipping the dress off and leaving it in a pile on his bedroom floor, with an uncanny likeness to what you think your relationship looked like-

you decided you wanted to spend the night passion writing at your desk.

And there was no where better than the Daily Planet for that kind of outlet.

Plus it was only 10:45, you needed a walk so you wouldn’t do something impulsive.

Like wiping every trace of yourself from his apartment Men in Black style and then disappearing so you wouldn’t have to actually ever talk to him about this.

But you knew that you would be cleaner and smoother about it than that. You were an adult and you could break off a relationship like an adult. Plus…you still loved him, and he deserved better than that.

You do grab the last pint of Clark’s favorite ice cream from the freezer on your way out though.

It wasn’t every day you turned 30.

You were allowed to be a little petty.

————————————————————————

Having taken a detour of the whole fucking city on your way to work, you didn’t end up getting there until midnight (ish).

The stars were surprisingly visible and the fresh air was addicting. Add on stolen ice cream, a cool rock you found in the park, and a never ending stream of tears you’ve been suppressing for the better half of 6 months and you’d call it a pretty damn good night of womanhood.

By the time you actually walk into the surreally quiet Daily Planet- you had lost any and all motivation to write.

Your heart was a sad pile of mush and your brain wasn’t faring much better.

Instead you shuffled back into the elevator and pressed the button for the top floor.

The city was stunning.

The breeze was calm.

And you didn’t mean to be morbid, but you thought it might be a nice place to die.

Or really- more like mourn a part of you that had died.

That was a safer way to put it. Because in a way it was true.

Tonight was sobering. Tonight you were grieving the more naive version of yourself who thought she could hold Clark Kent closer by holding on tighter. (And pretending like his every absence and bloodstain didn’t affect you)

That’s what you had been doing for almost a year and you were so tired of it.

Everything you had ever loved and let go of had claw marks. You were known to hold on until you couldn’t anymore.

And Clark was too sweet for you to scar up in that way. He had enough of that from his side gig of being Earth’s #1

Sure he couldn’t scar physically but emotionally….

He was a graveyard of all the people he couldn’t get to in time.

No. You had to let him go.

For both of your sakes.

You were a grown woman and you knew now the timing of beginnings

And endings.

You were sick of causing yourself immeasurable amounts of pain by pretending everything was always fine.

Like you said-Every absence. Every stain of blood in your apartment. Every late night of no shows and valid excuses.

You knew it couldn’t carry on. You felt a little sick, and maybe it was the ice cream, but in reality you knew.

You had to dump the love of your life.

And of course it had to be you because- well Clark would never.

Just as you allowed yourself to sit gently on the roof edge to sit quietly with that-

You heard it.

The gentle whip of wind that you had memorized for 12 months 8 weeks and 2 days

Part adoration, part trauma response.

It came with the territory if you didn’t want to have a heart attack everytime your boyfriend forgets your ears are dull and he shouldnt just spawn out of nowhere behind you.

But this time you knew HE knew you were aware of him.

Which was good. It’s meant he knew you needed to have the space to speak first.

“Hey Superman,”

It was more gentle than you had intended, but he let of a shaky breath like you had screamed it.

“Sweetheart.”

You didn’t turn around. The city lights were grounding.

“You seen my boyfriend around?”

You knew that struck something more tender when in a blink he was hovering in front of you. You both knew you hadn’t wanted to turn around to look him in the eyes.

He was so unfair.

And beautiful.

“He might be hiding,” he rasped. Even his hair looked deflated. “Seeing as he’s the worst boyfriend on Earth.”

You smiled at the ice cream pint that was perspiring onto your scrappy sweatpants.

Then the warmth of another round of tears followed behind.

Clark shed all pretense and scrambled towards you.

“Oh honey- oh gosh- baby I can’t” he choked

“I’m so sorry sweetheart- there’s no excuse I’m horrible-”

Your sharp bark of laughter interrupts him.

He froze. His hands not being able to decide if he deserved to comfort you or not.

You all the sudden couldn’t stop the laughter.

Or the tears.

You looked crazy, likely,

seeing as Clark was looking at you like

a.) he had been punched in the gut

b.) you were possibly broken

c.) there’s a chance he might have to stop you from throwing yourself off the building

“Oh Clark god you really just-“ another snort of laughter.

“You just really don’t get it do you?”

At that he looked like you had definitely just gut-punched him.

“I-I don’t understand sweetheart- I mean yes I know what I did and it’s terrible really- I’ll never forgive myself but- but I don’t really know why you’re laughing unless well you’re about to strangle me” he pauses “which I’d completely respect and I’ll let you try your hardest if you want but just-“ this time he looks at you in a spooked way.

“Let’s just- uh let’s talk about this away from the edge maybe?”

“Or even like inside the building would be nice.”

You let out a hum.

“Clark.”

He looks startled. Like he expected violence instead of you.

He murmurs your name in reply.

You stand and set down the empty pint then retreat to a safe distance away from the edge.

You see his shoulders fall a little. From relief maybe, or perhaps he now realizes something devastating is about to happen.

“I’m laughing like an insane asylum patient because of how unfair this all is.”

He shudders like he’s in pain.

“Gosh I know- I know and I’m so sorry I-“

“No Clark.”

He stops as you sigh. Then comes the frustration you were surprised hadn’t come sooner.

“You don’t - ughhh- it’s unfair because you’re NOT terrible!”

You lose any remaining composure as the pacing starts.

His feet touch the ground gently and he walks towards you hands out like he’s approaching a scared animal

“NO no you- don’t- just stay there okay because I need you to listen.”

He immediately halts and then just waits. Like a dog

An adorable 6,4 250 pound dog that’s being yelled at for possibly tearing up a couch or something.

You just start then. And the flood comes rushing.

“I can’t even be mad at you Clark because youre so much bigger than this- I can’t be upset and I haven’t let myself be upset for a year over anything like this because I refuse to be some self absorbed twig who thinks her birthday is more important than probably thousands of lives being saved.”

You breathe roughly.

“I’m human and I- well I just I have a breaking point you know and I can’t keep doing this thing where I pretend I don’t care about things like you not coming to dates, or- or coming home in shreds, or not texting me for days when you go to fucking Antarctica, or stranding me in the Air BnB YOU booked because you thought I wanted a vacation with you WHICH I DID but didn’t realize you FLYING us there would mean you’d up and leave me to get home myself while you got kicked around like a hacky sack in Metropolis!!”

Now most of your words were sobs.

Clark looked like he was dying. And honestly you felt like you were too.

“I love you Clark and I’m so sorry because you’re the best thing to ever happen to this earth- to ever happen to ME- but I can’t do this!”

“You’re amazing and I’m really not mad at you but I fell in love with Clark Kent not with Kal-El.”

And that.

That you really hadn’t meant to say.

But Clark, sweet as sugar and nicer than his Ma’s pie, just looks at you like you lost your whole family.

Devasted. But not for himself.

“I-“ his voice cracks.

He looks down but you can see the tears on his own cheeks.

“I didn’t know” he says so quietly.

“I didn’t want you to.” You hesitate.

“I’m sorry Clark. I didn’t- I wanted to support you, I didn’t want to burden or nag you but this-” you wave your hands around, “tonight was just- too much and I can’t do it.”

He looks up, all wet blue eyes and heartbreak.

But his gaze sharpens as your words land.

“You could never burden me.” He says your name to emphasize it.

“You’re my everything.”

Your anger, sadness, and whatever else mixed in just….floats away. All that’s left is a pit of emptiness at what comes next.

“I know Clark.” “So were you.”

The past tense isn’t lost on him. It causes him to crack a little bit.

The great composed glacier that is Superman, just crumbles.

But for your sake he does it quietly. Because he now knows you’ve been doing it for much longer.

Falling apart so silently that even his super senses could never pick up on it.

You finally chance closing the distance because it’s the last time you’ll have to be brave enough to do so.

You stand so close that you become entwined with his shadow. Then you gently reach up and kiss his cheek shakily.

“Stay in one piece Kent,” you say weakly.

An old inside joke from when he fell over his desk after asking you out.

It feels a little hallowed out now.

You know you don’t need to add the next part because he knows you’ve rather die than give him up but still

“I’ll never tell.”

You turn then before he says another word and keeps you wrapped up in all things Clark.

You tell yourself the faster you get out the less time it has to sink in and tear you apart.

————————————————————————

Despite being nearly invincible- Clark feels like the two hours of him just standing on the roof of the Daily Planet in pure shock and disbelief is some kind of psychological warfare created by Lex to kill him.

Because there’s no way in actual heck that he just lost you like that.

He stiffly reaches up to his chest to see if he still has a heartbeat- which is stupid- but necessary because he doesn’t feel ALIVE

And he’s so tired. Tired from the fight, from the panic of not finding you at home where he guiltily knew you’d be waiting, from calmly (freaking TF out) flying over the whole city to locate your heartbeat, and then this.

You dropped a kryptonite bomb on him and then ran.

And before he could even process the loss, you’re gone.

Taking his heart with you.

Funny enough you were right about his not making it home until sunrise- but that’s only because he sits and disassociates on the roof of his day job until the sun reminds him he has to work in two hours.

Where he will have to see you sitting across the room, pretending he doesn’t exist.

Clark has never been into theology like most people were in Smallville.

But he knows now that hell is real.

Because he’s living it.

Ugh it’s trash but whatever it’s midnight and I’m sad so we ball. Tell me how or if I should continue<3

[deityditee]

𓂃 ࣪ ࣪⋆✩˚ ༘ [leon kennedy]: three times you tried to end your situationship with Leon + the one time you actually succeeded

— in which! you were overthinking your relationship with leon and he was doing the same as you—just not for the same reason.

wordcount! 4.1k (even I'm shocked)

warning! cliché, idiots in love, drunk-driving (DONT BE LIKE THEM), mild depictions of gunshots and crashes, allusions to sexual intercourse, f! reader in mind but it's really not specified i think, HEAVY SUGGESTIVE STUFF, not beta'ed we die like my mans ethan, eng not my first language, wrote this in under 48 hrs are u proud of me

loosely inspired by: don't wanna break up again by ariana grande

The first time it happened, it was a casual hook-up. A one-night stand.

You met him in a local bar, drinking his sorrows away—you guessed. But he was pretty, and you were (admittedly) weak for pretty guys, so when temptation goes hand in hand with stupidity and bad decisions? It was a no-brainer that equates to disaster.

You sat beside him, equipped with nothing but liquid courage and a thirst for biceps. That should’ve raised red flags in his mind, but he doesn’t seem to care; that works to your favor.

“What’s a pretty guy doing here, all alone?” You played coy, flagging the bartender for a drink while (not-so-subtly) looking at him to see if he'll take the bait.

“…” No response. It seemed as if he was stuck in his own lonely world.

“Goldilocks?” You tried again, deadset on getting his attention, even if he's straight up refusing to give you a crumble.

“…Me?” He gruffed. Oh? That got a reaction out of him.

The stranger took another shot, stubbornly refusing to glance at you—refusing to give the attention you craved.

“Of course, you.” You chuckled, refusing to give up.

“Sorry, didn’t know.” He grunts. What a broody man.

“Girlfriend dumped you?”

Hook, line, and sinker. That made him pause. Must've hit a nerve.

“That's your way of asking if I have one?” He replied with a scoff, a petty smirk making itself known.

“You’re cute. Got me already.” You hummed, aiming to catch him off guard.

That got him to finally look at you. His eyes widen a fraction—barely even noticeable—as a light flush dusts his cheeks.

“How would I get you if I don’t even know your name?” He countered, finally having the courage to respond.

“Damn, you’re smooth.” You whistled, giving your name with a grin. Fuck, he was finally interested.

“Hm? What a pretty name,” he mumbled your name, a slight quirk lifting his lips. “Sounds like your mother loves you.”

Now that… kinda made your heart speed up. As if you unknowingly signed a bound-for-life contract with a person whose name you don’t even know, no less. You talked for hours; the conversation fell into a mad, easy rhythm. He looked familiar—as if you’ve seen him somewhere before. You don’t know when or where, but gosh, something about him felt unbearably enchanting. Like he bewitched you—letting him carve a hole in your heart with a sign that says ‘I live here now lol’.

Well, that’s a one-way ticket to enter his home.

No, seriously, he did take you to his apartment—sorry, penthouse. It was nearby, and neither of you was hammered enough to drive—it was relatively safe.

What happened after wasn’t safe at all, though.

After his front door opened, lust resumed to cloud your minds. You felt his presence looming behind you, his hands steady on your waist. The moment the door closed? He’s pouncing on you like an animal starved for weeks. Lips on lips, tongue to tongue, rough hands exploring the canvases of your bodies. His hand snuck on the back of your head, pulling you impossibly closer and angling his wet appendage even deeper—sweet sounds involuntarily leaving your throat, and he swallows it down like a champ. He tastes like a hint of mint and strong whiskey. God, you hoped the walls were thick.

Your hands slide inside his shirt with feather-like precision, moving from his soft pectorals (now hardened as you felt him flex) to his defined abdominal muscles. Six packs, you counted. You felt him shiver as your hands moved dangerously lower to where he needed you most.

He slowly, begrudgingly pulled away, panting as a string of saliva connected you. The erotic display made your head fuzzy with need, forgetting the fact that you literally didn’t know his name. He could be a serial killer for all you care, but it doesn’t matter as long as he’s giving you a taste of ecstasy.

“Leon.” He groaned, and your brain lagged, leaving you momentarily frozen. A small ‘huh?’ was all you could conjure.

“Leon Kennedy, the name you’ll be screaming later, gorgeous.” He grunts, and a wide predatory grin settles on his face as he kisses you with the same—if not more—vigour as before.

His arm wandered behind your legs, effortlessly lifting you. You yelped, scrambling to hold him tighter. All that bastard did was laugh, nosing and playfully biting your stomach. Hard to be annoyed when he quite literally rocked your world moments after. You couldn’t leave immediately after, even if you tried—you felt like a fish walking in the sand for the first time with the way that your legs. just. won’t. work.

So you let him romance you with aftercare. Soft, fleeting kisses and gentle hands tidying you up.

The next day was far from different. Now, the reason why you couldn’t walk away wasn't just because of your out-of-commission legs. You couldn’t walk away simply because a man—Leon, as you've learnt—has you locked in his strong arms and hulking muscles. Every time you shift, his hold would get even tighter. And you couldn’t even pry his hands off your waist; you tried it, and it was useless.

So, what did you do?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Nothing but placing your hand on his cheek while admiring him close up. His soft jawline, his disheveled hair perfectly framing his face, his soft, inviting lips—anything, really. It was as if he was sculpted by the Goddess of beauty herself.

But then, you felt him shift. You were startled, quickly trying to pull your hand away. Keyword: trying. Because just as quickly, his large hand shot up to hold your smaller one—interwining—keeping it from trying to move. You squirmed; his other arm (from below your waist) trapped you in place. It was all too sudden—your eyes widen a fraction as you feel him nuzzle into your warm palm, a soft sigh escaping him.

“Hi,” Leon mumbled, locking eyes with you. His voice was rough, given that he had just woken up, but his eyes. His eyes held affection. Utterly devastating affection, just for you.

Now that made your insufferable heart ache.

And that, was the start of your situationship with a broody, corny, infuriatingly handsome man named Leon (Ass) Kennedy.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

“Hey, Lee?”

“Yeah? What’s up?”

“Let’s end this—whatever this is.”

“Huh, wha—”

You ended the call, not even bothering to let him finish.

It’s been months of this fuckass cat-and-fish game you didn’t even know you were playing. Months of this on-and-off, months of this disappearing game, and gosh, you’re tired. Tired of him treating whatever you two have as nothing but a mere plaything; tired of your stupid, traitorous heart for always beating faster because of him; tired of yourself for letting him use you just as he pleases.

So yeah, you’re done. You’ve exhausted yourself, and it’s time to get your life back together.

That’s what you would say if you didn’t hear a car pull out in your driveway and the bell ringing incessantly immediately right after.

When you opened the door (because admit it, you were kinda curious—and maybe wanna play round two), all you saw were flowers—a bunch of them. A gorgeous floral arrangement, boxes of chocolates, and a puppy-eyed Leon Kennedy begging you to reconsider.

Safe to say, you were one big dumb down-bad idiot and did something more than just get back together (unofficially).

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The third time was… admittedly kinda different.

He’s in one of his disappearing games again, dodging the topic of whatever it is that he’s doing for a living. You were honestly convinced that he was part of the mafia or something at some point, given the way he acted.

He said no, and you digress. The look of his offended face was something to coo over, blue-boba eyes staring at you like you have five foreheads and an antenna. You would’ve smacked him if he weren’t handsome.

But that’s not the point, no.

The point is that when you inevitably call him (because you missed his clingy ass), a lady with a very pretty voice answers.

“Lee, oh my god, where the fuck have you been?! It’s been what, like five weeks with no—”

“Hi! Sorry, not Leon. He’s kinda busy at the moment, call back later. Bye!”

“…”

“That fucking bastard hung up!” You screamed in frustration, throwing your phone to god-knows-where.

You were livid.

Because of course, a pretty girl (you assume) will come running into his arms the moment you're out of the picture (and babe, girls still swarm him even if you’re in the picture—who are we kidding).

And because you’re kinda fucking crazy and maaaybe a stalker at birth, you checked the location of where the call was connected. Turns out it came from freaking Spain. That fucker was on vacation, in Spain, with a pretty girl (again, you assumed). Forgetting the fact that there was background noise—which seemed eerily familiar with multiple gunshots and a crash, you really contemplated blocking him.

Like, okay, your thingy wasn’t official-official, but c’mon! You fucked, eat together, cuddle while watching sad-sappy dramas you know he hates, but sucks it up because you like it! Hell, he wipes your tears off, is your unpaid therapist, and ties your shoes for you! Both of you had a written agreement that signifies you, and he won’t be hooking up with anyone other than yourselves.

Have you, perhaps, misjudged the situation again?!

You spent five hours retrieving your phone from underneath the cabinet just to send a ‘we’re done, enjoy your next pretty lady’ text. You don’t even know how it got there, and you refuse to talk about how you got it out.

Leon responded with: ‘Hey, pretty lady. I miss your pretty smile. Quit being pissy, yeah? Dinner on me?’ after a week of deadbeat silence.

You’d rather be caught dead wearing a potato sack than admit you sent a ‘when’ text back.

Waiting for a month to pass before you hit send, of course. You weren’t that desperate.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

This time was on Valentine's Day.

Yeah, real sappy.

In each corner you take, it looked like red and pink hearts were thrown up on the streets. And everywhere you looked, all you saw were couples eating each other’s faces off. It’s disgusting, really. Hated it, actually. Totally not thinking of Leon bringing you flowers and letting you decorate him with lipstick and bite marks. Totally.

So you clocked in at work.

As a barista who’s in love with her job, one of your favorite things to do is those rare specials. As a person who’s emotionally constipated and bitter, you hated doing hearts this very specific day.

It wasn’t until you saw a very familiar blond from across the street that you stopped and stared for a few moments. Now, it wasn’t unusual for him to wander around where you worked, but what’s unusual is the fact that he’s talking to a lady with a small, infuriating smile on his face. You saw him—very carefully—receiving a bouquet from her, treating it just as delicately. You saw the lady nudge him, and he chuckled in response before walking away.

Your eye twitched as your smile turned into a grimace, almost scaring the customer who had been trying to get your attention to order.

Your shift ended with you making wonky hearts and fake smiles throughout.

While you were exiting, you saw a familiar car parked along the pavement, and a familiar face half-asleep in the driver's seat. He was cute. That, you’ll admit. You sneakily snapped a photo, forgetting the very cute fact that your flash was on. That woke Leon up, clumsily unlocking the door and stumbling out.

“Nice nap?” you teased, a smile easily making its way to your face.

“Yeah, waiting for you, actually.” He tried to be smooth. He really did. But the slight tremor in his voice revealed that he was nervous. He faked a cough, choosing instead to open his backseat—beckoning you to come closer.

And when you did, the scene almost made your eyes tear up.

Because in his backseat was a huge fox stuffed toy holding a ‘will you let me be your valentine?’ sign propped with a very familiar arrangement of your favorite flowers, snacks, chocolates, and the like.

“So… will you?” whispered Leon from behind you. You turned around and, god, he was so close you practically felt his breath fan your flushed face. You snaked your arms around his neck, pulling him to your height, and stared at his twinkling baby blues with nothing but adoration.

Then, you leaned to close the distance.

Your lips moved in sync, falling into a dance both of you unknowingly memorized as your glassy eyes fluttered shut. You felt him nip your bottom lip, making it part. His warm tongue explored your mouth, as if it were the first time he had the honor of doing so. Your tongues locked, meeting halfway. You felt him suck, swallowing your noises as he backed you to his car.

His hands wander to your waist, pulling you even closer. And the worst part? He was gentle. He was gentle all throughout. As if what you had were real—labels be damned. You didn’t even remember when you parted, just the warmth of his calloused hand that caressed your cheek with hearts in his eyes and a soft smile on his lips. He looked ethereal, with his blown-out pupils and golden hair that swayed with the wind.

“Does that answer your question, Kennedy?” You asked, just as softly, afraid of dampening the surreal mood.

He laughed softly, and god, it was beautiful. You don’t even think there was an ounce of ugliness in that man. Sure, he has his broody act, but god, it just makes him all the more endearing.

“I got you flowers.” Leon started, brushing your hair behind your ear, which felt out of place. “From across the café. You’ve mentioned how much you loved how they arranged their bouquets. Jesus, the lady recognized me from buying there all the time.” He finished with a breathless—shy—laugh, a hint of red slowly blooming through his face.

“Lee, you didn’t have to.” You drawled, your voice fading into a whisper. “Just your presence is enough.”

“I want to. Your smile makes it worth it,” he stated with enough conviction that made your heart bubble with love. Utterly devastating love. All for him. All for the mysterious man you walked up to in the bar that had too much love to give with no one to give it to.

“God, you're sappy.” You shook your head, turning away from him to hide your rapidly blooming cheeks.

“You love it.” Leon chuckled, turning your head back.

“Debatable.”

“What a pretty, pissy girlfriend you are.” He grinned, purposely letting the word linger.

Now that made you freeze, the gears of your head refusing to turn. “Girlfriend..?”

And that made Leon confused, slightly stepping back to give you space, but his hands were still firmly planted around you. “Of course, girlfriend. You don’t think I’ll do this to someone I’m not exclusive to, right?”

“Huh? Since when?!” You exclaimed, gripping the two openings of his jacket.

“Baby, I literally take you out on dates—we’re dating. The fuck you mean ‘when’??” He looked at you, incredulously—as if you were the one making zero sense.

“I—wha—you never asked?!” You tugged, shaking him back and forth.

“We talked about being exclusive!”

“Yeah—exclusively fucking!”

“We literally had thee talk.” He deadpanned, amusement lingering in his eyes.

“That’s not how it works??!”

“Wait, so—the whole time—you don’t think I’m fucking yours?” The bastard had the audacity to laugh at you, making your blood flare up.

“Fuck—yes??”

“Baby, that’s insane. Are you okay?”

“I—you’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“So much.” That earned him multiple smacks on the head and a shit ton of kisses that peppered all over his face right after.

Yeah, turns out, in the very deep and concerning mind of Leon S. Kennedy, the two of you were in a very much real, loving, and committed relationship. You just didn’t know it yet.

He thinks it started the very first time you slept together.

He knew you as the pretty lady who works in a cozy café downtown. The cute barista who serves sweet drinks with a matching sweet smile. He was with Claire that time, grabbing a long-overdue lunch. It was the closest café in the vicinity, and like the gentleman that he is, he offered to order and pay for her as well.

He caught a glimpse of you while he was ordering.

And damn, it felt like Cupid’s arrow went straight to his heart and hit the bullseye.

Because from then on, he vowed to visit—at least maybe once a month. Y’know, just to… observe—order, drinks and pastries are good. Totally. Totally not because he was too much of a pussy to talk to you. For sure.

That’s also the reason why he felt as if Cupid came for round 2 when he saw you at the bar.

You were literally talking to him—giving him attention—and he didn’t even notice that it was you, of all people. It’s the whiskey, he swears, that made him undeniably bold. On any normal day, he wouldn’t have the courage to talk to you—more or less, flirt with you! He’s a dangerous man living a dangerous life and working a dangerous job, for godssake! You could be in danger, and fuck, he doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want anything bad to happen to you.

But as hours passed by, he just couldn’t help but indulge in a dangerous drug named you. The way your voice lifts when you talk about something that interests you, the way you unconsciously scrunch your nose when you catch a whiff of something strong, and Christ, the way you sweep your hair back so you can see clearly. It irks him. The way you do shit to him, and you. don’t. even. notice.

He didn’t even know what happened. One second, he’s learning about you in the bar, and the next, you’re in his sheets—reeling from satisfaction: bathing in the afterglow. Leon couldn’t let you go, even if he tried. You got him madly hooked. And he’s right where he wants to be. With you wrapped in his arms. With you tracing his scars, kissing him lovingly as if he deserved only the best in this godforsaken world.

“Hi.” He nuzzled into your soft, inviting palm.

“You’re awake? Sorry, I woke you up.” You were so damn warm. Your voice, a little gruff from sleep, makes his blood run in a different direction.

“It’s fine, knew you couldn’t resist me. Not a bad way to wake up.” He teased, disguising his real, incoherent thoughts.

“Hush, you look like a bad decision.”

“One you’re willing to indulge in, yeah?”

“Debatable.”

He laughed, pecking the tip of your nose and pulling you even closer—his head now resting on the top of yours, wishing for the moment to last forever.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Leon was with Sherry this time, on one of his off days. He wanted to visit his kid— checked to see if everything was alright.

“Leon? Who was that?” Sherry asked, a bit curious. For her, it was weird seeing Leon look lovingly at his phone. It was weird seeing him on his phone in general, more so that he’s smiling as if someone hung the moon for him. As strange as it is, she’s just glad that someone is making Leon act like an otter seeing the water for the very first time.

“My girlfriend. She’s probably bored.” He replied, a small smile involuntarily appearing on his face. He can’t help it; that’s just your effect on him.

“You have a girlfriend? Who? Since when??” She almost squealed, excitement flickering in her bright eyes.

“I know. Shocker, right?”

He picked up the call, expecting a barrage of ‘I miss you, come over?’ or some rant about your ass netflix shows you couldn’t help but watch, or maybe even that annoying regular that picks up fights with literally anyone.

What he didn’t expect was an abrupt breakup call.

“… that was awkward,” Sherry faked a cough. “Are you… okay, though?” She winced, voice gradually becoming more of a whisper.

After a few beats of silence.

“…Yeah, she just—does that—I’m okay. Yup… I’ll just—… I’ll see you later, kid?”

He doesn’t know why or what compelled you to break up with him over a damn twenty-three-second phone call, but he sure as hell won’t be losing the absolute love of his life over some fucking boredom.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Spain was crazy. Insane—criminal, actually.

His mission was to save the President’s daughter, Ashley Graham. Jesus, he’s glad she’s already by his side—he can’t fucking wait for the mission to be over.

The absurd call happened when he was literally fighting for his life. His phone might’ve fallen during whatever the fuck he was doing to survive (he’s kinda reckless, okay—but valid), because all he saw was Ashley picking it up and talking to someone before quickly handing it back to him.

“Someone called you. I guess they were worried.”

“…There’s a reception here..?” He was more confused because how the fuck did a normal call connect easily when the comms with Hunnigan were choppy?

It wasn’t until he felt a chill run down his back that he asked the dreaded, “Who was it?”

“Ah, I didn’t check. But it sounds like a girl—wait, do you have a girlfriend?” Ashley asked, a bit incredulously—and he couldn’t stop the involuntary ‘shit’ that fell out of his mouth.

Oh. Oh fuck. He’s fucked.

Because of course, your call would connect; that’s just your effect.

If you knew he was basically kidnapped, would he be forgiven? Who was he kidding, he knew he wouldn’t be telling you any of this when he got home. Not because it’s confidential as fuck, but because he can’t bring himself to tell you all the ugly parts of his job. He can’t bring you down with him—and if that meant forever keeping you in the dark with the horror he regularly goes through? Then so be it.

He’d rather wait for a month than explain—recall—he almost got killed for the umpteenth amount of time in Spain, and not experience the getaway you thought he had. He’d rather whisper sweet nothings in your ear and have you in his arms than tell the tale that he got infected by a freaking parasite that ought to make him a mindless subordinate.

He’d rather take you to a fancy dinner and be enamored by you once again, grovel at your feet, and give you a good time than to admit that he was forcefully employed by the government to keep his mouth shut about the horrors of bioweapons.

Yeah, he’d rather take the burn of your anger than have you worry if he’ll live the next time he disappears again.

He might be selfish, but Jesus, what can he do if you unknowingly became his only salvation?

If becoming official meant going to court to pledge your undying devotion? Then so be it. Leon’s already got a beautiful ring in mind.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. 　　　.   　　˚　✭　 　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 ˚　.˚　　　　　✭　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　 　　 　　　　 ✦

hey hey hey!! it's been a while, hasn't it? i'm afraid leon ass kennedy got me in a cage rn fighting for my life, apparently getting tagged-team w chris bulkfield as we speak. this was my third wip for this man n it's the first one to be published. i'm actually shocked bcuz this is like the longest anything i've ever fucking written, and it's also, BY FAR, the most suggestive one i've ever published. my mans been rotting my mind for a month now and gosh, i literally can't get out. hope you enjoyed reading this one as much as i've enjoyed writing it! also btw, no ai was used in this self-indulgent fic, i'm just an em dash warrior. as always, rbs are appreciated lmao ily

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[voxslut3434]

bully!gojo masterlist

bully!gojo when you're sick

bully!gojo cockwarming you

bully!gojo having his way with you

bully!gojo making you wear a vibrator in public

bully!gojo 'tutoring' you

bully!gojo who makes you his girlfriend

bully!gojo teaching you how to give him head

bully!gojo, part two, part three

bully!gojo fucking you in the janitors closet

bully!gojo who goes too far with his words, part two, part three

bully!gojo when you reject his offer to go home with him

bully!gojo who fucks you until you can't think straight

bully!gojo when another guy asks you out

bully!gojo letting you take control

bully!gojo who finds out you love praise

bully!gojo edging you

bully!gojo and missionary