hello everyone! my name is rosi (she/her), i'm 21, and i love to draw and write. while i occasionally post on tumblr, check out my ao3 to see all my works :)
notes & rules :
✦ minors and ageless accs do not interact w/ 18+ content (i will block you)
✦ i only take requests for twisted wonderland
✦ most of my writing stars female readers, though i often use gender-neutral pronouns
✦ do not feed my work into ai or repost anywhere
✦ dni racists, zionists, homophobes, transphobes, islamophobes
✦ i write for whatever fandom/characters i'm feeling, atm i'm interested in twst & jjk!
cold compresses and warm hands ! - leona kingscholar
synopsis: Leona not showing up to class for three days straight is to be expected, but Leona not showing up to class for a week? Maybe you should drop in and make sure he's okay.
a/n: i'm back from vacation! here's an older one while i get back into the groove of things <3
It's been nearly a week and there has been no sign of Leona whatsoever. No infuriatingly exaggerated yawn from behind you. No glimpse of the tip of his tail as he rounds a corner. No snore from behind the brush of the Botanical Garden. Nothing. So, being the curious classmate you are, you thought you ought to get to the bottom of this, and you knew just where to start.
Among the swarm of your peers lining up for food in the cafeteria, Ruggie was surprisingly easy to find, carrying a tray so full of food you thought it might slip from his grasp. Except Ruggie's exceptional balance and adamant nature about not wasting food meant that he would never let that happen.
"Hey Ruggie, know where Leona's at?" you inquire, careful not to bump into him as he sets his precariously balanced tray onto a lunch table.
"Busy with stuff."
Okay, a vague answer. Instead of looking at you, his attention is directed towards the five individually packaged meat buns stacked on his plate but he doesn't move to grab one.
"Busy with what?" you push.
"I dunno. I'm not telling. Just something. Why're you looking for him?"
You raise an eyebrow. That was three different responses rolled into one, and a question asked too quickly. Not at all suspicious.
"Ruggie, is there something you're not telling me?"
"Nope, nothing. Sorry gotta go!" He suddenly stands up and his untouched food is packed into his bag before you can even blink.
Definitely suspicious, you think as you watch him scamper off and weave his way through the crowd to exit the cafeteria.
There goes that plan. There's no other student at Night Raven College who knows Leona better than Ruggie. Except maybe...
Yes, him.
You could spot him from anywhere with his seamlessly shaped bob and his over-the-top demeanor.
Rook Hunt has never been an easy person to approach, but if anyone would know of Leona's whereabouts, it's him. Pomefiore's vice-housewarden's reputation precedes him and though you've only spoken a handful of times, you know precisely what the rest of Night Raven College's gossipy students mean.
As if sensing your approach from four tables away, Rook Hunt turns around and his eyes are dangerously piercing as he looks directly at you. You try not to swallow too hard but his beaming grin does little to quell your nerves.
"Ah, bon après-midi! I thought I felt your eyes gracing me with their beauty."
There's no point in backing out now, not now that he's initiated a conversation. "Oh, hi Rook. I was wondering if you knew where Leona is?"
A heavy sigh escapes him and he shakes his head in defeat, "To think that the Roi des Lions has been evading you as well. Alas, I regretfully have not seen him."
You mimic his sigh, knowing you've reached a dead end. Perhaps you could make another round around the grounds just in case you missed him.
"But were I to venture a guess, there's no place a lion prefers than that of his den," Rook offers.
"Of course, thank you!" Obviously you had checked all his usual napping spots around campus, and you even convinced a few Savanaclaw students to let you look around their dorm itself, but it had totally slipped your mind to check Leona's room.
Leona's room...it feels a little weird to be entering such a private space, but he left you no choice really.
"But of course, bonne chance! A persistent spirit must always be acknowledged!" Rook calls after you.
Twenty minutes later you find yourself standing outside of Leona's room with your knuckles braced on the door, and adamantly not knocking. Knocking is normal, but knocking on Leona's door just feels different somehow. Would it be weird to knock? He'll probably get mad at you for coming here in the first place, so it wouldn't really matter either way.
Whatever. You shake those thoughts from your head and rap on the door.
A beat passes and you try again.
With still no response, you thought that you made a mistake. You can't make out any sound from within. Maybe he's not in his room after all, but you should press your ear to the door just to be sure.
The door creaks open with the force of your weight, having not been shut properly, and you peer in.
With the curtains drawn the room was mostly in darkness, save for the sliver of light the door welcomed in. You can make out a hoard of pillows on the bed surrounding a strangely shaped hump beneath the blankets that you immediately recognized as Leona. As well as...three...four...seven boxes of tissues scattered about the room, a trash can beside the bed with used tissues inside and around it from where the user had so obviously missed his target.
Six days of prolonged absence and a hoard of tissues could only mean one thing.
Leona is sick.
"Leona?" You take a few tentative steps forward, hoping you're wrong.
"Ruggie," a hoarse voice calls out from the bed, "izaat you?"
The delirious Leona-shaped lump rolls over, trying and failing to sit up to get a better look at the person who just entered the room.
You swallow gingerly, debating your response but the thud of Ruggie's running footsteps interrupts your reply.
"Leona!" The poor boy is nearly breathless from his sprint as he crosses the doorway. "I got you the meat buns you asked for."
Ruggie takes one long look at you, then Leona, then you again.
"Oh no."
Leona groans from his place on the bed, and lets out a terrible, raspy cough.
"What do you mean 'oh no,' Leona is sick!" you reprimand. "It's been a week."
Ruggie's sour expression tells you that nobody at the school was supposed to know about this, which is also why Ruggie hadn't gone to Sam's to get medication. Probably on Leona's orders too. As if he was in any condition to make demands. His cough is so dry you were sure his throat is scarred from its force, and the sheer amount of tissues told you his nose has been dreadfully plugged for several days. Knowing Leona, he probably thought he could fight off this virus himself.
"Hey! Nobody told you to go looking for him!"
A grunt from Leona forces Ruggie to lower his voice.
"Nobody told you to go looking for him," Ruggie repeats, his voice barely audible.
You ignore him. "And meat buns? No wonder he's not getting any better with the food he's eating, I don't care if he asked you for it."
Diet, rest, and medication are the most important things for recovery. Two of which Leona has been utterly neglecting.
"Well then nurse, why don't you try taking care of Leona?"
"Maybe I will!"
"Fine then!"
"Okay!"
"Shut up," Leona wheezes out. "Head hurts."
Ruggie extends his arm towards Leona as an invitation, and you take it, making your way towards him to assess the current situation.
Both of Leona's eyes are closed and his eyebrows are furrowed together in either pain or annoyance, you couldn't tell. Most likely a mix of both. Hesitantly, you reach your arm out and press the back of your hand to his forehead. You let out a hiss.
"He's burning up."
Shifting on his feet, Ruggie decides that looking after a sick Leona is probably a two-person job.
"What should I get?"
"A bowl of ice-water and a couple small cloths."
"Leona'll owe me big time," he mutters to himself, and you glance up only to find that he is already gone.
It's hard to see someone you know fall ill, even more so when it's someone so...strong. Minutes tick by as you wait for Ruggie to return but it feels more like hours and you wish there was something else you could do to help other than watch. Uselessly. Leona's eyes remain shut as he drifts in and out of sleep, never quite making it to a satisfying, full slumber. Drawing uneven breaths, it's clear he's breathing more from his mouth than his nose, on account of one of his nostrils being out of commission.
Leona is many things but he is not helpless, which makes this all the harder to watch.
Just as you finish dragging a chair over beside his bed, Ruggie returns, the water in the bowl threatening to spill as he sets the items on the nightstand next to you.
The water is freezing, but you ignore the burning sting of the cold as you dunk the cloth in the water and wring it out. Leona lets out a yelp and jerks the second you place the cold cloth on his forehead. It feels like an electric shock delivered straight to his body.
His eyes shoot open. "The hell're ya doing. Get this thing offa me!"
"Shh, sorry but I have to." You force his body down with your hands. "You have a fever."
The warmth of his forehead blooms through the cloth. This is not good. Yet he continues to argue, his words choppy and strangely quiet and not at all like the Leona you know.
"I was just gonna sleep it off."
You roll your eyes. "Yeah? And how's that been working out for you so far?"
He could only grunt as a response and his eyes fall shut once again. You flip the cloth over and press your hand against the cloth, Leona letting out a hiss at the cool temperature.
"Ruggie, please go to the kitchen and ask one of the ghosts to prepare you a soup. Lentil, chicken noodle, carrot, I don't care. Just make sure it's hot."
Ruggie quirks a brow, knowing what's coming, but leaves wordlessly nevertheless.
"I'm not eating that watery herbivore crap," Leona protests, fighting his eyes open.
"Yes, you are," you say firmly. "No more meat buns for you."
It's clear that Leona so desperately wants to argue back but simply does not have the energy for it which works out well in your favor.
Eight reps of cold compresses later, a steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup is placed on the nightstand as well. Warm and comforting, you can smell it from where you're sitting and you're sure Leona can too. His twitching nose just proves that Leona's acute sense of smell, which his ailment has certainly diminished, still seems to be functioning well. He is a beastman after all.
"Need anythin' else?" Ruggie asks. He's retreated to the doorframe and looks a little...on edge?
You shake your head. Leona's managed to sit up and from what you could tell, the fever's beginning to ebb away, even if just a little. "No. Thanks a lot Ruggie."
"I'm outta here," he says quickly, turning on his heel. "Just don't come cryin' to me when Leona tries to bite your fingers off for that soup," he calls from around the corner.
You turn to look at Leona, whose eyes are still closed, and yet you can sense a semblance of a smirk playing on his lips.
His ears twitch and he attempts a laugh. "You're sooorely mistaken if ya think I'm just gonna open my m-ARRRGHHGH."
And in goes a spoonful of soup. If he thought you were going to waste that perfect opportunity then he is the one who is sorely mistaken. You see an opening? You always take it.
Face going through various contortions as he deciphers the taste, Leona manages to swallow. Somehow. It was probably a good call on the chicken noodle on Ruggie's behalf. At least there's some meat in it. Though you had to admit it would be pretty amusing to watch Leona choke down a bowl of lentil soup.
"Never do that again." His expression is soured with something you're sure has nothing to do with the taste of the soup. Betrayal.
"Keep fighting back and I'll ask Ruggie to bring me a cone or something."
Leona's eyes widen in shock.
"And don't test me," you add. "I will use it if I have to."
A new side of Leona is introduced to you, one that you're sure is never going to make a re-appearance: a docile, conceding side. But it's not without several vicious side-eyes and a few snide remarks made under his breath.
Miraculously, Leona finishes the entire bowl of soup with minimal complaining. Whether it's because of your (empty) threat or because he secretly likes the taste of the soup, you aren't sure. But hey! Mission accomplished, and no fingers were lost in the process. Leona's head rests against a pillow once more and it seems like he's due for another nap. If Leona's got any part of the recovery process down, it's rest.
"If I didn't know any better I would say you're enjoying this, herbivore..." His voice is lazy as he trails off.
"Oh I am, mildly," you admit. "Beats History of Magic with Trein."
He manages a half-laugh and then all goes quiet as the lull of a calming sleep overtakes his weary body.
✦ 𓆣 ✦
When Leona wakes, he isn't himself.
Actually, he isn't sure if he's even awake. It's dark, and he's sure the sun has set but he's not quite sure what time it is. His room is clean, which is definitely not how he left it. And you're by his side, slumped over with your chest and arms on his bed and the rest of your body on the seat.
How long had you been like that? It seems like an uncomfortable position.
White-hot pain shoots through his mind and hallucinatory shapes dance around the room. He feels so cold, but so hot at the same time. His head is a fifty ton weight and every bone in his body feels brittle, threatening to shatter at any moment. How can he feel so dizzy? He's sure he's laying down. Or maybe it's him that's spinning and not the room?
He can feel it coming and there's nothing he can do to stop it.
✦ 𓆣 ✦
The sound of Leona hurling directly into the trashcan wakes you with a jolt. Had you really fallen asleep?
Before you can think you're rubbing his back with your hands as he gags over the trashcan with tears pricking his waterline. Vomiting is never a pleasant experience.
"It's okay, it's okay," you soothe with simple words, because you're not sure what else to say.
Leona has a death grip on either side of the trash can, bringing it closer to his mouth so he doesn't hunch over. There's nothing you can do except continue to whisper useless words and run your hands up and down his back as he finishes retching.
"You're okay."
Leona barely spares you a glance as he gets up from his place on the bed, entirely too quickly, and stumbles into the bathroom adjacent to his room. You're half worried he'll slip from the lightheadedness and crumple on the floor, but you give him space to rinse his face. The water faucet shuts off and Leona wobbles back to his bed, crashing back down on the mattress without a word.
Your hand shakes as you bring it up to his forehead once more.
He's hot...maybe even hotter than he was earlier today.
It's a good thing you refilled the ice-water bowl because you were going to need it. First thing's first though; while Leona was asleep, you went down to Sam's for some medicine to help alleviate the symptoms.
"Leona," you say gently. "You're gonna have to sit up for me real quick."
Leona doesn't fight back, doesn't say a word as you pour him the recommended dosage and he downs it in one short gulp. He shivers; it is most definitely not chicken-flavored medication.
To his warm body, every new compress is a shock and Leona never gets used to the ice-cold cloth making contact with his skin over and over again. It doesn't help that your touch feels equally cool against him, but that part he doesn't mind so much. A few days ago he told himself that he can sleep through the pain and that the aches in his body are nothing more than overexerting himself at Spelldrive practice.
He was disgustingly wrong. If it weren't for your nosey personality and your persistence he has no idea how he would be able to push through this without your comforting presence beside him. This is, and he's sure, the worst of it.
"You don't hafta do this," he mumbles feverishly. "I didn't ask ya to."
You take your time wringing out a new cloth.
"You don't need to," you finally murmur. "I'm sure as a prince you were given everything you wanted without needing to ask for it, and then you probably thought you were above help. That asking for it is a sign of weakness, and I'm here to tell you it's not. There's nothing wrong with letting the people who care for you help you out every once in a while."
There's a high chance Leona stopped listening many minutes ago, but your words bring you comfort as well. All is quiet in the Savanaclaw dorm with the only audible sounds being Leona's heavy breathing and the sound of your voice weaving stories to help yourself stay awake.
Cold compresses are placed and replaced until all the ice in the bowl has melted away.
✦ 𓆣 ✦
In the past twenty-four hours, Leona's been force-fed soup, threatened with a cone, and fought back a fever so vicious he was expecting to die at any moment.
His head is still pounding and his right nostril is still blocked but at least he isn't dizzy anymore and his body doesn't feel nearly as hot as it did last night. The worst of it is over. A look to his left told him that you had fallen asleep with a cold (now warm) compress still in hand.
He looks at you for a long while, memorizing the hypnotic rhythm of the rise and fall of your chest as you sleep. Fragments of your stories from last night make their way into his mind, but he can't remember too much of what you said. Gently, he plucks the cloth from you, his hand grazing yours in just the slightest way.
You're warm now, and so unlike how you felt just several hours ago, but you're not feverish. You're just...warm.
"Leona?" you ask groggily, eyes barely open.
Looking at you, he felt his heart throb with. Well, something.
Whatever it is, he had an inkling of a feeling that it's unrelated to his illness. But that, he thinks, is something that he can figure out after a long, warm, much-needed shower. Plus, he needs to make sure he hadn't gotten you sick too.
thinking abt SMYT and how during my research on royal hunts i came across a passage that talked about how the conclusions to those hunts were usually depicted w/ the hunting of a lion. (there is a lot of lion imagery in a lot of papers i came across).
if the lion is the king of the jungle, then conquering one meant you (the king) were the indisputable lord of the land, your power unmatched, your right to rule unchallenged. rook obviously wouldn't be interested in such a superficial thing but considering his past i feel like it's strangely & accidentally poetic.
Feral rook lives rent free in my brain. Art based on @lowerstart awesome fanfic of my favorite love maniac. She has a whole series for twisted wonderland please check them out!
i’ll be taking a break from writing/uploading for the next 2 weeks as i’ll be on vacation! feel free to send me requests or qs as i will answer them when i return. take care of yourselves <33
synopsis: It was your birthday, and so it was only natural that Kalim threw you the biggest party of your life. Things get hectic and you end up leaving to get some fresh air. Leona is right behind you—to give you your gift of course!
a/n: wrote this a while ago on my birthday & thought i'd share!
It was your birthday, and so it was only natural that Kalim threw you the biggest party of your life.
Between the acapella performance of several exotic birds that cost thrice over a single kidney and the tables and tables of delicious food and dessert in every direction, you couldn’t possibly fathom how Kalim’s parties could get more extravagant until you were told by a disheveled Jamil that you hadn’t even seen the worst of it. He had cited the Asim family’s tiger’s birthday party last year, held at their estate, and shivered unconsciously as he mentioned it, as though the mere memory itself sent a sour taste running through his veins.
Jamil had wrangled the birds from their cages and was conducting them in an effortless fashion to perform a rendition of the classic Happy Birthday song with what feels like the entirety of Night Raven College singing along. You could pick out most of your classmates' voices if you focused.
Riddle and Vil were difficult to hear since they were precisely on key, unsurprisingly. Deuce and Ace seemed to be in silent competition over whose voice was better, each growing louder and louder with each verse. Epel, deciding it was safer not to be the tie-breaker, chose to focus on not slipping back into his country accent as he sang. They sang a different version of the song back home and he was trying his best to avoid mistakes, lest Vil take notice.
Grim’s lyrics were muffled as he was already helping himself to one of the cakes on the side (there were several, of course) with Trey half-singing to you and half-reprimanding Grim on eating before you had even cut the first slice of the main cake.
(Not to mention the song hadn’t even concluded.)
Ruggie was helping himself to fifths and had a jovial skip to his step between each of the buffet tables as he, too, sang to you. Jamil had spent at least twenty-four hours alone preparing the food and Ruggie was not about to let a single morsel go to waste.
Jack shoved a whole tissue box in Rook’s direction, his tail beating back and forth behind him. Rook had taken the box from him without taking his eyes off of you and belted the lyrics straight into the tissue he was using to blow his nose. Birthdays are rather special after all; you only turn every age once, and the next one always comes sooner than you think.
The flash of Cater and Ortho’s cameras were directed towards you. One for pictures and the other for a video to capture every moment the night had to offer.
Later, when you go to look back at the photos, they are utterly Idia-less and you begin to think he never showed up. Until you spot him cartoonishly tip-toeing in one of the photograph’s corners to place his gift for you on the designated table without anyone noticing. Mission failed; Cater and Ortho never miss a single thing.
You didn’t know students at Diasomnia all too well but Kalim had insisted they invite them anyway. Unlike Idia however, they did not attend. Though Jamil surmises something happened to the invitation along the way. Perhaps sending the invite via carrier pigeon wasn’t the best way after all…
You could pick out Floyd’s voice from miles away, which wasn’t even a difficult task since he was singing so incredibly loud and off-key that he was throwing one of the macaws off its rhythm. Jamil argued with him while simultaneously attempting to conduct the birds. An impossible task, but impressive he was attempting anyway.
Jade remained unfazed with a polite smile on his face, and you could see his glinting eye in the dark of the room. Beside him, Azul’s gaze would shift to the cake and then back to your face several times, as if the cake was his temptress and he was trying his best to remain pious.
Kalim clapped along, oblivious to the chaotic tune but arguably the happiest of the bunch.
It all felt terribly awkward, like it always does when you’re the center of attention and don’t quite know what to do. You’re not really sure if anyone in the world knows what to do when people sing you Happy Birthday. But you supposed mouthing every other verse with a huge smile plastered on your face was enough.
Just as the song concluded, you looked over to the corner where you knew Leona was, and he had but a single second to absorb the way the shadows framed your face and memorize your grin, bright enough to rival the candles, before you blew them out and plunged the room into night.
The room promptly erupted into whistles and cheers and claps and you feel full and happy and utterly grateful.
The lights turn on, you cut the cake, slices of dessert are passed around, and the festivities continue as students laugh and eat and dance and chatter.
Except, the festivities seem to have forgotten that they need to end too.
At a certain point, you’ve laughed until your lungs threatened to collapse, eaten your fill and plenty more, danced to the point of your legs giving out from under you, and chattered until your mouth ran dry and refused to rehydrate itself. And the party still showed no sign of stopping, much less slowing.
Scarabia’s stamina should be scientifically studied because maintaining these energy levels while keeping guests entertained is absolutely impossible. Any time someone would even whisper they are thinking about retiring for the evening, Kalim would announce some wonderful game and the party would start right back up again.
You were having fun, but at a certain point it all becomes too much. The lights are too blinding, the body heat is too stifling, and music and conversation become difficult to separate. Your feet begin to slow and betray you and your stomach cannot handle another crumb.
It was nearly two in the morning and the acapella birds were flying around the room in disorienting circles and there were multiple students screaming about droppings on their outfits. At some point, Kalim left and re-entered riding an elephant, which promptly took up half the room and left you fighting against the horde of students who rushed closer, wanting to ride the elephant themselves. You’re not even sure how the animal fit in the room.
Is it rude to leave your own party?
Surely no one would notice if you slip out.
“Bye guys, thank you so much for the party,” you say to no one in particular and much too quietly for anyone to hear.
The thrum of the speakers ebbs away as you leave Scarabia’s dorm room. You practically float down the hall, your mind driving out the music and focusing instead on your footfalls. It’s significantly cooler outside the dorm, the temperature dropping by several degrees on account of there being no sweaty student bodies attempting a mosh pit pressed up against you.
Also, no elephant.
“Hey! Where’re ya goin’?”
Although, there is a certain lion.
You whirl around and nearly splatter against Leona’s vest. He was much closer than you realized. In his hands is a rather large, rather long gift wrapped in orange and black polka dotted paper. The music is still audible from here and you could see the lights in the room flashing various colors from the open door.
Your voice is surprisingly steady when you reply. “I’m just, uh, getting some fresh air.” You gesture in the general direction of away from the party.
“Ah,” Leona says simply.
Leona never exactly asks to tag along, nor do you invite him, but the two of you end up walking in the same direction with the unspoken and mutual agreement of getting some fresh air binding the two of you together.
When the two of you are finally outside and the chilly night air erects goosebumps over your arm, you feel refreshed enough to properly break the silence. “I’m surprised you stayed at the party that long, Leona.”
“Me too.”
There’s a boatload of silence before you decide you should probably address the elephant in the room.
(Not the real elephant, which is in Scarabia's dorm, but the metaphorical elephant of the huge gift Leona is carrying around.)
“Who’s that for?” You point to the present curiously, eyeing it as if you could divulge the contents with your non-existent x-ray vision.
“Crowley, obviously.” A beat passes and Leona coughs. “That was a joke, clearly.”
“I think maybe you should work on your delivery.”
Leona rolls his eyes and shoves it in your hands. “Cool it, herbivore. I got ya somethin’ for your birthday. Who else’s would it be?”
The two of you sit down on a bench en route to Ramshackle to properly and unhurriedly unwrap your gift. With much difficulty, you turn the box in hand and give it a little shake. It’s heavy, but the weight is unevenly distributed.
“Who wrapped this?” You ask, because whoever did so definitely mastered the impossible art of neat gift-wrapping. Also, because the longer you waited to open the gift, the harder Leona’s tail thrashed in anticipation. And you thought that was extremely amusing and very endearing.
“Me.”
You give Leona a look.
“Okay, okay! Sheesh, you got me. Ruggie and Jack also helped.”
You try to suppress a smile but fail miserably, and give into a laugh that mutates into snorts that have you gripping your aching sides. “H-how many N-night Raven College students…” you manage between huffs, “does it take to wrap a gift?!”
Leona stands up and the gift is promptly ripped from your hand. He holds it high above his head and definitively out of your reach. Your laugh stops immediately and you stand up.
“Keep talkin’ like that and I’ll just take the gift back,” he taunts, a mischievous smile playing on the corner of his lips as he looks down on you.
“Hey! Wait stop, I didn’t mean it!!”
The most surprising thing isn’t that it took three Night Raven College students to wrap a gift, but that Leona Kingscholar had asked for help to wrap your gift.
Leona doesn’t lower the gift by a fraction and instead holds your gaze steady, smirk becoming more evident by a minute.
You sigh and take a deep breath.
“Pretty please Housewarden Leona sir, I would like the gift back on account that it is mine and not Crowley’s and also I am very truly sincerely sorry for what I said. Your wrapping skills are exquisite and I wish to become your humble student and learn your ways if you would accept me.”
“Ugh, total overkill. Okay, whatever,” Leona scoffs. “Here ya go.”
He practically drops the gift on your head before taking a seat back on the bench. His ears twitch as he watches you unwrap the gift. Unlike the many underclassmen he’s seen on Christmas and other such holidays, you don’t immediately start ravaging the paper apart to get to the good stuff.
Instead, he looks on as you try your best not to tear the wrapping apart, taking your time to ensure you’re unwrapping the gift in the order he taped it in. You start on the side, your finger wedging itself beneath the tape and slowly but surely peeling it off before repeating the motion on the other side of the box, and so on and so forth.
Leona is not familiar with this particular method of unwrapping gifts. He’s seen Cheka tear through the paper with teeth alone, plundering past to reveal its treasures. It’s not a very time-efficient strategy, but nevertheless Leona found himself feeling a sort of fondness for the way you handle even the silliest things with such care.
It makes him wonder if you would treat him the same.
Tug too hard on even the sturdiest and thickest of paper and it, too, will tear. But you peel back layer by layer without aggression or hurry. You make gentleness look effortless, patience instinctive, as if you had all the time in the world to sit beside Leona under an increasingly starry sky.
“C’mon, I don’t have all night,” Leona grumbles, his tone lacking any real bite. “Why bother with something you’re just gonna toss in the end anyway?”
“I dunno,” you shrug. “Because you took the time to wrap it?”
It was well past two in the morning now, the birthday party a distant memory blurred by the kind of peace only night can bring. A light breeze blows past the two of you and it ripples through the wrapping paper, held firmly in Leona’s hands so it doesn’t fly away.
You stare at the shiny broomstick in awe. It’s made of dark wood and is slicker than sleek. The broom bristles are shiny and uniform, not a twig out of place. On the handle is your name engraved in cursive lettering, beside it, a star.
“It’s a new model,” Leona explains. “I imbued it with my magic so that you, magicless as you are, could ride it too. You're gonna have to come back so I can cast the spell again but it probably beats having to walk back to Ramshackle all the time.”
He’s over-explained, Leona thinks to himself. He can’t help it; he’s just not sure if you like it or not. Your reaction is puzzling: your mouth is clamped shut and your eyes are unblinking.
Maybe you didn’t like it? Or someone had already somehow given you the exact same thing?
Oh no.
Maybe you were afraid of heights!
Leona’s mind had jumped through several hoops, but the truth was it wasn’t any of those things. You were simply trying your best to gather your words without bursting into tears. Even Leona has his limits.
It was probably the most thoughtful gift anyone had ever given you.
Don’t cry, don't cry, don't cry, DON’T cry.
“Listen, if you don’t like it I can—”
“No,” you interrupt, placing your hand on his arm. “I love it. It’s perfect.”
Leona’s glad his heart is firmly welded into his chest, because otherwise it probably would have skipped right over to you. He can feel it thrum in his ears, echoing your very words throughout every vein.
I love it. It’s perfect.
“It looks big enough to fit two people. Can you take me for a ride on it?”
Leona’s heart seemed to stop beating entirely.
Can he take you for a what on what.
It’s true that the broom fits two people, but Leona didn’t consider himself into the equation when he commissioned it to be made. He had a cat in mind but it wasn’t him; it was Grim.
You hold the broom out to him with such sincerity, eyes full and twinkling like the stars above, sure he would never deny you. Not when the weather is so nice and clear. And certainly not on your birthday.
How right you are.
After crumbling the wrapping paper to dust and ensuring his heart had re-started, Leona tentatively takes the broom from your hand and swings his leg over the handle, just below your engraved name. You stand behind him and do the same without hesitation. Watching Vargas teach Flight class meant you spent a good chunk of your time observing and subconsciously internalizing what to do and what not to do, as well as the techniques and habits of various students.
For example, you knew that Leona likes to take off very quickly. Which is why you make sure to wrap your hands around his torso and hold on tightly.
Because you don’t want to fall off obviously.
By now Leona’s heart had gotten used to stopping and restarting, but his body had still stiffened just the slightest bit under your touch nevertheless. Leona kicks off the ground without waiting a further moment and the two of you take to the sky in a blur. You hold on even more tightly, if that was even possible, and fight back the scream lodged in your throat.
Half-sure your soul had taken flight and left your body back on the ground, you dare to glance down. Only, your body isn’t there. The familiar roads back to Ramshackle are grains of pepper to season the wide expanse of wilderness before you. The castle, framed by the night sky and wispy clouds, is even more magnificent from up here, and hauntingly beautiful. If you reached out right now, perhaps you would be able to touch the roof tiles?
Your hands stay firmly lodged in their place, wound around Leona and resting on his abdomen. They would not obey you even if you commanded them, in fear that letting go would also mean falling down. This was your first time on a broomstick after all. It would take some practice before you would be able to do this on your own.
Still, flying by yourself sounds a bit lonely. You also think it would also be significantly less warm. Your cheeks, stinging from the cold rush of wind, had found warmth in Leona’s back, so you leave your face buried there even as Leona begins to slow for the descent.
Ramshackle grows larger in your vision. You can see the warped iron fence, the splintered wood, and the crumbling chimney of the house you call home. It does look better on the inside, you remind yourself.
You wish you could say the landing went smoothly but it definitely didn’t and it was entirely your fault.
You feel brave enough, or maybe stupid enough, to extend your feet, thinking the ground to still be further away. Unfortunately, your feet skid the two of you to a forceful stop, and the broomstick violently jerks the two of you off its handle before landing soundlessly on the floor.
You scream as you land on something squishy and Leona lets out a pained oof sound.
“S-sorry Leona! That was my fault.”
“Geroff me!” Leona calls from below you. Maybe a few months ago he would have shoved you off without a care, but now he waits for you to prop yourself up on your hands and stand up before he does the same.
Picking the blades of grass off you, you let out a groan when you see they’ve left a stain of green in their wake. “Aw man! This was my special birthday outfit!”
“You always have next year.”
You smack him playfully and throw the grass you collected on his shirt. “You’re horrible.”
“I know, but you love it.”
“Yeah, I do.”
A silence overtakes the two of you, and the metaphorical elephant in the room has never been larger.
It’s strange, this silence. In its stillness it seems to amplify other senses. The scent of Leona’s cologne is still present in the air, even after a very thrilling broom ride. Leona can smell a hint of frosting on your own breath, and hear the pumping of your heart alongside his.
Would they get louder if he stepped closer?
They do, and the heartbeats quicken in sync. The smell of cologne and frosting is stronger now, mingling in the small space between his lips and yours.
You can’t think—you won’t. If not now, then it won’t be ever. Your heels lift and you press a kiss to Leona’s lips, lingering just long enough for you to feel him kissing back. His hand winds around your neck and his fingers intertwine themselves in your hair to push you closer, deeper.
It’s three in the morning, maybe almost four. You left your birthday party early and spent ten minutes unwrapping a single gift. You soared through the sky and tumbled down onto the ground and you kissed Leona Kingscholar with grass stains in your shirt and frosting on your tongue.
You’re a year older now; maybe not quite wiser. But you made it through yet another year, and that is a feat worth celebrating.
synopsis: A slow day at the Saragi Anti-Maga Organization gives you and Ryu the opportunity to chat.
tags: gn!reader, hair braiding (his), drinking, reader implied to have longish hair, referenced alcoholism, fluff w/ a side of angst
wc: 2.4k
Nestled in a back alley of Gokurakugai is the Saragi Anti-Maga Organization, where something is always happening somewhere. Endless reports need to be filed, injured members need to be tended to, inventions need constant tinkering.
You ate, lived, and breathed the Organization to the point where you've become desensitized to the smell of sweat and blood and metal which permeate the air too frequently.
Very rarely is there ever a slow day, and yet you find yourself utterly devoid of things to do.
Your legs are thrown over the couch’s arm, your shirt riding up. The lobby is filled only with the faint sound of you half-heartedly humming some improvised tune you’ll soon forget.
Numbness and exhaustion commingle to the point where the two are indistinguishable from one another. You watch the occasional organization member scurry to and fro with unfocused eyes stubbornly refusing to surrender to slumber.
This space smells like books, and so unlike the rest of the other rooms, somber and sterile as they are. In this moment’s silence, the scent of old paper from the bookshelves behind you cradles your senses.
It’s hard but you try to savor these moments of quiet. New information can arrive at any moment, unflinching as it upends the world.
The lanterns mounted on the wall emit a golden glow, shadows dancing in the dark underground. The warm ambiance does little in the fight against your drowsiness. Fleetingly, you think that perhaps you could go to the medical wing and beg Miss Kisabe to let you take a quick nap in an unused bed.
Or better yet, give you a job to do. It’s better than wallowing here.
But the sight of Ryu Seno lumbering towards you jerks you back to reality. One hand carries his sheathed katana, the other, a bottle of Junmai Ginjo sake. Nonetheless, his gait is steady.
With nearly dizzying speed, you swing your legs back into propriety and sit up straight, hands quickly patting your mussed shirt back into place.
Should you stand up entirely?
Ryu’s personality may be one of perpetual indifference, and his appearance might not be one that conveys the utmost formality, but he is still your superior.
“S-Seno sir!” you greet.
“‘S no need for all that. It’s just me,” he says, cocking a brow and placing the bottle on the coffee table. “Ryu’s fine.”
Your lashes flutter as he takes his place beside you and kicks his feet up to rest beside the sake, a light, fruity smell caressing your nose. Apple? It’s hard to place, but whatever it is, it beats the pungent smell that usually accompanies Ryu Seno.
Not that you’re one to judge. A life fighting Maga is demanding and draining. He’s nearly twelve years your elder and in the decades he’s spent working for the Organization, you can’t begin to imagine the gore and bone he’s had to brush off to prioritize a mission. The comrades he’d been forced to watch be torn apart, helpless in thwarting death.
Shit, give it a few more years and you’ll probably be a full-blown alcoholic too.
“Ryu, then,” you acquiesce. With the casual way he sat beside you, head tipped to rest on the back of the couch, you’re not sure what to say beyond that. Your hands rest awkwardly on your knees.
“You’re lookin’ a little stiff…” Ryu notes. “Do you want some?” he asks, already grabbing his bottle.
“No, I couldn’t possibly. Besides, I didn’t think you were the type to share alcohol,” you spout. Immediately, you slap your hands to cover your mouth. Red blooms on your cheeks. “I’m so sorry Seno sir—”
“Ryu.”
“—I didn’t mean it like that. I only meant that this bottle looks expensive. I heard you received some as payment for training that red-haired kid. I just don’t want you wasting it on me, that’s all.”
“Yeesh, you really do seem tense.” Ryu scratches his untrimmed beard. It looks rough and scratchy, unlike the silky ebony of his hair. The cool glass of the bottle is pressed to your hand before you can argue further, light condensation dripping to your fingers. “It’s not a waste. I finished those bottles ages ago anyway,” he says, motioning for you to take a sip directly from the spout.
Tentatively, you uncork the bottle. Pop! The faint smell of something sweet hits your senses once more. It’s not apple, you’re sure. Maybe melon? That doesn’t seem quite right either.
Ryu’s eyes drag their way up, following the curve of the bottle to the curve of your lips as they open and take a swig. He licks his lips, perhaps imagining himself swallowing some of the sake. You choke and cough, underestimating the acute sting of alcohol on your tongue that singes your esophagus as you swallow.
Ryu’s calloused hand is slapping your back seconds later. “Easy now!”
Your body gives an involuntary shudder but you’re not sure whether it’s from the sake or from Ryu’s touch. His palm, still lingering between your shoulder blades, feels like it’s burning a hole right through your collared shirt. As if choking in front of Ryu wasn’t embarrassing enough, the fiery sensation in your throat leaves you watery-eyed.
Before you could dab at your eyes with your sleeve, you feel Ryu’s hand leave your back and extend towards your face. Rough, calloused fingers wipe the tear that had escaped your lashes. The pads of his thumb linger longer than necessary, caressing your cheek.
Has he always been so…gentle?
As if just now becoming aware of your close proximity, Ryu clears his throat. His palm, hot against your face, makes for the bottle of sake in your hand.
“I guess you don’t drink often then?” At your nod, he adds, “Probably for the best.”
He takes a gulp so smooth he could’ve convinced you he was drinking water. You have to drag your transfixed eyes away from his bobbing Adam’s apple.
“Mm, that’s the stuff,” he murmurs.
You sit that way for a while, with him taking the occasional gulp between casual conversation. Eventually, you take the sake from him and try another sip. This time, you’re prepared for the burning sensation.
You relish the way his index grazes your pinkie every time the two of you pass the bottle around.
He’s not much of a talker, really, but he makes a surprisingly good listener. You speak of trivial things: what you had for breakfast, who you bumped into today, what sorts of things Yoki has been working on.
“I miss the sun,” you say suddenly. Ryu simply hums, indicating for you to elaborate.
“I don’t know, I guess I just feel like I spend too much time here underground. It’s not like I never leave, but even when I go to town I can’t really”–You pass the half-empty sake bottle to Ryu–“enjoy it. It’s always, ‘Hey, can you kill this Maga? It killed five of your coworkers by the way,’ or ‘Hey, we received a report in some shady alley and we need you to check it out.’ I feel like a mole puppet following orders.
“I want a day off. I want the sun. I want to feel the tingle of heat on my face. I don’t care if my skin starts peeling or if I have embarrassing tan lines.” You take a breath, and Ryu takes the opportunity to quaff the sake before passing it to you. “I want a break. I want the beach. I want warm sand under my feet. I want air that doesn’t smell like iron and rot.”
You find the rant spilling from your mouth feels like it’s taking a heavy weight off your chest with every word. Your brain is buzzed despite the fact that your sips are small and borderline ascetic. Ryu, having a higher tolerance, is mainly the one drinking. But it feels good to pass something around; it’s rhythmic.
Maybe that’s why you’re finding it so easy to talk.
Ryu’s expression is tinctured with some level of disbelief. He’s never seen you like this before. Actually, this might be the first time he’s ever seen you sit down.
Usually you’re as stiff as a board. Your bows to your superiors are deeper than they need to be, your language is overly formal to the point where his own superiors are learning new words. Every time he sees you you’re following orders, always doing something.
You’re coping, he realizes. You’re coping by overworking and your body will soon break. If not your body, then your mind. It’s not healthy.
But he’s not one to talk. He drinks and he naps and he complains. He buys alcohol, he gets gifted alcohol, his preferred method of payment is alcohol. He guzzles and quaffs sake and beer and shochu alike just to keep the thoughts away.
He sleeps excessively, sure. But he drinks before bed, and when he wakes up his hand reaches for the bottle sometimes before he even reaches for his sword.
He’s not some divine, perfect being.
He’s no saint.
And maybe that’s why, instead of saying something and making himself a hypocrite, his hand only reaches out to take the bottle from your hand.
You don’t resist. You only look him in the eye as he does so, and it nearly steals his breath away. Your gaze is captivating and comforting. It’s real and raw and true and you.
Your pupils are blown wide open and black, your eyes half-lidden and on him as if he is the only person in the whole world. Your cheeks are flushed red from the sake and the warmth of the ambiance. He runs a hand through his dark hair, the front pieces too short to be slicked back falling back into place.
Have you always looked this way?
“I–” he starts.
“Can I braid your hair?” you blurt.
Ryu’s eyes widen, his mouth opening and closing as if he was having trouble processing the words that came out of your mouth. He runs a hand through his long hair again, the lanterns on the wall making the silver streaks glisten like quartz caught in light. He clears his throat, pivoting entirely. “Sure, what the hell. Sounds nice.”
He sits on the floor between your knees, his broad back forcing them to open a little wider than you normally would. You’re glad he can’t see you because your hands tremble as you gather up his hair. His neck flinches when your fingers brush over it, and you fight a shudder of your own, suddenly all too aware of the preposterously intimate situation you’ve landed yourself in.
Had a demon possessed you, or were you really that desperate for things to do? This is no proper task. Your superior is sitting between your legs with your hands combing through his hair. This is improper. You’re way out of line. This feels like a violation, a breach of order, torture of the highest degree.
So why does it feel so good?
And your head is so clear, so quiet. You can hear your heart thump in your chest and Ryu’s steady breathing, bodily rhythms holding you in place.
You separate his hair agonizingly slowly, mindful that the three sections should be even. You start to braid, the strands rippling like a black satin ribbon whose ends pool through your fingers. It’s not overly oily or greasy, you’re surprised to find. It’s actually very healthy, minus a few dead ends. You’re a little jealous.
A hiccup escapes you. Ryu answers with a chuckle. His deep voice resonates in your stomach, and you unconsciously tighten your knees around his shoulders.
You take it back. You wish you could see his face right now, discomfiture be damned.
“Shut up,” you hush instead.
“I didn’t even say anything,” he quips. He likes how you touch his hair. You’re a little out of practice he can tell, but your rustiness makes you even gentler.
“You can pull harder y’know?” he says, voice low. “I can take it, I promise.”
You can practically hear the smile plastered on his lips. You tug his braid harshly, forcing his head to tilt back.
“Ow! Ow ow ow. Ow. Okay, okay, I get it!” he surrenders. “‘M never offering you alcohol again.”
Fighting the smile tugging on your own lips, you focus your attention back on the nearly-finished braid in your hands. Ryu holds up his hand, hair tie on his wrist, before you even say anything. Lest his braid and your hard work be undone, you pry it off with one hand and finish the braid.
Placing a hand on your knee, Ryu turns around. The most sincere thank you leaves him, and you’re sure you’ve died somewhere between accepting that drink and now.
Your face flares. The shorter parts of his hair frame his face, silver streaks partially covering his eye. He’s looking up at you just slightly, and you realize you’ve never seen him this close before. His prominent cheekbones, his downturned eyes, the curve of his lips. Your noses are nearly touching. You almost stop breathing.
Then it hits you.
“Pear,” you whisper, breaking the spell.
Not apple or melon.
You giggle.
With a groan, Ryu stands up. “You’re getting delirious. You need to rest.”
Heaviness suddenly drags your eyelids downward. It feels good to close them.
Ryu fights the urge to stroke your cheek with his thumb, instead taking his seat back down beside you on the couch. Eyes still closed, you feel him shift so that his shoulder is beside you.
Wordlessly, you give in, your chin resting on his shoulder. It’s comfortable and perfect, like it was always meant to be there. He strokes your hair, promising to return the favor sometime.
You dream you’re on a beach. You’re laying on warm sand, courtesy of the sun. The temperature is sublime.
Only Ryu sits beside you. He’s wearing his usual black samue for some reason, but his katana is nowhere to be seen. You try to joke about his outfit choice.
This is the beach, you say. We don’t have to work anymore.
He laughs and says something you don’t hear. It makes you want to laugh too though.
A breeze blows by, carrying the scent of salt and ocean. If you turn your head a little, you can smell the slightest hint of pear too.
| ✦ |
a/n: i need more content of this guy, like, yesterday
✦ catboy!higuruma who slips his tail under the hem of your pant leg at the dinner table and pretends nothing is happening. it tickles a little, and you have to fight a shiver as he curls it around your calf
✦ catboy!higuruma likes to stay close and runs warm. during the summertime, you practically have to pry him off you. who knew he could be so clingy? but with the way he kneads his palm against your side and hums in that low voice of his, you can't complain. the sound reverberates so delightfully in your lower stomach
✦ catboy!higuruma is rough. he can't help when his claws come out. you just feel so good. when he has you pinned down on the bed, mercilessly thrusting back and forth, you can always tell when he's close because you feel a prick on your body where his nails are, his tail finding its way back to your calf. most times, you're too lost in the delicious way his rhythm fractures as the two of you near an orgasm to care. and afterwards? you still don't care. those scratches are a fucking badge of honor
✦ catboy!higuruma runs his tongue all over your body and adores watching goosebumps break out over your flesh. since he's a hybrid, his tongue isn't exactly as rough as sandpaper, but it's definitely a different feeling, equally wet and rough against your soft skin
✦ catboy!higuruma likes taking his time snaking his tongue up and down your body. your clit is always left swollen, abused, but it is your thighs that receive special attention, and only because your reaction is just so vocal with need. close, but not close enough to the heat between your legs. when you inevitably use his name to chastise him, it only makes him want to do it more. you're tugging on his hair and pulling him closer, even as you so sweetly cry "higuruma, please" - or, his favorite, "higuruma, fuck me"
✦ speaking of "higuruma, fuck me", catboy!higuruma would like to clarify he is not one of those dirty dogs who follow commands blindly, slobbering all over the place. but he's not above following those specific orders. so long as you're the one giving them
✦ catboy!higuruma doesn't let anyone touch his ears or tail, except you. it's too vulnerable, too sensitive. after a long day of work, he'll come home, plop himself down on the couch beside you, and lay his head on your lap. your hands move automatically, massaging that one spot behind his ear that always elicits a purr. you know him so well
synopsis: Sukuna falls ill and you have no choice but to take matters into your own hands. Time to pull your trusty oven mitts out!
tags: sickfic, non-sexual nudity, some innuendos, fever, covert administration of medication, gender-neutral reader, true-form sukuna, sfw, referenced plug!choso, handcuffs (yes, you read that right) (no, they're not used in that way) (hehe)
wc: 3.8k
He blames you, by the way.
Sukuna’s sitting criss-cross on the floor of your room. You lean over him and try to keep your hand steady. To your pleasure, he looks positively sour from the fact that he was bullied into this.
“Ith becauth you made out with my thtomach-mouth. You’re tho greedy,” Sukuna leers, his mouth busy with a thermometer.
“First of all, shut the fuck up I’m trying to take your temperature.” You huff, and pop the instrument out of his mouth. “Secondly, I did not make out with it, I just gave it a little kiss, that’s all!”
“Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart.”
“Thirdly, you told me you don’t ever get sick.” You look at the reading. Your jaw drops. “ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY? Either this thermometer is broken or you’re genuinely a demon straight from hell.”
Well…
“I told you I run hot.” Sukuna chuckles and flexes his arms. His aggravating bravado crumbles with a forceful sneeze, and you fight the urge to pummel him further with a verbal assault. Instead, being the kind and gorgeous angel you are, you grab him a tissue. Which he doesn’t even say thank you for.
The tables have turned quite viciously. Arguably, Sukuna getting sick is worse for you than for him. He’s not the type to rest in bed when he feels ill or make a doctor’s appointment unprompted. Not that you think Sukuna going to the doctor would be a particularly good idea!
No matter how high they scored on the MCAT, what their specialization is, or how many years they’ve been practicing medicine, the experience and knowledge of even the world’s greatest doctor would dissipate on the spot the second they spotted Ryoumen Sukuna in all his snotty, four-armed glory—Hippocratic Oath be damned.
Even if they managed to plant their feet on the ground, you’re not too sure if modern medical technology could handle him. The simple cuff of a sphygmomanometer wouldn’t even be able to wrap around his thick bicep, and nurses can forget completely about drawing his blood since his skin is thicker than an elephant’s.
Frankly, you don’t trust him to take initiative on his own, especially since he spent a whole day trying to convince you (or maybe himself) that no, he isn’t sick, no, his congestion is only a result of allergies to your grapefruit-scented bath, and no, he does not need to take medication because he’s Ryoumen Sukuna, which you’re meant to believe means he’s immune to anything and everything under the sun.
Which leaves you in charge.
It’s not that you don’t mind taking care of him. Actually, it's a fantastic opportunity to get back at him for all the weird shit he said and did to you when you were sick. It’s just that Sukuna is still an arrogant prick, which means he’s in an even fouler mood now that his nose is plugged and is teetering on the precipice of a temperature so high, you’re half-sure he’s going to burst into flames at any second.
At least you know where the fire extinguisher is.
He’s meaner than usual and clingier than ever, which seems like two contradictory things, but you think this is just his way of trying to regain a sense of control. Harsh words in one moment, then bone-crushing embraces. Cruel pinches are followed by soft murmurs in your ear, whispering sweet words of praise that threaten the collapse of your lungs that had only just recently recovered from the onslaught of illness.
Classic Sukuna.
Having depleted your fridge and pantry in the week you were sick, you needed to go grocery shopping desperately or risk the full wrath of a sick and hungry Sukuna in the near future. The faint aroma of fruit from last night lingers on your skin as you get dressed in a fresh set of new clothes.
Still sitting cross-legged with his head tipped back on your bedding, Sukuna closes his eyes and tries to command his nose not to whistle every time he exhales.
“Okay Kuna, I’m gonna head out now,” you tell him, grabbing your keys from your dresser. “I’ll be back in a bit.”
“Hah,” he laughs, much more cruelly than he should. He looks you up and down. You cross your arms, ready for it. “Got any shirts that aren’t children’s cartoons?”
“There’s nothing wrong with Scooby Doo,” you say, calmly. “But I do have, uhhh…let’s see…” Clothes rustle softly, hangers clinking, as you rummage through your closet.
“Aha! I have an old band shirt!”
You hold the proof up for him to inspect.
“Who the fuck is that?”
“You don’t know AC/DC?”
“Rest assured, I know my letters,” Sukuna huffs. “I prefer real shit like with biwa and koto. You know, traditional court m—why the hell are you laughing.”
You clap your hands over your mouth, keys jingling, but your traitorous giggles still escape through.
“I just mean like, of course you do. You’re probably ancient.”
“Excuse me?”
You put your shirt back, fighting another smile. “You heard me. Ancient. Haggard. A relic.”
Sukuna’s response is interrupted by a string of rapid-fire sneezes that leave him disheveled and out of breath.
“And, oh look, you’re dying. Guess your old age is catching up to you!”
“Oh, spare me,” he spits, reaching for another tissue. He blows, loudly, and the sound echoes throughout the apartment. The walls shudder.
You snicker and make your way to the door. “Lemme know if you need anything!” you call.
Sukuna’s attempt to throw the used tissue at you is futile. It doesn’t make it far, simply dropping back on the ground three feet away from him. He clicks his tongue in exasperation before putting it in the trash.
On top of being mean and clingy, you discover Sukuna is also incessantly whiny and demanding when sick. Truly the best combination to test your ever-dwindling patience.
That’s okay though, because you’ve got a few tricks up your sleeve.
When you return, grocery bags in hand, Sukuna is right in front of the door, smelling it on you before you had even properly entered your apartment. Like some sort of bloodhound.
“Make me steak,” he commands.
His arms are crossed, which is probably meant to be some sort of intimidation tactic. Unfortunately for him, with his tired eyes and runny nose, the pose makes him look incredibly childish at this moment.
Your voice, feigned with disinclination, replies, “But you’re sick. Meat is no proper meal. Your diet should be liquid mostly, especially for the first few days.”
“Steak now. Or else.”
Or else what? you wanted to say. Gonna sneeze on me?
But you don’t. Because you were betting on this course of action.
With a flamboyant rolling of your eyes, you head to the kitchen to prepare the meat. Sukuna struts to the couch in the living room, lounging like a king expecting to be fed a five-star meal by his head chef and looking particularly pleased with himself.
Like basically every human on this planet, you like your meat cooked. Sukuna’s preferences are more abnormal, preferring his meat so red, it’s practically still raw. You aim for a rare steak, with the outside still darker and the inside still sodden with blood.
You carefully pry open the seal of the other item you bought, supplied, not by your local supermarket, but by your trustworthy and mutual friend Choso. In the past, he may have been simply your plug, but today he is surely your guardian angel.
Looking at the singular, red tear-shaped pill in the Ziplock bag, you’re not too sure what it is, but as perhaps one of the few people who didn’t even blink at Sukuna’s appearance, Choso seems to know more about your boyfriend’s origins than the average person.
In short, you trust him.
From the other room you hear the clashing sound of TV channels flipping, the occasional sneeze, and Sukuna groaning about how there’s nothing good these days.
Employing the same trick your college roommate had used on her finicky cat, though still not without a twinge of guilt, you crush the pill and stuff it into the steak sizzling on your pan.
You’re in front of him minutes later, holding the plate in your hand rather innocently.
“Finally,” he snarks. “Took you for-fucking-ever.”
You try to keep your mouth in a straight line as he tears into the meat, his eerily sharp canines thrashing. His tongue lashes out to lick the blood clean off his lips.
Sukuna suddenly draws back, all four eyes crinkled in repulsion.
“What the hell is this?”
His voice is low, crackling, accusatory.
Shit.
A beat of heavy silence strangles the room.
“This tastes like a big fat nothing. Did you even season it?”
He takes another bite, lips curling in dissatisfaction.
“Sukuna…” Your heart rate returns to baseline as the realization hits you. “You’re sick, remember?”
“I am well aware, you insolent pest! I’ve been feeling like shit all day, no thanks to you!”
“No, I mean you’ve probably just lost your sense of taste.”
Another moment of silence.
“Lost my sense of taste?” he repeats. His voice climbs uncharacteristically higher at the end.
You give a solemn nod.
He ponders it for a minute, then gives a defeated sigh that makes your heart twinge in sympathy.
“What’s the point of living anymore?” he whines. He devours the meat regardless.
Shoving his empty plate in your hand, Sukuna stands up, now sick of sitting and needing to stretch his legs. But he wobbles as he does so, his lower right hand shooting out to your shoulder for balance.
“You alright?” you ask.
He gives you a contemptuous look and opens his mouth—probably to say something rude and snarky, then goes weirdly silent. His nose twitches.
“Ah…” he starts.
“Ahhhhh…aaaaahhhhhh….”
You close your eyes and brace yourself, wishing you had some sort of umbrella.
“ACHOOOOOOOOOOO!!”
There’s a ripple of air from beneath Sukuna’s shirt as he sneezes hard with both mouths. A loud thud hits your ears, and you feel the building lurch beneath your feet—the force of two violent sneezes sending Sukuna toppling backwards to land on his ass, and causing yet another magnitude 10.0 earthquake.
In an attempt to hold back your laugh you bite down on your cheek so hard, you taste iron. His four eyes meet yours from below, widened. He sits there for several seconds. Blinking. Processing.
You can’t fight it anymore.
Your body shakes with mirth, eyes crinkling, hands gripping your aching sides, mouth peeling back in explosive laughter. “Are…” you try, voice wavering, “...are you okay?”
Recovering, Sukuna stands up hurriedly. His form towers over you, but you see his upper left arm raise to scratch the back of his neck. “I’m…it’s—Whatever!”
It’s probably the first and only time you’ve seen Sukuna at a loss for words, looking almost sheepish. For the four seconds it lasts, you savor it.
His upper left arm moves to rub his forehead. “I need to sleep,” he barks, recovering. “I’m going to lie on your bed. Don’t bother me…I don’t need another headache.”
The last thing you see is him lumbering to your room, left hand still rubbing his head. Your smile is faint, reserved, but there nonetheless.
| ✦ |
What’s in this? you had asked Choso.
It’s hard to explain, he replied calmly, handing you the clear bag. Just know, it’s gonna get worse before it gets better. And it’s sure as hell not gonna be pretty. You’re sure you’re up for it?
You nodded. If it’ll help him, I can handle anything.
Could you though?
You suppose that question doesn’t matter, because you have no choice but to.
Soggy oven mitts fit snugly on your hands, dunking a cloth into a bowl of ice-water. Wringing the water out, you’re sweating incessantly in the dead of night and wishing that you could dunk yourself in the bowl instead. And Sukuna’s not making your job any easier.
“Sukuna!” you cry out, trying to wrestle his arms away from his head. It’s futile. Drenched in sweat and deliriousness, he cannot hear you.
The bed creaks dangerously, crying out for you to save it—or put it out of its misery. Thrashing once more, Sukuna lets out a monstrous groan, eyes furrowed shut. The mouth on his stomach contorts into a pained snarl, teeth grinding.
He’d shed his clothes already, and he’d have torn the blanket off of him without your insistence that he needs to keep himself somewhat covered. Perhaps in his final shred of sanity, he’d given you this last grace before succumbing fully to the fever threatening to cook his brain.
Since Sukuna runs hot normally, his current state is comparable to a wildfire raging through a field of dead grass.
Hence the oven mitts.
One hour ago you made the mistake of touching his scorching forehead with your bare hands. You can still feel the lingering sting on them now, even though you had wrenched them backwards immediately.
“Stop fighting me!” you yell. Finding a gap between his swinging arms, you swap out the cloth on his forehead. You swear you can hear it sizzle.
Replacing the cloth is a full-body workout. Because his body temperature is so high, the water on the cloth cools within minutes, forcing you to keep replacing it over and over again. You do not have the luxury of taking a break.
His limbs lash out at you again. The black tattoos on his chest and stomach swell and surge in the dark, like treacherous sea ocean waves at the mercy of a hurricane. His upper right arm catches your side, stealing the breath from your lungs. You manage to snatch and replace the cloth. Grimacing, you toss the old one back in the cold water.
You are no match for him in this state. Four massive limbs attempting to make a swipe at your body? And a maw that tries to bite when you get too close?
Hell. No.
Unless…
Unless you manage to subdue him. Even if he had just one less arm and it would make your job easier.
You are suddenly hit with the realization that you do have some way to hold him back. It’s like a beam of light piercing through a sky wrapped in stormy clouds, and you’re right there in the center of it all, soaking in the ray of sun.
With a gasp you remember the pink, fuzzy handcuffs stashed in your closet that your friends gave you as a joke a few years ago. Sure this is definitely not what they’re intended for, but they’ll do the job just fine.
Somehow managing to find them in your zoo of a closet, the only real hurdle left is to clasp one manacle over his hand, loop it through the poles of your headboard, and clasp his other hand in the other manacle.
Easy peasy.
There’s a thunderous sound of something crashing behind you, and you whip around to see the oblique outline of your bed and Sukuna’s continued side-to-side thrashing.
The boards supporting your mattress had broken.
Knowing your mattress springs are probably next, you hasten. You peel off your sodden oven mitts, take a deep breath, and head back into battle.
Putting his upper right arm through one of the handcuffs was simple enough, but trying to loop the chain through your headboard earned you several smacks that were definitely going to bruise. Still you managed it somehow. Panting, you grip Sukuna’s upper left wrist, right where the black tattoo band is, and wrestle it into the second cuff.
Slicking your hair back, you take a moment to catch your breath. Sukuna’s upper arms’ thrashing is somewhat subdued, and your headboard seems to be holding on for the moment.
That’s good enough for you. At least now you can properly apply cold compresses.
| ✦ |
They are extremely high-quality handcuffs, surprisingly.
It’s still dark outside, but with the way the sky is slowly lightening, morning is surely on its way. Your eyes burn in protest from the hours you kept yourself awake, placing and replacing the cold cloths. You rub them with the back of your hand to no avail. Oven mitts lie somewhere on the floor of your room, discarded when Sukuna’s forehead had cooled to a temperature your flesh could tolerate.
The drip drip drip of water being squeezed out from the cloth in hand is the only sound in the room. His limbs had quelled their thrashing and Sukuna’s groans and grunts had fallen silent. His chest heaves up and down, up and down, quick and rhythmic.
As you move to replace the cloth on Sukuna’s forehead, one of his lower hands reaches out to grab your wrist. You watch his eyes flutter open, and you give him a weak smile. He loosens his hold instantly.
He goes to sit up, but finds resistance.
“What the—” He says, brows furrowed. He jerks his hands again, handcuff chains rubbing and clinking against the headboard. “What the hell is this?”
“Oh shit!” You’re wide awake now, jumping to unlock the cuffs. “You kept swinging your arms everywhere, I had to keep you down somehow.”
His lower arms rub the wrists of his undoubtedly sore upper ones. From the way he sits up, you can tell he’s still a little disoriented.
“You just came down from a fever,” you say. “Take it easy.”
“Oh,” he simply replies.
No retorts, no insults, no degradation.
He just looks at you with your tousled hair and your drooping eyelids and your pruney fingertips. With a grunt, he grabs ahold of your midsection and heaves you onto the bed beside him. Sukuna doesn’t say anything further. He only tosses his left arms over you to pull you closer.
“I don’t like seeing you like this,” you say, voice wavering. You fight a full-body shudder.
Sukuna’s voice is husky, low as he balances on the edge of sleep. “You’re not even sick and you’re frail just at the sight of me. It’s pitiful.”
You feel his forehead crease.
The arms encircling you tighten. Heat radiates from his body, his nose nuzzling deeper into the crook of your neck. You might be getting cooked alive, but it’s a hell of a nice way to die.
“It’s cute, too. In a pathetic sort of way,” he whispers against your skin, so quiet you almost miss it.
“The fever’s making you delirious…”
“Aww, don’t get all shy on me now sweetheart. You’re the one who put me in handcuffs.”
A soft kiss is pressed to your collarbone.
Then comes the sweet embrace of sleep.
| ✦ |
Sunlight streams through the gap in your blinds. You can feel the lopsidedness of your position from the damage done to your bedframe. You should probably get that fixed. Sukuna’s arms are still wrapped around you, his chin tucked into the space between your neck and your shoulder.
By the sound of his breathing, you can tell he’s already awake.
“How do you feel?” you ask sleepily, grazing your hands over his chest. He’s still warm, but definitely not as hot as he was earlier.
Whatever Choso had given you seemed to have worked, condensing whatever the full length of the illness might’ve been into a single night. It was undoubtedly horrible, but the two of you had survived.
“Like shit,” Sukuna mumbles, finally cracking open his eyes. His lashes tickle your neck.
You bring your hands up to run through his pink hair. With a groan, he tilts his head up to face you. The night had run him ragged. His face is slightly sunken, eyebags dark. You’ve never seen him look so ruined before.
He’s so…human.
“You should take a bath,” you whisper. “It helped me.”
All four of his eyes turn to you, a cocky grin tugging on his mouth. So early in the morning, and already so eager to taunt. As if he hadn’t basically fought for his life last night.
“Only if you help.”
You fight back a smile. “Mmm, but you have four arms,” you drag out. “It’s probably more efficient if you do it yourself.”
“‘S true but…” His upper right arm moves to your ear and pinches your lobe, earning him a glorious yelp. You smack his arm, rubbing the redness away. “I helped you out that day, so it’s only fair that you help me out. Hmm?”
“Selfish prick…” you mumble, tugging his hair. “I got walloped and saved your dumbass brain from being seared in its own juices. I need a bath too, y’know.”
An hour later and the two of you are in the bath together. The previous night had left you both drenched in sweat and desperate to rinse the feeling of illness from your bodies.
Sukuna prods at the various bruises he had unconsciously inflicted on your skin, smirking whenever you winced in pain. You smack his hands away, rubbing your soapy hands on his scalp. The scent of grapefruit lingers between your bodies.
You’re rubbing a loofah over Sukuna’s broad, tatted back when he suddenly says, “Guess I can get sick, but I get better all on my own too, huh?”
You stop scrubbing.
“Well, actually I snuck some medication Choso gave me into the meat you had earlier.” You say it straight, not bothering to soften your words or brace yourself.
There’s a pause.
Screaming, blood vessels threatening to burst, cursing, furious arm motions, snarling. All things you were expecting.
Instead Sukuna throws his head back and laughs.
“You’re a clever little brat, huh?” he cackles. Aggravated ripples in the water thrash with the movement. “How fun!”
This is what he loves most about you. You’re a loaded gun. It excites him that he’s never sure how many bullets you have in you, what kinds of ways you’ll surprise him.
Sometimes he likes to pull the trigger just to see what kind of bullet he’ll have to bite.
Though you’re glad it’s off your chest now, you can’t help but feel apprehensive about Sukuna’s glee.
“Do you wanna re-plan our breakfast date?” you pivot.
“Nah,” he says. “Let’s just have it here.”
You soak in the bath longer than squeaky-clean Sukuna, who left you to clean yourself since all your debts were paid and he had done his due diligence days ago. Your stomach grumbles hearing the sound of him making breakfast, so you hasten, throwing the first clean clothes you can find on and ambling towards the kitchen.
Sukuna whips up omelettes and smoothies for the two of you, and slides your plate and cup to you on the counter.
You love his omelettes, warm and fluffy and flavorful, with the perfect allowance for creativity. The green smoothie is a new recipe however, and you take a tentative sip.
It’s sweet and smooth.
“Huh, this tastes pretty good actually,” you say, taking another sip. “What is it?”
Avocado, milk, yogurt, and a touch of honey.
A devilish grin.
“Mucus milkshake.”
“You have two fucking seconds to run, Sukuna.”
| ✦ |
a/n: big fan of big buff men finding themselves helpless! this concludes schrodinger's illness, i hope you enjoyed it <3
synopsis: Once you notice your illness seeping in, it can't help but take hold. Sukuna is here to help (or make it worse, you're not too sure).
tags: sickfic, hurt/comfort, non-sexual nudity, some innuendos bc its sukuna, vomiting, fever, massages, gender-neutral reader, true-form sukuna, sfw
wc: 4k
You saw this coming from miles away.
It had been stressor after stressor after stressor after stressor, and yet each day when you awoke you tackled the challenges as they came.
“I cannot afford to get sick right now,” you repeated to yourself, over and over again. It was a way to force yourself to keep moving forward. If you think too hard about it, if you pay attention to the increasingly sluggish movement of your limbs and the relentless throbbing in your head, it becomes very, very real.
It’s like Schrodinger's illness.
I cannot afford to get sick right now.
But your body could only hold on for so long. You are only human after all.
You wake up in your apartment with your head throbbing and your body aching all over. These symptoms started a few days ago, slinking quietly like a predator stalking naive prey. It was a teensy migraine in the beginning, a crick in the neck. A mild inconvenience.
You envy the you from last week, buried too deeply in work to notice the sickness that had rooted itself in your body.
A groan that carries the weight of ten thousand souls leaves you as your eyes flutter back shut, desperate to restart the day on a healthier note.
I cannot afford to get sick right now.
You know it’s no use. So, succumbing to one of the only things you can do when you're ill, you pluck your phone off from your nightstand and unlock it to doomscroll. Which may or may not help you feel better.
A frightening chill takes hold of your bones as you look at your notifications and then the time.
72 missed calls from Sukuna.
26 missed Facetimes from Sukuna.
100+ messages from Sukuna.
12:50pm.
You were supposed to meet him for breakfast sometime a few hours ago—something you had planned for weeks.
Shit.
Then there’s a knock at your door. Although, to be truthful, knock is a serious understatement. It’s like your building is the personal victim of a magnitude 10.0 earthquake. Should you duck, cover, and hold?
You hear your name coiled in a familiar growl, a snarl that you could make out from the opposite side of your humble, one-bedroom abode.
It’s a miracle the metal of your door hadn’t splintered beneath the weight of four fists banging relentlessly, though you could certainly hear it creaking dangerously.
Your landlord is going to be pissed as fuck, your neighbors are going to start sending you death threats. Maybe the cops are on their way. Maybe you’ll be evicted and have to live out on the streets all because of your monstrous boyfriend.
Lightheadedness chokes you when you jump out of bed too quickly. Swaying back and forth, you force yourself to grip the wall for an inkling of stability as you inch your way towards your front door. Not bothering to reel the sour look on your face back, your hands meet the cold sting of the handle and the door is flung open to reveal a mid-knock Sukuna.
“Hahh.” Meeting your eyes, sagging and puffy with the weight of a bad night’s rest, a long and heavy exhale leaves Sukuna. His upper and lower arms immediately fold themselves across his chest. As if he hadn’t just nearly broken down your door’s hinges.
Then.
“You look like absolute shit.”
“You’re putting those four eyes of yours to good use I see. Good morning to you too, by the way,” you grumble. You pinch the bridge of your nose as if it could alleviate the headache splitting you in half.
“It’s the afternoon. And I don’t like being stood up.” There’s a small tug on his lips that almost resembles a pout. “Figured maybe you were taking a long ass shower and slipped or something. It’d serve you right.”
“And you waited nearly three hours before coming to my apartment? What if I died?” you say incredulously. “And then you bang on my door and nearly cause a natural disaster? I’m going to get a noise complaint!”
The corner of Sukuna’s lips raises into an infuriating smirk that makes the inky tattoos on his face warp and crinkle.
“We’ve never had that problem before.”
You redden at the insinuation, certainly a mix of anger and probably an incoming fever. You open your mouth to retort but an acute sting in your head renders you silent.
“Okay, well, sorry I stood you up. As you can see, I am not feeling well and my body is actively trying to save me and simultaneously kill me. I will text you later, I promise.” Not bothering to wait for a response, you give him the best smile you can muster and shut the door.
Or, attempt to.
In an instant, his right foot shoots out and wedges itself between the door and the doorframe. “Whaddya think you're doin’, brat?”
“I’m sick? Duh.”
“Don’t ‘duh’ me, you absolute sod. What’s that hafta do with anything?”
What’s not to get? You drag out the words. “I don’t want to get you sick.”
“I’m Ryoumen Sukuna. I don’t get sick,” he says, like it's obvious.
You open the door fully and crane your head to look him in the eyes. Crossing your own arms, you give him a once-over. Four arms, four eyes, tattoos that run over his face, neck, and below the neckline of the maroon, custom-made sweater you gifted him to accommodate his extra limbs. His pink hair was probably slicked back at some point, but it had fallen out of place, blossom-like strands falling over his forehead in bloom. He smells like cologne and the lightest hint of smoke that always seems to linger.
You definitely look like shit in comparison, especially in the oil-stained, oversized Looney Tunes t-shirt you had on and the black sweatpants you’ve had for years.
It’s clear he had put some effort into his appearance for your would-be breakfast date. You, on the other hand, had slept through all of your alarms and are currently functioning at precisely three health points.
If Sukuna wanted, he could shove you aside with one beefy arm and enter himself, but he still puts on the facade that he’s waiting for permission.
For someone who nearly always takes, you wonder why it’s with you that he asks.
Maybe he doesn’t get sick. “Okay,” you say softly, stepping aside.
Too softly. Sukuna gives you an indecipherable look. He was expecting more pushback, more arguments. Not concession. Not surrender.
It’s almost pathetic.
And yet your gentle tone tugs at something in his chest. As he ducks under the doorframe to enter and shuts the door, his upper left arm reaches to caress your cheek. Warm and delicate and so unlike himself.
He feels you lean into his touch.
You’ve always liked how he runs hotter than most. It’s a welcome relief to your cold bones. They feel extra fragile from the illness and seem to murmur beneath your skin at the contact.
“Get back into bed,” he orders. He jerks back his hand and the moment is over.
Only because you have no energy to argue with him further, you listen and tread back to your room.
“Hey.”
His voice makes you turn.
“What do you want for breakfast?”
“Surprise me.” You give a small smile. “But nothing with dairy please, unless you want my mucus all over you.”
Sukuna gives a boisterous laugh. “I’d use it to make a mucus milkshake.”
He can hear you cough—or choke, rather—from the other room. “You’re fucking disgusting, Sukuna. Get back in the kitchen.”
A shit-eating grin plasters itself on his face.
Laying down (and trying really hard to get the image of a mucus drink out of your head), you can hear your kitchen cabinets open and close as your boyfriend rummages through the contents of your kitchen.
Honestly, your friends aren’t really too sure how this whole relationship happened, nor how it works. But hey! If you’re happy with your freak boyfriend, then you’re happy with your freak boyfriend. Most men are monsters anyway so you might as well date a super real one that puts all the wannabe men to shame. He treats you well enough.
Fifteen minutes later and Sukuna is sitting beside you on your bed, watching as you shovel down spoonfuls of brown-sugar oatmeal. He had topped it with crushed walnuts and some slices of banana, the rest of which he was gobbling down. It surprised you how much of a foodie he was. Though his palate was, at times, rather peculiar.
“Satisfied now?”
“Thoroughly,” you say between swallows. You feel full and sleepy. It has only been an hour since you woke up, but you feel as though your pillow is pulling you back downwards.
He grunts in approval and lifts the hem of the front of his sweater. The maw on his stomach appears, licking its lips in anticipation. You watch in fascination as it chows down on the banana peel Sukuna tossed it before vanishing. No matter how many times you see it, it never gets old.
“Wait, bring it back,” you find yourself saying.
Sukuna cocks his slitted brow, but obliges.
The mouth reappeares on his stomach, framed by thick muscle mass that boasts, not of perfectly chiseled abs, but of a strong core grounded in reliability. Sukuna’s breath hitches as you press a kiss to his maw. You hear it lick its lips for a taste of the trace of brown sugar you left.
Slowly, Sukuna lets go of the edge of his sweater, his eyes flickering back to you just in time to watch you inch forwards and press a swift, sleepy kiss to his bottom lip before fluffing your pillow and lying back down with a sigh.
He lays down beside you, the bed protesting with its usual heavy creaks. You instantly nuzzle closer and throw your leg to rest between his thighs. His upper right hand cradles his head, his left gently runs its fingers through your hair. The two lower ones hold you closer, tighter.
He’s warm. So warm you could just sleep forever. You hum, satisfied.
“Thank you.”
Your whisper is so soft, Sukuna nearly misses it. He smiles despite himself, and is glad your eyes are closed.
Sukuna wakes up to the sound of your ragged cough, groggy and half-forgetting where he is. The silly romcom movie you had turned on hours ago had finished playing, leaving the room in total darkness. His three hands, strewn all over the place, find you once more, rubbing circles on your back and arms. His lower left rests on your side.
Sitting up, you cough and cough and cough. It feels like a cheese grater is rubbing against your throat, and you taste the faint hint of iron sliding through. Your successive coughs are forceful and raucous. They jolt your whole body, making your stomach heave with every hack. It’s putting pressure on you, and when your stomach finally hitches dangerously, you gag. You stand up suddenly, stomping on his ankle in your hurry to sprint to the bathroom.
The faint taste of copper in your mouth is overtaken by the revolting texture of the vomit you hurl into the toilet bowl. Oats and miscellaneous.
Sukuna is at your side seconds later, ignoring the throbbing in his foot and pulling the stands of hair over your forehead back and away. His voice is low and deep in your ear, rumbling from the depths of the very earth, but you don’t hear what he says.
Your breathing is uneven, even after you finish retching up the contents of your stomach. Trails of saliva drip from your lips. You continue spitting in the toilet, if only to get the taste of vomit out of your mouth.
“You fool, breathe through your nose,” he mutters. Sukuna steps away, and you immediately miss his indent of pressure and warmth on your shoulder.
He returns with a glass of cool water in hand just as you get your breathing under control. Still heavy but under control nonetheless. You look up at him like he’s your savior.
For once, Sukuna doesn’t say anything about your watery eyes or the tears spilling on your face. His expression is strangely blank as he hands you the cup.
You drink in large gulps, desperate to rid yourself of the thick, slimly aftertaste clinging to the inside of your mouth. The only sound is of your swallows and the faraway, faint ticking of the clock hanging in your living room.
Sukuna’s fingers graze your cheeks, wiping your tears away. He can’t help himself though; he still brings his thumbs to his lips for a taste of the salt.
A faint smile emerges on your face.
When you awake, there’s a steaming mug of chamomile on your nightstand. Lest you burn your tongue, you take cautious sips and run your hands over your throat. If you press too hard in certain places, it hurts–burns, even.
You place the mug back down. Something isn’t quite right.
“S-kun..a.”
Sukuna pads into the room, sporting sleep-mussed hair and the same clothes from yesterday. His expression is a curious mixture of faux wide-eyed pity and incomparable fucking glee.
“S-uku..na,” you try again.
Your voice is so broken and ravaged from your coughs, it’s left behind only fragments to grapple with. Pain shoots through your vocal cords. You try to hold onto every syllable, to bring it out without losing it somewhere in your throat. You force yourself to speak quietly, hoarsely.
He steps closer, bringing his thumb up to your bottom lip, tracing its edge. “You sound so sexy like this…” he mumbles.
Abruptly you pull back, grasp the still-warm pillow from behind you, and put your full strength into whipping it over his head.
“Shitty brat!” he roars. His four red eyes vibrate, rings pulsating. “What the hell are you on!”
“Ny–” –you swing again, hitting the right side of his face– “–Quil! Bi…tch!” You reel back the pillow, but Sukuna’s arms are already on the defense, shielding his head from another deadly, feather-filled blow. “I’m o…n NyQu–il…yo-u…s-sick fu…ck! I am ill!”
Your throat is on fire, and Sukuna’s in full defense mode, cackling like an utter maniac, but you swing the pillow down again just for good measure and hope it’s enough to get the message across.
He seems to get it. To his credit, he only makes one teensy little joke about how he’ll finally have a quiet, peaceful day in your apartment. Which you laugh at only because he absolutely despises whenever you give him the silent treatment and always comes back crawling to you within twenty-four hours.
He’d probably kill you if you told anyone, but you still consistently use this information to blackmail him. You even have picture proof of him on his knees saved on five separate devices as backup. Just in case.
(It’s a really good picture)
No wonder the two of you get along.
The rest of the day is spent mostly in comfortable silence. On account of not being able to banter with you properly (it’s no fun if you don’t respond), Sukuna’s been pestering you physically: poking, prodding, tickling, and pinching you throughout the day, even when you’re trying to turn your brain off and watch movies on the couch.
He knows his limits, but just barely. When you level him with a glare, he only snickers and retreats into the kitchen to brew you a hot cup of lemon-ginger infused water or pour honey onto a spoon for you to lick off. He enjoys watching the latter thoroughly. It must be his own way of apologizing. You highly doubt it’s entirely altruistic however.
Somewhere in the middle of Ferris Bueller’s Day Off you suddenly feel a chill terrorize your body and you become acutely aware of the aches that plague you. Goosebumps break out over your arms, which you rub to no avail. Frowning, you grab a nearby blanket. But that doesn’t seem to help with the seeping cold either.
Beside you Sukuna notices your predicament, having only been half-paying attention to the film. Wordlessly, he sheds his maroon sweater and holds it in your direction.
When you hesitate, he simply drops it on your lap and says, “You gonna take it or not? Don’t worry about me, I run hot.”
Greedily, you take the sweater and pull your arms through the top sleeves, the bottom ones left dangling since you only have two arms. It still smells faintly of smoke, but it lacks an acrid undertone.
The sweater swallows you whole and you instantly feel warmer. Maybe because Sukuna’s natural body heat has been preheating it for you. Still, just for good measure you should scoot closer to Sukuna. He’s basically a furnace, even without a shirt on.
He stiffens beside you, adamantly looking at the TV screen ahead even though he hasn’t been keeping up with the last half-hour. It’s only when you rest your head on his shoulder that he sinks some weight back and leans into you. Your left hand travels to his left arms to trace the rings of black up and down. Round and round.
His left eyes drift to you and you swear you can hear him purr.
His tattoos are mesmerizing, beautiful.
Up and down, round and round.
Eventually, the movie’s noises fade into the background, your hand slows then drops, and the inky rhythm lulls you to sleep.
| ✦ |
On the eighth day of illness, you’re fretting about the kitchen, now feeling well enough to prepare your own meals and swallow solid food without complaining about chunks scraping your throat.
Sukuna can cook well, but his forte lies in meat. And you’re not about to sink your teeth into a medium-well filet mignon when your body’s just been through the wringer.
Obviously since you’re cooking, you’re minding your own business and enjoying the rich scent and vivid color of the tomato stew you have simmering on your stovetop.
Obviously since Sukuna is Sukuna, he’s been hanging around you and trying to goad you into another verbal altercation by being handsy for the past thirty minutes.
His towering form at your back, his chin rests on the top of your head. The pressure hurts a little but if it gets to be too much you can always shove your stirring spoon up his nose. He only has one of those so he should notice rather quickly. His lower arms rest on your hips, the upper ones are wrapped around your torso, fingers linked together over your stomach.
Truthfully it's an inconvenient and horrible position to be in when you’re cooking, but when your boyfriend is six foot something, has a bunch of extra appendages, and is stacked like a brick shithouse, what the hell else are you supposed to do? He’s been strangely clingy for the past few days.
His hold on you is possessive, one that you’ve learned means a) he’s jealous or b) he wants something but is too arrogant to actually use his words and ask. So unless you’ve been making goo-goo eyes at and drooling over your tomato stew, you should probably take initiative or you’ll be like this for the rest of the day.
“Suku—”
“You’ve been wearin’ the same shirt for the past week,” he interrupts immediately. With every syllable, his jaw drops and digs into your scalp. You can’t even squirm out of his grip on account of his interlocked fingers.
You look down to see the same green Looney Tunes shirt, now boasting a few more stains. “Uh, yeah. I’ve been sick. So?”
“So. You stink.”
You sigh and set your cooking spoon down. You still feel a little shitty honestly so maybe a change of clothes would help.
“Mkay, I’ll change,” you admit. “Probably a good idea anyway.”
But Sukuna still doesn’t let his fingers go. Instead he tightens his hold on you. You feel eerily like those toys whose eyes bulge out of their sockets when you squeeze them.
“Okay, I’ll take a shower?” you try, and attempt to wiggle out of his grip again.
“Bath.”
A beat.
“Okay, I’ll take a bath then.”
Sukuna weakens his hold on you, which allows you to escape with still some level of difficulty. “Watch the stove for me in the meantime,” you instruct before making your way to the bathroom. “And turn it off in ten minutes!”
The sound of the bath running echoes in Sukuna’s ears. He turns his attention back to the stove, but his fingers twitch at his side like they’re itching for something out of his grasp.
It takes a while for the water to heat up but when your face finally flushes from the steam, you peel off your bottoms and your shirt, momentarily wincing at the sight of the blotches of sweat and tomato sauce on it.
Damn, you really did rot in that thing.
A content sigh flutters from your lips as you sink into the soapy water. You adjust your body in a more comfortable position, sending ripples trickling across the surface. Every pore on your body feels like it’s opening up to embrace the heat. The room smells faintly of grapefruit, refreshing and rejuvenating. You feel as if you’re floating in a garden with every fruit you desire at your fingertips.
You cup some bubbles into your hand and blow. The stream of white blobs plops back down into the bath. Your mind is empty and serene, the bothersome migraine from a few days ago completely forgotten.
That’s probably why you don’t notice Sukuna’s presence in the room until he’s right beside you, his breath sending bumps breaking along your skin.
Yelping, you jerk around to meet his gaze. “Sukuna!”
Considering how tightly he was holding you earlier in the kitchen, you smelling bad was probably a lie. Or an exaggeration at the very least. Irritating bastard probably just wanted to—
But his eyes are a mellow crimson, a beating heart. His pupils are black and larger than you’ve ever seen them, faintly pulsating in a pattern you don’t have the key to decipher.
“Shhh,” he murmurs. “Stove’s off. Don’t worry.”
Sukuna doesn’t feel the harsh grind of tile on his knees, only the smooth of your shoulders under his touch. Below, they’re rolling, tense, knotted. So he massages them and relishes in the pained gasp he pulls from you.
Slowly, you ease back into the bath.
“Kuna…” you whisper.
“I’ve got you.”
His upper hands work their way through the tension while his lower left grabs for the bottle of shampoo resting on the edge. He takes his time lathering it in his right hand before gently working it into your scalp.
The hands massaging you never halt, even when you let out hisses in pain and writhe under his palms. Actually, those just seem to encourage him to knead harder; the right places always draw out the best sounds.
Despite the occasional pain, it feels heavenly. Sukuna can be warm and delicate when he wants to be. It’s just not most of the time.
But in those rare moments when he is, it’s always with you.
Eventually, regretfully, the bubbles in the bath pop and vanish and the soap in your hair is rinsed away. The pads of Sukuna’s fingers seem to linger and tingle, even after he’s stepped away to hand you your towel and your change of clothes.
As you pull your shirt over your head, you hear a sneeze from behind you.
It’s a quiet, humble thing, not at all matching the dense musculature of the man behind you.
But it’s a sneeze nonetheless.
“Are you…” you start.
“No.”
You turn to give him a look.
“No,” he says, harsher. “I am Ryoumen Sukuna. I do not get sick.”
“The body doesn’t lie.”
“I am not getting sick.”
But he had noticed his temperature flaring and the beginnings of a stuffy nose creeping up on him.
And because he had noticed, suddenly the possibility of coming down with some illness becomes very, very real.
