*i regularly update this post with any new info i find so please always reblog the original post*
Donations
palestine children's relief fund
palestine red crescent society
help bring down israel's weapon trade - palaction
save palestine - islamic relief canada
click to donate - arab.org
send medical supplies to gaza - palestinian american medical association
NOTE: journalists based in gaza are saying that donations are not going to help atm. what will help is a demand for ceasefire. so please contact your local MPs every single day demanding as such. palestine need a ceasefire right now, not money (i will update when monetary help is needed)
if you want to donate, do this instead:
help buy e-sims for people in gaza (PLEASE HELP CONNECT GAZANS TO THE WORLD. if you would like to stay updated, please follow @/Mirna_elhelbawi on twitter)
donate to get food packages to gaza - care for gaza
verified and endorsed by people in gaza themselves
support palestinians: buy a keffiyeh from the last and only factory in palestine - hirbawi
Petitions
petition to investigate war crimes committed by israeli military
demand ceasefire - amnesty.org
open call for immediate ceasefire
american government call for immediate ceasefire
american government to stop funding israeli military
ceasefire and increase humanitarian assistance - oxfam au
petition to get canva to address their pro-israel stance
invoke the genocide convention to call for ceasefire in gaza - world beyond war*
location specific petitions
gaza call for ceasefire - oxfam (UK)
end israeli occupation - parliament uk (UK)
email your MP - medical aid for palestine (UK)
stop fuelling genocide - action network (USA)
@ biden: call for ceasefire now - move on (USA)*
ceasefirenow.com - jewishvoiceofpeace (USA)
call congress and demand a ceasefire - uscpr (USA - they provide a script of what you should say, so don't worry about it)
note: you can call everyday. they tally the number of calls per issue. so more calls = higher chance for them to take action. p.s. you mainly go to voicemail so don’t worry about phone call anxiety. fight through it just this once please.
australia call on israel to stop attacking palestinians - apan (AUS)
immediate ceasefire and increase in humanitarian aid in gaza - actionaid (AUS)*
[EN5622] call for ceasefire and end to occupation - parliament of australia (AUS)*
closes 13 dec @ 8.59pm AEST
[EN5628] retract governmental support to israel and demand ceasefire - parliament of australia (AUS)*
closes 13 dec @ 8.59pm AEST
sign to send letter to MP for ceasefire - nccm (CANADA)
ceasefire now! - ijv (CANADA)
ceasefire and allow aid to enter gaza - oxfam (CANADA)
canada house of commons petition 4649 (CANADA)
closes 23 Nov @ 3.20pm EDT
house of commons petition 4661 (CANADA)
closes 9 dec @ 11.03am EDT
cessez-le-feu et un couloir humanitaire - le mouvement (FRANCE)
write to your député - assemblée nationale (FRANCE)
skydda civilbefolkningen i gaza! - mittskifte (SWEDEN)
singaporeans call for immediate ceasefire (SIN)
contact your elected reps and demand a ceasefire (GERMANY)
write to the EU demanding a ceasefire (EUROPE)
template of letters you can send (EU)
guide on how to contact your MPs in EU
multiple actions you can take to help palestine - plant een olifbloom (NETHERLANDS)
includes: links for donations, emails to MP, emails to media, links to petitions and demonstrations
den haag, maak nú werk van vrede in israël/Palestina - the right forum (NETHERLANDS)
māori call for palestine - ourActionStation (NZ)*
basta ao genocídio em Gaza! - awaaz (BRAZIL)*
globo e grande mídia, parem de desumanizar civis palestinos - the intercept (BRAZIL)*
Campaigns
friends of al-aqsa
❥ UK-specific
urge your MP to speak up for palestine
hands off al-aqsa
stop administrative detention
petition for UK to stop arming israel
❥ International
boycott puma — email them to end their partnership with israel
boycott coca-cola
palestine action
join the resistance
islamic relief canada
urge your MP to rally for ceasefire
decolonise palestine
poster campaign to raise awareness on the war crimes being committed against palestinians | (very very important please share + read the sources provided)
text/call campaign for people living in USA
text CEASEFIRE @ 51905 to call for a ceasefire
text RESIST @ 50409 to send a letter to your representatives to pass HR3103–a bill that prohibits tax dollars from going to israel
download 5Calls app to contact members of your congress | (more info)
fax campaign for people in the USA
go on this website to send 5 free faxes per day
here’s a link to a pre-written fax copy you can download to send (the first link on the linktree)
here’s a video that explains how to fax your senator (it’s very easy and all you need is a valid email address)
BDS movement
get involved in boycotting companies associated with israel
please let me know if you have any more links. i will add them in. and please reblog the original post!!
james potter x reader, black!brothers! x fem!sister!reader
'Til All That's Left Is Glorious Bone— part 3 (extra)
synopsis: while everyone else seems to move on and heal from their pain, you are left behind with doubt. but james, steady as ever, stands beneath the rain and reminds you that you will be loved, no matter what.
cw: chronic illness, emotional breakdowns, physical pain, unfiltered intrusive thoughts, references to childhood neglect, emotional repression, fluff fluff fluff, tooth-rotting fluff x2, lots of reassurance. can be read as a stand-alone!!
w/c: 6.5k
a/n: based on she will be loved by maroon 5, this is probably the most adorable shit ever </3
part one part two masterlist
“You’re stiff-wristed, sweetheart. The secret’s in the swirl, not the stab.”
Her voice—Euphemia Potter’s—wraps around you like the hush of soft rain against old glass, all lilting warmth and quiet command.
She stands behind you, close but not crowding, guiding your hand with the kind of reverence you imagine one might reserve for spun sugar or wounded birds. Her fingers barely touch your wrist, feather-light, as though afraid you might shatter from the weight of anything firmer.
The frosting clings to the whisk like silk, pale pink and shimmering beneath the golden kitchen light, and you stare at it as though it might give you answers you’re too afraid to ask for.
She hums something low, a tune you don’t recognize. It drifts around the kitchen like it’s always belonged there, curling into the corners like the scent of vanilla and lemon zest.
You think she must be the kind of person who hums to flowers when she waters them, who sings lullabies to empty rooms and means it.
You wonder, distantly, if she’s always been this kind to kids with fucked up families.
You press your lips into a tight line, unsure what to do with the softness curling at the edges of this moment, and murmur without looking up, “I’m not stabbing it.”
A beat. Then laughter—low, honeyed, and bright enough to make something crack inside you.
“You’re threatening it,” she says, her grin audible in the curve of her words. “You’ve got to coax it. Love it a little.”
Love.
The word lands in your chest like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples through something long frozen. You don’t know what to do with it—how to hold it, where to place it in a life that’s been stitched together with silence and survival.
So you shrug like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t matter, and let the whisk move in wide, uncertain circles.
You don’t look at her. You look at the frosting, at the way it smooths under your hand when you stop fighting it. At how something can come together when you let it breathe.
The kitchen is warm in a way that startles you—cozy, cluttered, too alive to be anything but real. It’s the kind of lived-in mess you’ve never learned to trust, all soft disarray and stubborn comfort.
There are crooked portraits on the walls and mismatched rugs softening the floors, and the light from the windows pours in thick and gold, like early spring is trying to wrap you in something gentle.
The whole house smells like vanilla and something older, deeper—like magic that has settled into the floorboards and refuses to leave.
You keep your sleeves rolled down despite the warmth, even as your hands stir with careful deliberation. There's flour on your knuckles and a strange tightness in your chest, like you’ve wandered into a memory that doesn’t belong to you.
From beyond the archway, chaos hums like a second heartbeat. James lets out a yelp as Sirius tackles him onto the sofa, their limbs a tangled mess of laughter and mock indignation. Cushions fly.
“He’s cheating!” James shouts, voice muffled by upholstery and betrayal.
“I’m winning,” Sirius growls, smug and breathless.
And there—just behind the couch, half in shadow, half in sunlight—stands Regulus. Still and composed, arms crossed like a barrier, eyes narrowed with the bored disdain of someone raised in rooms where no one ever raised their voice.
You glance up, and for a moment, his gaze catches yours.Something wordless passes between you, soft and sharp and impossible to name. He looks away first.
Your thoughts drift, unbidden, to yesterday. To the Potters’ den, flickering firelight painting lazy patterns across the room. You and Regulus on opposite ends of the hearth, James lounging like a spoiled cat between you, half-on, half-off the armrest.
He’d been demolishing a cupcake—frosting smeared across his cheek, crumbs dotting the fabric like confetti—when he paused, blinked, and looked at you both.
“You’ve never had one?” he repeated, like the very concept offended him.
You and Regulus had nodded in tandem, as if admitting a shared sin. Regulus looked faintly embarrassed. You hadn’t bothered.
“No cupcakes,” James had whispered, horrified. “You poor, repressed creatures.”
You’d shrugged, lifting your teacup with both hands. “We weren’t exactly allowed to eat with our hands.”
James had stared like he could see your childhood printed in bruises across your skin. “That’s it. Mum’s baking with you tomorrow, with Regulus too, if I can pry him off his high horse.”
And so here you are. In socks that don’t belong to you and an apron that does—barely—reading “Kiss the Cook” in faded embroidery. Your hands are sticky with sugar, your elbows awkwardly bent, and Euphemia Potter stands beside you, the very image of maternal grace in motion.
Every movement she makes is soft, efficient, full of something like love. She shows you how to spoon frosting into the bag, how to twist the top just so, how to guide the tip in slow, looping swirls instead of the instinctive little jabs you keep trying.
Her voice is low, her patience unshakable, but her eyes are sharp—they see too much. They had settled on you the first night with a kind of quiet knowing, like she could already feel the ache tucked behind your ribs, the weight you never speak of.
You feel strange in your own skin—tied into the apron like you’re being stitched into something unfamiliar, clutching the piping bag like it might burst between your fingers (which it might well considering how anxious you are)
It’s strange, isn’t it, how some places don’t just shelter you—they learn you. Grow around you like moss, slow and soft and impossibly gentle. The Potters’ house is like that. A space that doesn’t just exist, but exhales. Its colors are warm, its corners worn by laughter and living.
The curtains breathe in the wind like old lungs, the frames are all crooked, like no one ever bothered to make anything perfect, only meaningful.
“You doing alright, darling?” Euphemia asks softly, not looking up from the cake tin she’s buttering.
“I’m fine,” you reply, too fast. The word lands oddly in the space between you, hard-edged and out of tune with the golden hush of the kitchen.
You don’t meet her eyes. You glance toward the sitting room instead, where laughter crashes like a tide against the floorboards.
James is shouting—again. “If he strangles me, tell Mum I loved her—!”
You roll your eyes instinctively. “They’re idiots.”
“They sure are,” Euphemia agrees with a fondness that makes your chest ache. And then—she turns to you fully, flour dusted on her hands, her eyes a little too sharp, a little too knowing. The kind of gaze that only women who’ve borne grief like children know how to wear. “They’re yours too, now.”
Your hands keep moving, mechanical. The frosting in the bowl is starting to lose its shine. You swirl it once, then again yet, it still doesn’t look right.
You want to tell her something. Anything. That you don’t know what “yours” means. That you’re afraid of claiming things that feel too soft to last.
That you still brace for shouting when you drop a glass. But the words wedge themselves between your ribs, stubborn and silent. So you just nod.
There are still letters from your mother. They come like bruises—paper-thin but lingering. Sirius tears them up before you can read them, jaw tight with old fury.
James doesn’t even look. He lights them on fire with a flick of his wand and watches them curl into ash.
Once, you caught the edge of your name written in her careful script, underlined like an accusation. You didn’t ask what it said. You didn’t want to know. Some things are meant to be burned.
So instead, you learn to make frosting.
You’re not sure what to call what you and James have. If it’s dating, it’s the kind with missing rules and unspoken agreements. There are no labels, no promises carved in stone—but there is his hand in yours when you walk in the garden.
There is his kiss on your forehead when your dreams turn sharp. There’s his laughter echoing down the hallway as he spins you beneath the afternoon light just because it’s pretty. You lean into him more than you mean to. You laugh more than you expected to. It’s not perfect. But it’s warm.
And sometimes, when sleep slips away and grief curls against your spine like a ghost, you wake to find someone already there. Sirius, slouched in the armchair with a blanket thrown over his legs.
Or James, curled at the foot of your bed like he’s guarding you from whatever still lingers in the dark. Sometimes it’s both, sprawled like overgrown puppies, as if they heard your heartbeat change and followed it.
Just James, pressing a kiss to your temple, whispering, “Hey. You’re here. That’s enough.”
And in those quiet hours, maybe it is.
Outside, the sky is still gray—the way spring always begins. Soft and threatening. Like a promise that hasn’t made up its mind. Inside, the kitchen is warm. The air is sweet with sugar and butter and the faintest trace of something old—like memory.
You’ve been standing here long enough for the light to change. The kind of morning that feels like it might last all day.
“Alright,” Euphemia says after a while, brushing her hands clean on a tea towel. “Let’s try your first one. Pick a cupcake!”
Your hand hesitates above the tray. It’s silly, maybe, but this feels like a test. You reach. Choose the one with the least cracks. The cleanest top. It’s still warm in your palm, soft around the edges.
And you think—Regulus would’ve picked this one too. The most perfect on the outside, like that could save you from whatever’s rotting underneath. Like surface beauty was ever enough to survive.
You lift the piping bag with uncertain fingers. Squeeze slowly. Your swirl ends up lopsided, a little tight at the base—more question mark than spiral.
“Not bad,” Euphemia says, smiling. “She’s got the hand of a sculptor!”
You blink. Then glance up, startled. Not just by the compliment, but by how gently it lands. Like it wasn’t meant to test or teach you, just offer you a truth.
It feels good, for a second. To be seen by someone who isn’t waiting for you to fall apart. Who gives kindness freely, without demanding anything back.
From the sitting room, Regulus calls, “Is she doing alright?”
You don’t look. “No,” you call, voice flat, automatic. “She’s surviving.”
Sirius whoops, “Like a true Black!”
And something in you eases. You don’t laugh, but the corner of your mouth twitches—an almost-smile.
Because it’s true. You are surviving. You are a Black. You still move like you expect the room to collapse beneath you. You still speak like a warning. But now you’re here, in a sun-drenched kitchen, with pink frosting on your wrist and sunlight on your collarbone. Learning something new.
You stand at the edge of the kitchen now, tray in trembling hands.
The cupcakes are uneven—some leaning like they’re tired, others piped too thick with nerves you couldn’t quite still.
Euphemia stands behind you, her hand resting lightly at the small of your back.
“They look beautiful,” Euphemia says gently. Her voice is velvet, all warmth and hush and pride you don’t know how to hold.
Your eyes stay pinned to the tray in your hands — twelve cupcakes, swirled in soft pinks and lavenders, their colors uneven, the frosting imperfect.
One leans too far to the left. One has too much icing; another, not enough. They’re not neat. They’re not elegant.
You’d asked too many questions in the kitchen. Kept second-guessing yourself, measuring the sugar twice, afraid of ruining something you’d never been trusted to make.
Euphemia had only smiled, quiet and patient, as if she could hear the uncertainty in your bones.
It was supposed to be simple. Cupcakes, James had said. Something to try. Something you’ve never had before.
You hadn’t expected how much that would matter.
Now the tray is warm in your hands, and your sleeves still carry the scent of vanilla and sugar. You can’t tell if the sweetness stayed with you or if you left it all behind in the frosting bowl.
Inside the sitting room, you can hear Sirius mid-argument, half-laughing, half-shouting about something inconsequential.
Regulus leans stiffly over the arm of a chair, trying to explain something with too many syllables to James, who keeps interrupting just to make him scowl. It’s loud. Familiar. Ordinary in a way that makes your chest ache.
You’ve always watched this kind of life from a distance — the kind where people interrupt each other without fear of being punished, where laughter is constant and never cruel.
Problem is; you don’t quite know how to step into it.
“They’re waiting,” Euphemia murmurs. She steps forward and opens the door all the way, but she doesn’t push. She just rests her hand gently at the small of your back — not forceful, just present.
The tray shifts slightly in your hands as you cross the threshold. You steady it quickly, trying to school your features into something neutral. All three heads turn at once.
James rises first, his expression flickering from surprise to something quieter. He just looks at you like you’ve brought something more than sugar into the room.
And for a breath, you forget what you’re holding.
“I, um…” You clear your throat. “I made these.”
Sirius squints. “You? In a kitchen? With actual ingredients?”
You shoot him a look, but your voice doesn’t wobble this time. “Do you want one or not?”
“I’m just saying,” he says, grinning, “this could be a trap. What if they’re poisoned?”
James is already stepping forward, inspecting the cupcakes with a kind of gentle reverence. “They look brilliant.”
“They’re uneven,” you say quickly, before anyone else can. “I didn’t mix the color all the way. And I think I overfilled the third row.”
James ignores that. Picks a lavender-swirled one with a little too much icing and cradles it like it might sing. “They look so pretty, love,” he says softly. “Just like you.”
That catches you off guard. You don’t know how to carry a compliment that tender. So you don’t reply.
Regulus doesn’t speak at first. His eyes skim the tray, then flick to your face. “Which one’s yours?” he asks.
The question is simple. But it lands like a stone in water.
You hesitate. “The ugly one?”
He tilts his head. “They’re all a little ugly.”
Sirius snorts. “Which means they’re honest. I like that!”
You laugh, a breathy, uncertain sound that escapes before you can stop it.
Regulus steps forward slowly. He doesn’t reach for a cupcake. He just looks. And then, quieter this time: “Can I have yours?”
It’s such a small sentence, but it knocks something loose inside your chest.
You nod, carefully. Select the one with the uneven spiral, where the frosting pooled too fast and dipped at the edge.
He takes it from you like it’s a glass relic. And then, with a quiet kind of sincerity, he says, “Thank you.”
Sirius bites into his with theatrical flair. “Oh, hell, this is good.”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” you mutter.
James is already halfway through his. “I’m putting in a request for another batch. Maybe lemon next time?”
“There’s not going to be a next batch,” you say, but it’s a soft lie. One you hope someone sees through.
Regulus finally bites into his. His expression doesn’t change much, but his gaze returns to you — steady, unreadable — and then, after a pause, he murmurs, “It’s sweet.”
The laughter rises again, light and irreverent, as James starts a dramatic monologue about how cupcakes are the purest form of magic and Sirius demands to be taught immediately so he can outshine you. Regulus settles back into his seat, eyes flicking between the cupcake and you.
You set the tray down on the coffee table, then retreat a half-step as if the cupcakes might embarrass you by existing.
You’ve never made something like this before — sweet, delicate, not meant to survive a war or a dinner at the Black family table.
You don’t know how to be proud of it. You only know how to hope it isn’t a disappointment.
James doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at you, then at the tray, then back at you. The silence stretches too long.
He smiles — not his usual grin, not the cocky, tilted thing he uses when he wants to charm or tease. This one is quiet, like a secret he’s sharing only with you. “It’s perfect.”
Your throat tightens. “You don’t have to say that.”
“I don’t,” he agrees, stepping closer. “But I’m saying it anyway.”
You glance down, but he reaches out and gently taps the edge of your hand. “Hey,” he murmurs. “Look at me.”
He’s all warmth and open sky. There’s frosting at the corner of his mouth. His hair’s a mess from wrestling Sirius earlier, and his voice is steady in a way yours hasn’t been all day.
“You did something new,” he says. “You made something. You shared it. That’s brave. And I am so so proud of you, yeah baby?.”
Something catches in your chest — like a thread being pulled too tight. You don’t know how to answer, so you don’t.
He just brushes a curl from your cheek, fingers warm against your skin, and the softness in his touch undoes you more than anything he’s said.
James reaches for another cupcake and holds it out to you.
Your brows raise. “What’s that for?”
He shrugs, tilting the cupcake toward you again — an unspoken offer, gentle and insistent. “You baked them,” he says, voice low. “You haven’t even tried one.”
“I know what they taste like,” you murmur, though your eyes remain on the small swirl of frosting.
“Do you?” he asks, and there’s a smile in his voice. “You stood next to Mum, mixed everything, piped the frosting like an artist—” his hand gestures loosely to the tray, already missing three cakes, “—but you haven’t taken a single bite.”
James nudges it forward again, a nudge that feels like kindness disguised as teasing. “First time for everything, yeah?”
Your fingers hover, then curl slowly around the paper casing. It yields beneath your grip — soft, still warm from the kitchen heat, as if it had been waiting for your touch.
You bring it up, careful, uncertain, aware of the hush that falls across the room. You don’t meet anyone’s eyes.
You just take a breath and press your mouth to the top, just enough to taste.
The frosting melts instantly on your tongue — silky and slow, bright with vanilla and a whisper of lemon, like sunlight folded into sugar. It’s not overwhelming, not too rich.
Just… soft. The kind of sweetness that doesn’t need to be earned. The kind that offers itself freely. For a moment, your chest feels too tight for your ribs, your throat too narrow for words.
You swallow. “That’s—” Your voice falters. You blink. “Good.”
James beams. Not like someone who expected praise, but like someone who’s just watched a door open. “Just good?”
You look down at what’s left in your hand. You dip your finger gently into the frosting, curl it into a neat spiral, and pop it into your mouth.
The taste is quieter now, familiar already. But still — still — it makes you feel something that has no name.
Sirius makes a dramatic sound of protest from the sofa. “Criminal,” he declares. Regulus mutters something darkly unimpressed, but neither of them matter right now.
Because James is still watching you. Like he’s been handed something rare and breakable.
“You’re telling me,” he says softly, “you’re going to eat only the frosting?”
“It’s the best part,” you reply, licking your thumb, almost defiant.
He reaches for another cupcake, peels the paper halfway back, and takes a slow, deliberate bite of just the cake — clean, unfrosted.
He chews, thoughtful, then glances at you, the corner of his mouth curling. “Well,” he says, “we’re clearly soulmates.”
You blink. “What?”
“I hate frosting,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Always have. It's way too sweet and sticky. I'd much rather eat the cake part.”
Your brow furrows. “You’re making that up.”
“I swear on all of Gryffindor’s noble dead.” He raises a solemn hand, though his eyes are dancing. “This is fate. You eat the tops, I eat the bottoms. Every cupcake perfect, every piece devoured. Balance in all things.”
You try to glare at him. You try to keep your mouth straight. But your lips betray you, twitching at the corners. You look away, but not fast enough.
“You’re flirting again,” you say, voice too soft to sting.
“Can you blame me?” he murmurs, leaning in just enough for his breath to touch your cheek. “You’re frosting-drunk. It’s adorable.”
“It’s frosting,” you reply, scoffing. “I’m not drunk.”
He tilts his head, studying you like a poem he’s trying to memorize. “Are you sure?” he says, voice a hush now. “Because I think I just fell in love all over again.”
James doesn’t say anything else. He just watches you, eyes warm, quiet, full of something that doesn’t need to be spoken aloud.
You feel it anyway — that impossible softness, that lightness he brings with him like a second skin. The kind of sweetness that lingers even after it’s gone.
And as you bite into the frosting, as Sirius resumes his argument and Regulus sighs into his tea, something inside you begins to settle.
Maybe sweetness doesn’t have to be earned.
The rest of the evening settles like golden syrup over the table — slow, warm, and rich with laughter. The sun filters through the windows in long amber slants, gilding the countertop where half-eaten cupcakes sit like tiny triumphs.
You’re tucked between Sirius and Regulus on the floor, knees brushing, while James sprawls at your feet, arms flung behind his head like the world’s most content boy.
He keeps glancing up at you as if he’s never seen you smile before — like he’s trying to memorize every possible angle, afraid he might blink and miss it.
Sirius is midway through some outrageous tale about a stolen broomstick and second-year mayhem. Euphemia gasps in mock horror. Fleamont peers over his glasses with a grin that threatens to tip into laughter.
Regulus groans into his palm and mutters, “You two are why she has grey hairs.”
And for a moment, you let yourself laugh.
Really laugh — not the careful, calculated chuckles you’ve grown used to offering like coins at a tollbooth. This is warm, bright, unguarded. It spills out of you without permission, lifting your shoulders and loosening something long-caged in your chest.
When James reaches for your hand, you let him take it. His fingers thread through yours, firm and certain, like a promise you almost believe.
For a little while, you let yourself believe this could be yours — this ordinary sweetness. Something with frosting and sun-drenched floors and a kitchen that always smells like cinnamon and safety.
Something not carved from pain. Not built on survival.
You go to bed that night feeling full in a way that has nothing to do with cupcakes.
—
The ache begins quietly, as it always does. A heaviness that coils at the base of your spine, patient and precise. Something about the way it settles there—like a bruise blooming behind your ribs, tender and unnoticed—makes it easy to dismiss.
You stretch your fingers. Roll your shoulders. Breathe through it like it’s nothing more than morning stiffness or a restless night’s sleep.
You tell yourself it will pass, that maybe you’ve just been sitting too long, dreaming too hard.
But two days later, it’s harder to rise.
The bed feels heavier, the light colder, and the spring air bites through the cracks in the stone like it wants to warn you of something. Still, you manage. You wrap a blanket around your shoulders and curl beside the others near the hearth.
The pain deepens when you move too quickly, or laugh without bracing for it. It hides in strange corners of your body—sharp beneath your ribs, warm and aching behind your knees, slow and stubborn in your breath.
Sometimes it steals the air right out of your lungs as you climb the stairs or reach for something just out of grasp.
But you smile through it. You always do. You bite the inside of your cheek and hold your posture like a prayer, like it might keep you whole a little longer.
You don’t want to ruin it. They’re so happy — Sirius losing at chess with theatrical flair, Fleamont snorting into his tea, Euphemia gently guiding Regulus’s hands through loops of yarn as he pretends not to care.
James tugging you into corners thick with laughter and warmth, brushing your cheek with reverence, telling you your eyes look like dusk when the world is kind.
You won’t be the shadow in their light.
So you laugh when you’re meant to. You nod at all the right moments. You stir the ache into your tea like it’s just another kind of sweetness.
You tell yourself it’s nothing — that it will pass, that it must. That you owe them this version of you, the one who is steady and soft and whole.
And when the hurt steals your voice, you simply say you’re tired. It’s easier that way. You’ve had years to perfect the script, and the silences between the lines.
You breathe through it, quiet and constant.
Because what else can you do?
You don’t cry. You just sit there, letting the rain pour over you like a second skin, not harsh but steady, familiar — not the warmth of this place, not the laughter pressed between the walls, but something older, something colder, something that remembers the echoing halls of Grimmauld Place.
The kind of silence that didn’t need a reason. The kind that stitched itself into your bones so long ago you forgot what it felt like to live without it.
You sit with the rain in your lap like it belongs to you, like the storm found you first and decided to stay.
It slides down the curve of your spine, pools in the hollow of your throat, traces your wrists like rivers returning to the sea. It’s cold, but you don’t flinch.
You’ve always known cold — cold hands, cold glances, cold corridors and colder silences — and this kind of chill feels almost merciful, soaking into you gently instead of cutting you down.
Through the glass, the fire glows soft and golden, and their laughter spills out in waves, blurred and beautiful — Sirius, all brightness and reckless limbs, draped across the couch like it was made just for him; James beside him, head thrown back, eyes shut with joy, tipping into Sirius like gravity’s favorite joke.
Their laughter is loud and unbreakable, the kind of joy that fills rooms and hearts and lifetimes.
And as you watch, you realize they are whole in ways you were never taught to be.
Near the window, Regulus leans toward Remus, long fingers brushing across an open book, nodding as Remus speaks. Their voices are low, private, thoughtful.
Regulus is in a sweater too big for him and socks with mismatched toes, the kind of domesticity you never thought would suit him.
But it does. He looks… soft. Happy, maybe. Or something close enough to it that you could believe in it if you squinted.
Even Peter, curled up near the fire, hums to himself without shame.
And you — you are the ghost at the glass. The story that doesn’t belong in this chapter.
They’ve all found something that quiets the noise in their heads. Sirius with his rebellion. Regulus with his books. James with his heart wide open.
You want to reach for them — you do — but your hands feel wrong, too heavy, too worn, made of sharp edges and sore joints and skin that’s forgotten how to feel safe.
You shift, just barely, and pain flares up your spine like a slow-lit match, bright and hot and unmistakably alive.
Your bones ache as though they’re begging to be remembered. The rain, relentless and soft, hides your tears — the only kindness this sky offers.
You try to breathe around it, around the heat coiling behind your ribs, around the memory that presses down on your chest like a weight you can’t lift. It shouldn’t hurt like this anymore.
You’re not there. You’re not hers. You’re not her daughter anymore.
And still, you can feel her fingers in your scalp, ghost-thin and cruel, tugging until obedience became instinct.
Even now, even with your hair down and soft and brushed through by Euphemia’s patient hands, the ache lingers — hot and deep at your crown, where braids once pulled tight enough to silence you.
You wonder if the pain will ever leave you, if someday you’ll touch your own head and feel nothing but skin.
She braided your obedience into your body — every twist a warning, every knot a prayer for silence.
You remember sitting beside Regulus, knees knocking together as your mother yanked the brush through your hair.
You whispered, “Do you think cupcakes taste good?” and he smiled like it hurt, like something blooming too fast — neither of you had ever tasted one.
And now, somehow, you’ve found yourself somewhere soft, somewhere warm, where the air doesn’t sting and the quiet isn’t cruel — but still, you carry the weight of old commands in your spine, and your skin tenses like it expects to be scolded.
Even now, even here, you feel like an intruder in your own softness.
You watch James laugh again, mouth open wide, the kind of joy that belongs in sunlit fields and childhood games. And suddenly, you want to scream.
You want to bury your face in his shoulder and cry and say I’m still hurting. I still wake up afraid. I still hear her voice in mine when I speak too sharply. But instead, you sit very still. You keep your shoulders straight.
Because this is the only way you know how to keep from breaking open.
And somehow, even with your twin in the room, even with James who loves you more than air, you’ve never felt more alone. It’s like watching life through glass, your fingers pressed to the warmth without ever quite feeling it.
Their laughter is real, their joy is real, but you are a quiet echo curled in the corner, a shadow in a room full of light, trying to remember what it felt like to belong.
It starts at your spine.
A low throb at first, something quiet enough to ignore if you just breathe through it, if you just pretend long enough that you’re still strong, still whole, still more than what she made of you.
But it spreads. Down your legs, up through your ribs. Every breath starts to feel like a small betrayal — your lungs stiff and aching, like they too are tired of you surviving.
By the time it reaches your hands, you can’t even feel the rain anymore.
It always begins softly—never a crash, just a hush, like memory, like shame, like your mother’s voice woven into the fabric of your childhood.
You’ve learned to carry pain quietly, tucked behind small smiles and well-timed stillness. Inside, they laugh.
And that is when it hits you. The quiet rage. The kind that doesn’t scream but digs deep into your ribs.
Because why didn’t she stop this? Why didn’t she see you breaking and fix it? Why did she look at your pain and name it a lesson?
You hate her. You hate your name. You hate that no matter how far you run, your body still sings in her voice.
You can still feel the ghost of those braids. Can still remember the weight of silence tied to the nape of your neck.
And you wonder — as the rain runs into your eyes and your bones begin to tremble — if you’ll ever be free of her.
If the damage is permanent. If you’ll always be the girl with the broken smile who hides in corners and gardens and rain.
You feel so far away from joy, from light, from yourself, breath snagging not on a sob but on a scream too tired to rise, your body tight with silence, with the weight of what you won’t let slip.
Then warmth, sudden and soft, fingers on your cheeks, steady and certain, anchoring you to the now.
You flinch, bracing for the sting, for the world to splinter beneath the touch, but the hands stay, quiet and kind.
A voice follows, low and breathless, threaded with something like worry, something like care—“Hey, look at me, c’mon, open your eyes for me,” And you do, slowly, like coming up for air after a long, aching dive.
And there he is — James Potter, kneeling in the wet grass in front of you like he was sent by the gods of mercy themselves. Soaked clean through, curls matted to his forehead, glasses beaded with rain.
His hands cradle your face like he’s holding something sacred, and there’s not a flicker of pity in his gaze. Only concern. Only knowing. Only love.
Your mouth trembles, but the words won’t come. He doesn’t try to fill the silence with cleverness, doesn’t ask what’s wrong or tell you it’s okay—because it isn’t.
He just stays close, forehead nearly brushing yours, his gaze steady and bright like lanterns flickering through the rain.
You don’t notice the tremble in your hands at first, only the sharp hitch in your breath and the way your bones begin to shake, too deep for the rain to be the cause.
The ache builds quietly, curling behind your ribs like smoke, but then it crests, pressing up into your throat until your mouth tastes of salt and sorrow. And then the tears come—jagged, hot, unhidden.
You hate it. Hate how your body betrays you like this. Hate that even now — surrounded by warmth, by voices that laugh like nothing hurts — you can’t stop breaking. That even now, soaked in the middle of spring rain, your grief still finds you.
His thumbs sweep along your cheeks.
“Hey,” he says, and the word breaks something open in you. Not because it’s loud. But because it’s kind.
“I’m here. I’ve got you.”
You shake your head. The words come before you can stop them. “I’m sorry. I— I don’t know why I’m crying, I just— I still feel so broken sometimes. And I hate it. I hate that I can’t just be fine.”
Your voice cracks, and so does your chest.
James doesn’t say anything right away. He just pulls you close — soaked wool and trembling hands and that smell of petrichor and something sweeter beneath it, something like safety. One of his hands slides to your back, the other still at your jaw, grounding you.
And then he says, soft as rain, “Then I’ll just love you in pieces.”
“I’ll love you whole, when you’re ready,” he continues, breath warm against your temple, “but if all you can give me today are pieces, then I’ll hold them all. I’ll love you as you are. No fixing, no conditions. Just you.”
Something in your chest gives in.
And you sob again, not from pain this time, but from relief. From the unbearable gentleness in his voice. From the way he’s still here, even as your tears fall like spring rain and your body aches with every breath.
“I don’t want to be pieces forever,” you whisper.
“You won’t be,” he says, pulling back just enough to look at you — really look at you. His hair is plastered to his forehead, his cheeks flushed from cold, but his eyes are steady. “But if you are, even just for a little while… I’m still yours.”
You don’t know what you’ve done to deserve him.
Then his voice cuts gently through the hush, low and steady near your ear.
“Some days,” he says, “your smile will feel like a lie.”
James doesn’t pull away, doesn’t ask you to stop crying, doesn’t try to fix the ache sitting heavy in your chest. He just keeps going, voice warm, soaked hair sticking to his forehead as he holds your gaze.
“And that’s alright. I’ll know where to find the real one.”
You glance up at him, lashes damp, heart aching. “Where?”
He grins, the smallest tilt of his mouth, not smug or teasing but certain, like he has spent months learning every version of you, and this one—wet with rain, worn thin, unraveling at the edges—is just another part of the map he already knows by heart.
“I find it when you’re baking with Mum,” he says first, brushing a lock of wet hair from your cheek. “When you pretend not to care but you lean in every time she offers to teach you something.”
You swallow. He goes on.
“When you try something new and your face gets all confused, and Regulus teases you, and you act offended but you never actually stop.”
You let out the softest breath — almost a laugh.
“When Sirius hugs you and you pretend to hate it, but you always hug him back for half a second longer than he does.”
You hate how seen that makes you feel.
“When I kiss you,” James says, voice dipping slightly lower, “and you push me away, all huffing and scowling — but then you smile anyway, right after. Not for me to see. Just… because.”
You look down, heart a mess in your throat.
“When you steal the biggest jumper in the room but still act like it’s not enough and curl up into yourself like you’re trying to disappear.”
You blink. You hadn’t even known he’d noticed that.
“When you fidget with your rings during serious conversations. When you cut your toast into perfect halves but only eat one.”
He brushes his thumb beneath your eye, gentle.
“When you braid your hair with shaking hands on bad days because it’s the only thing you can still control.”
He keeps going, and he doesn’t falter once.
“When you laugh at something Sirius says but bite the inside of your cheek after, like you’re not used to joy lasting that long.”
You’re crying again. This time you let yourself.
“When you tuck your feet under you on the couch and pretend you’re cold, even though we both know it’s just so you won’t be touched unless you choose it.”
You want to look away, but he won’t let you.
“When you whisper goodnight to your own reflection in the hallway mirror — like you’re still learning how to be kind to the girl staring back.”
“And when you say nothing at all,” James murmurs, “but your fingers reach for mine under the table anyway.”
His voice is almost a prayer now.
“I find your real smile in the in-between places—the quiet moments, the gentle cracks where the light slips through.”
He presses a kiss to your forehead, lingering like a promise.
“So even when you feel like you’re disappearing, like you’ve slipped too far into the dark — I’ll still know where to look.”
You don’t even realize you’re crying again until James wipes a tear from your chin, not startled, not worried — just there, always, with hands steady and patient.
“See?” he says softly. “Even when you’re hiding, you still leave a trail.”
“And you’ll always find it?” you whisper, throat thick.
He leans his forehead against yours, soaked and breathless. “Every time.”
His thumb brushes another tear from your cheek, slow and reverent, like he’s touching something sacred.
Then another. And another. As if every drop matters to him. As if each one deserves to be seen, and then let go.
His other hand finds its way into your hair, tucking back a rain-heavy strand that clings stubbornly to your skin.
You’re both soaked — your clothes plastered to your bodies, your hearts just as bare — but his gaze holds so much gentleness, it feels like warmth.
He leans in.
Not rushed, not greedy — just sure. Like this moment has always been waiting for itself. His lips meet yours, soft and slow and steady, like the way honey slips from a spoon.
And when you pull back — cheeks damp with rain and love alike — you wrap your arms around him and bury your face in the curve of his shoulder, voice barely a whisper.
“I love you, Jamie.”
He stills. Just for a second. Like the world stopped to catch its breath.
Then: “Merlin, I love when you say my name like that.”
You laugh, a little hiccup of sound against his chest, like joy finally broke the surface.
He grins into your hair, arms tightening. “Say it again.”
“No,” you murmur, but you’re still smiling, your face warm despite the chill. “Don’t get greedy.”
“Oh, but I will,” he says, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes, “because I’ve been waiting since the minute I met you for this moment. For you, all of you.”
You shake your head, blushing, but before you can bury yourself back into his chest, he tugs on your hand and nods toward the house. “Come on, love. Let’s go make some more frosting.”
You blink at him. “Didn’t we have frosting two days ago?”
“Yeah,” he says, practically beaming, “and we’ll have it every day if you want. Frosting and love and all the soft things you never got.”
You don’t answer right away.
You just let yourself be pulled forward, hand in his, the rain washing down your spine like a second spine. Inside the house — warm, golden, safe — light spills through the windows.
Through the foggy glass, you can already see Sirius rolling his eyes at something Euphemia says, while Regulus sips tea like it’s a ceremony and pretends not to smile.
Inside, your voice rises again—bright and unexpected, like a flame refusing to go out.
James watches you with that look he doesn’t bother hiding anymore, the one that says he’s memorizing you, holding each moment like it’s something rare, something he’s scared to lose.
You swipe frosting onto his nose, slow and teasing, and he doesn’t flinch. Just stands there with that soft look he gets sometimes, the one that feels like a held breath.
Then, grinning like it’s the easiest thing in the world to be known by you, he dips a finger into the bowl, brings it to his mouth, and pulls a face so exaggerated it nearly breaks your laugh into two.
He grimaces like a child tasting medicine, all scrunched eyes and over-the-top theatrics, and you can’t help it—you laugh, a real one, bright and full in your chest like something blooming open.
He leans in close, gentle in a way he doesn't speak aloud, and presses a kiss to your cheek like it’s sacred.
The world hums along as if nothing has shifted, but something has. In the stillness that follows, he looks at you like he could live a hundred lives and choose this one every time—just to be here, covered in sugar and light, with you laughing in the kitchen like it’s never hurt to be alive.
Outside the doorway, tucked in the quiet curve of the hallway, two figures stand watching. The lights from the kitchen paint them in warm shadows.
Euphemia stands in the doorway, her silhouette lit soft by the kitchen light.
She watches her son with something ancient in her gaze — not surprise, not pride, but the kind of quiet understanding only mothers ever seem to carry.
Her hands are tucked gently into her sleeves, like there’s something sacred she’s holding onto.
A moment later, Sirius joins her, silent and slow, leaning against the frame beside her.
“She thinks he hates frosting,” Euphemia says softly, her voice like the rain still tapping the roof.
Sirius glances sideways. “He doesn’t?”
“He adores it,” she murmurs. “Used to sneak it out of the tin with a spoon when he was ten. Still does, when no one’s looking.”
Sirius huffs a breath of laughter. “Why let her think otherwise?”
Euphemia doesn’t look away from the pair in the kitchen. “Because she always lets him have the cake part. And he wants her to have the sweet.”
Sirius looks toward his brother, who’s now brushing a smudge of flour from your nose while you pretend not to smile too much.
“He’d give her anything.”
“He does,” Euphemia says. “Even the things she doesn’t know she’s missing.”
There’s a pause, soft and full of something unspoken, before Sirius says quietly, almost to himself,
“She’ll be loved.”
And so you stand in the kitchen washed in gold, where the rain outside sings soft against the windows and the scent of vanilla drapes itself over the bones of the house.
There were years when love came braided in silence and obedience, when sweetness was something you only ever imagined, something you gave away without tasting, something that lived in storybooks and other people’s birthdays.
But here — in this glowing hush, in the weight of his eyes on you like a vow he keeps choosing — something breaks open in you. Gently. Without pain.
The bowl is nearly empty, but the love lingers, rich and steady, not loud or grand, but real in the quiet curve of your mouth and the warmth in your chest.
Behind you, in the doorway, a mother and a brother stand without speaking, carrying a kind of ache that only love knows — the kind that waits in the wings, the kind that chooses softness again and again.
And maybe that is what love is in the end, not the absence of pain but the presence that follows it, the quiet return, the choosing again and again.
He never stopped loving the sweetness. He just wanted you to have it first — to taste what your childhood kept out of reach, to learn that softness could be safe, that someone would wait in the rain with hands full of kindness just to be near you, that someone would stay even when you break, even when you cannot ask.
Simply to show that no matter what the world took from you, you will be loved.
After a tragic accident erased your memories, you no longer remember the man you married. Unfortunately for you, Ryomen Sukuna remembers everything. And he'll do whatever it takes to make you remember him too.
Everything was so much weird.
When you first opened your eyes, the world was a blur of harsh lights and a rhythmic, annoying beep that made your head throb. A crowd of people were hovering over your bed, their faces twisted into expressions of pure horror and desperation. It felt like they were looking at a ghost or maybe a god that had suddenly fallen from the sky. The moment you blinked and stared back at them with blank, unrecognizing eyes, the room dissolved into quiet, breathless weeping.
You were completely utterly lost. Who was the woman with the dark circles under her eyes calling herself Shoko? Why was she gripping your hand like her entire world was ending? You knew your own name y/n echoed clearly in the empty caverns of your mind, but beyond that single fact, there was only a vast, terrifying void. You understood the modern world. you knew what a smartphone was, you recognized the concept of Wi-Fi, and when you mumbled those details, the doctors in the room let out collective, gasping sighs of relief.
But the real shock came twenty minutes later.
The heavy door to the hospital room burst open with a violent slam. A man lunged inside like a madman, his chest heaving as he fought for breath. You had never seen anyone look like him. His hair was a soft, striking shade of pastel pink so pretty and unexpected that you wondered for a fleeting second if he had dyed it just to stand out. Dark, intricate tattoos mapped across his skin, curling around his sharp cheekbones and framing his eyes. And those eyes... they were a piercing, burning red, swirling with a volatile mixture of terrifying rage and profound, shattering sadness.
You just sat there in your oversized, faded blue hospital gown, looking small and fragile as your confused gaze met his. The man froze, roughly brushing a strand of pink hair out of his face. His clothes were covered in a layer of grey dust and dried grit, looking as though he had sprinted straight off a construction site the second he got the news.
"Fucking... God. Hey, princess... fuck, don't you ever scare me like that again" he breathed, his deep, gravelly voice cracking as he took two massive strides toward your bedside, staring down at you with a desperation that made the air feel heavy.
You shrank back into the pillows, your brow furrowing. Princess? Were you in some bizarre historical simulation? Did kings and horses still exist? No, the blinking medical monitors around you disproved that immediately.
"Mr. Sukuna, please. I need to speak with you in private for a moment" a woman in her mid forties interrupted, her expression incredibly grave as she stepped between you and the huge man. She glanced at the other people lingering by the door. There was a teenage boy, maybe sixteen, who had the exact same pink hair as the tattooed man, his face streaked with tears. Beside him stood another boy with unruly, spiky black hair and a dull, stoic expression that couldn't quite hide the anxiety in his eyes. At the doctor's quiet command, they all slowly filed out into the hallway.
Left alone for a moment, you stared at the stark white walls, the untouched glass of water on the bedside table, and the crushing, dull monotony of the room.
When the door clicked open again, the female physician returned, holding a thick medical chart. The tattooed man followed closely behind her. He tried to offer you a small, reassuring smile, but it looked incredibly strained on his rugged face. His crimson eyes locked onto you, tracking every breath you took as if you might literally vanish into thin air if he dared to look away for a single second.
"Hello, y/n. I am Dr. Jennifer" the woman said kindly, stepping up to the mattress. "Do you know why you were brought here today?"
You frowned, looking between her and the towering man. "No."
The syllable was short and hollow. Beside the doctor, Sukuna’s entire frame stiffened. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle feathered violently beneath his tattoos, his knuckles turning white as he balled his hands into fists.
"Right. But you do remember your name?" she pressed gently.
"Yes... y/n I am Y/N." you answered firmly. You knew the name belonged to you, even if the history attached to it was completely gone.
"And do you know where you are right now?"
"A hospital?"
"Correct" Dr. Jennifer nodded, opening the document in her hands. "Look, I am going to explain exactly what happened, and I need you to listen very carefully, alright?" You gave a small, hesitant nod. "You were in a severe accident yesterday evening. You were walking home from the local market when a car veered off the road and hit you. It is a miracle you walked away with minor physical injuries, but the trauma to your head has caused a severe case of retrograde amnesia. Honestly, it's a surprise you even remember your name right now."
You let out a quiet hum, your eyes drifting down to your own hands resting on the thin blanket. That was when you noticed it a slender, platinum band set with a brilliant, flawlessly cut diamond resting securely on your left ring finger. It looked incredibly expensive, classy, and entirely foreign
So you were married.
"Y/n" Dr. Jennifer’s voice pulled you from your thoughts. You snapped your head up to look at her. "This man standing beside me... he is your husband."
The doctor tilted her head toward the giant. He was massive easily over six feet of raw, intimidating muscle, his tattooed face giving him a terrifying, dangerous aura. Your very first instinctual thought was that this man looked incredibly scary.
Sukuna didn't say a word. He just stood there, letting you analyze him, before he offered you a tiny, incredibly vulnerable nod. You tilted your head, staring into his intense red eyes, desperately searching for a single spark of familiarity. Did I really marry this giant?
"His name is Ryomen Sukuna, and he is going to take care of you" the doctor continued, closing her chart. "For the next few weeks, you need to let your brain rest, but you also need to gently stimulate it to try and regain those lost memories. Spending time in a familiar environment, in your own home with your husband, is going to be the best medicine for you."
You nodded mutely. You didn't exactly have a choice. You were being handed over to a complete stranger who happened to hold a legal claim to your entire life.
"Alright then. I wish you a safe and speedy recovery" Dr. Jennifer said with a final, empathetic smile before slipping out of the room.
The heavy silence that followed was suffocating. Sukuna cleared his throat roughly, taking a few slow, tentative steps toward the edge of your bed. He moved with an immense amount of caution, as if he genuinely believed a sudden movement might break you into pieces. He pulled up the small plastic chair, sinking into it.
"Hey" he said softly. Even in a whisper, his voice was incredibly manly, deep, and rough.
"Hello" you replied shortly, your eyes tracking his hands.
To your surprise, his large, scarred fingers were trembling slightly as he fidgeted with them, refusing to meet your eyes. When he finally looked up, you realized the piercing red of his irises was completely glossy, swimming with unshed tears.
"Yo... you're getting discharged today" he choked out, taking a deep, ragged breath as if the mere act of speaking was causing him physical pain. "I'm going to go sign the paperwork, and then I'm taking you to... our house. I'm going to do whatever the fuck it takes to help you remember, princess."
You stared at his rugged, tattooed face for a long moment before letting out a soft, distant hum.
An hour later, you were sitting in the passenger seat of a sleek, black Jeep, The man Sukuna kept his left hand firmly on the steering wheel while his eyes flicked toward you every sixty seconds, his intense gaze making a nervous flutter erupt in your stomach.
You stared out the window, watching the city buildings, sprawling neighborhoods, and vibrant green trees blur past. Intrigued by the warm breeze, you raised your hand, pressing your palm gently against the glass as if you wanted to touch the passing leaves. Instantly, the window smoothly rolled down. Startled, you turned your head to find Sukuna adjusting the master controls, his eyes locked onto you with an unreadable warmth.
"Can I ask you something-" you murmured softly.
"Yes." The answer came incredibly fast, almost desperate. He was hanging on your every word, practically begging for you to speak to him.
"How... how did we meet?" you asked, leaning your elbow on the door frame as the wind whipped through your hair.
"We met in high school" he answered quickly, navigating a sharp turn onto a quiet, "We've been married for seven years."
"High school?" You tilted your head, a faint smile touching your lips as you extended your hand just slightly out into the rushing air. "Were we friends back then?"
"Careful" he commanded firmly, though there was no real heat in his voice. You obediently pulled your hand back inside. A faint, nostalgic softness crept into his red eyes as he looked ahead. "Friends? no. You could say we didn't liked eachother each other when we first met. You thought I was a loud, arrogant mannerless jerk and I thought you were a stubborn, bossy brat."
He smoothly pulled the Jeep into a long brick driveway, coming to a stop in front of a breathtaking, modern two story house. It was painted a crisp, elegant white with sleek charcoal-grey accents, boasting massive, floor to ceiling windows that caught the afternoon sun.
"This is...our house" Sukuna murmured, his voice dropping an octave. "We've been living here for about four years."
He killed the engine, threw his door open, and practically sprinted around the hood of the car to open your door before you could even reach for the handle. He extended a massive, tattooed hand toward you, his palm open and waiting. You stared at his hand, your eyes traveling up the thick muscles of his forearm, before you deliberately stepped down onto the driveway without taking it.
Sukuna’s hand froze in mid-air. You watched his fingers slowly curl back into a fist before he pulled his arm away, a flash of pure, agonizing heartbreak crossing his features before he quickly masked it with a stoic expression.
As your feet hit the pavement, you looked up at the towering structure, desperately begging your brain to spark even a single ounce of familiarity. Nothing came. But as you turned around, you caught a glimpse of the man standing beside you. He was on the absolute verge of tears. His chest was tight, his jaw locked as he stared at you. You were his entire world, his beautiful wife, and yet you were looking at him like he was a total stranger. He suddenly felt a wave of profound hatred for every single time he had ever been mean or stubborn with you in the past, even in jest. He just wanted his girl back. His sweet innocent girl.
"The house is beautiful" you murmured gently, walking toward the porch.
'The house.' Not our house. The detached wording made Sukuna’s jaw clench painfully.
"Of course it is. I built the damn thing" he muttered, following closely behind you.
It was your exact dream house. Years ago, back when you were just broke college students dating in a cramped apartment, you had traced a clumsy design on a napkin, telling him you wanted a modern white house with endless windows, three bedrooms, and a kitchen large enough for the two of you to bake and slow-dance together while listening to old jazz records. Sukuna had kept that napkin. The moment he made his fortune, he hired a crew but did the vast majority of the heavy structural work with his own two hands. He had gifted you the keys on your third wedding anniversary, and he could still vividly remember the way you had wept tears of joy, throwing your arms around his neck and kissing him until you were both breathless. He wanted that smile back. He would give anything just to have you look at him the way you used to.
You stepped inside, ignoring the heavy emotion rolling off him. Sukuna quickly gathered your small hospital bags and followed you into the foyer, shutting the door behind him.
Your eyes immediately gravitated toward the kitchen. It was vast, open, and undeniably stunning, featuring a massive quartz island and a huge sliding glass door that opened directly into a manicured backyard garden. The entire layout felt strangely perfect.
"Let me show you... around" Sukuna offered quietly.
He spent the next half hour guiding you through the corridors of what was supposed to be your life. But as he showed you the grand master bedroompointing out the side of the bed where you used to curl into his chest every single night your face remained entirely blank. You felt a twinge of heavy guilt pooling in your stomach. He showed you the living room, drawing your attention to a collection of large, breathtaking canvas paintings hanging on the walls.
"You painted those" Sukuna noted, a faint trace of pride in his rough voice. "You're a brilliant artist, princess."
You blinked in genuine surprise, looking down at your hands. "I drew these?" You were suprised, you don't even remember touching a brush in your life. But this is your new life. New start.
"Yeah." Sukuna stopped at the edge of the hallway, looking down at you with completely bloodshot eyes. He hadn't slept a single second since the hospital called him about your accident. All he wanted to do was wrap his massive arms around your waist, pull you flush against his chest, and bury his face in your hair until the nightmare ended. But he couldn't. "Look... you can sleep in the guest bedroom down the hall, or you can take our bedroom and I'll stay in the guest room. Whatever makes you feel comfortable. I don't want to make you feel uncomfortable you."
"Okay" you hummed softly.
His heart broke a little more at the compliant, distant tone. "I'll go start on some dinner, and then I'll get your medication ready. If you need a single damn thing, you just call out for me, alright? Your clothes are all in the dresser, undergarments in the top drawer, pajamas in the second..."
You nodded, offering him a polite murmur of thanks before retreating into the guest room. You changed into a simple, comfortable t-shirt and sweats. A little while later, his deep voice echoed up the stairs, announcing that dinner was ready. You walked down to the dining room, sitting at the large table like a polite houseguest waiting to be served.
"Do you need help?" Sukuna asked, carefully sliding a steaming bowl of homemade chicken soup and a large spoon toward you. You shook your head, grasping the utensil and taking a quiet sip. He sat across from you, his own bowl entirely untouched as he just stared at your face. "Y/n... you really don't remember a single damn thing about me?"
His voice cracked completely on the last word, the raw vulnerability of a ruthless man exposed right in front of you. You looked up, meeting his glossy red eyes.
"No... I don't. I'm really sorry" you whispered genuinely.
He let out a slow nod, swallowing the lump in his throat as he forced himself to look away. "Don't apologize. It's not your fault."
"Do I... do I have parents? Or friends?" you asked, a sudden curiosity about your own forgotten life bubbling up.
"Yeah. You have parents. Your father—"
"Where are they?" you interrupted quickly, leaning forward. "Do they know I was in an accident? Why aren't they here?"
"They haven't spoken to you in over seven years. Not since the day you married me" Sukuna said, his tone dropping into something cold and bitter.
"Why?"
"Your family is rich as fuck. Extremely strict, arrogant aristocrats" Sukuna explained, his red eyes locking back onto yours. "They completely forbade you from seeing me because I was just a rough, tattooed bastard from the wrong side of the tracks with a criminal record and a unstable future. They told you that if you walked out that door with me, you’d be cut off permanently."
You stared at him, a sudden spark of heat flaring in your chest. "Well, that's so stupid of them. It sounds like a good thing we don't talk to them then."
The sheer, unyielding loyalty in your voice made Sukuna’s lips twitch, a genuine, heartbreaking smile threatening to break through his stoic mask. Even with a wiped memory, his sweet wife still possessed that exact same fiery, protective spirit.
"Yeah" he chuckled hoarsely, letting out a long sigh. "You have an incredible best friend named Shoko. You two are both doctors. you work in the exact same surgical unit at the city hospital. We have a ton of mutual friends we met back in our high school days. And those kids at the hospital? The pink-haired teenager is my nephew, Yuji, and the dark-haired one is Megumi, our friend's kid. They practically worship the ground you walk on, princess. You love those brats to death."
"Can I see them?" you asked, a genuine smile finally breaking across your face.
"Of course. Whenever you want." he promised, his eyes tracking the way your lips curved.
Sukuna let out a sudden, rough snort, a wicked glint flashing in his eyes. "Old or not, woman... you're still completely breathtaking."
A deep, violent blush instantly stained your cheeks. You hadn't been around an attractive man or any man, for that matter in your conscious memory, and having this giant, dangerously handsome individual throw such a raw compliment at you made your heart do a chaotic somersault. You quickly looked down at your soup, missing the way his eyes softened at your reaction.
Over the next three weeks, the fragments of a life began to surround you, even if the puzzle pieces wouldn't quite lock into place.
Yuji and Megumi came over to the house constantly. Yuji spent hours enthusiastically teaching you how to make his signature protein shakes and weird jello molds, his loud laughter filling the quiet house, while Megumi sat nearby with his usual serious expression. But the moment you offered Megumi a soft, encouraging smile, his sharp features would instantly melt into something deeply tender. Yet, beneath their smiles, you could see the underlying sadness in their eyes every time you failed to remember a shared inside joke.
When Shoko finally visited, she broke down completely, throwing her arms around your neck and sobbing into your shoulder. It was a bizarre maybe stupid too, overwhelming feeling being fiercely loved by people you couldn't even remember and a heavy weight of guilt began to settle deep in your chest. You even met Toji, Megumi's father, a tall, stoic man who didn't say much but looked at you with a quiet, profound pity that made you realize just how broken your situation truly was.
And then, there was Sukuna.
Your husband spent every single day patiently guiding you through your routines, driving you past your old university, cooking your favorite meals, and trying every gentle trigger possible. But your mind remained a stubborn, locked vault. Sukuna was growing desperate furious and completely fucked up by the stagnation.
To make matters worse, just one week before the accident, you had playfully taken down every single one of your framed marriage photographs to rearrange the living room gallery wall, hiding them away in a "genius spot" that Sukuna had completely forgotten more like you didn't even told him. He had spent hours frantically tearing the house apart while you were out, searching for a single modern photo of the two of you together.
He was completely unraveling. He couldn't sleep. The woman he loved was sleeping in the room next to him, yet she looked at him with the polite, distant eyes of a stranger. He felt like a ghost haunting his own home. One evening, he sat alone in the dark kitchen and wept the third time he had ever cried in his entire life. The first had been tears of pure joy on your wedding day when he saw you walking the aisle. the second had been out of terror when the ER doctor told him a car had struck you. and now, he was crying simply because he missed his wife so damn much
His phone offered no help either. his gallery was filled entirely with candid photos he had taken of you you stepping out of the shower with a towel wrapped around your head, you laughing in a department store dressing room, or a hilarious picture of you biting into a raw lemon and making a completely disgusted face. He had no photos of the two of you together on his device, you had always been the one insisted on keeping the physical, printed albums. The only joint photos he could find were a few faded, wrinkled prints from your high school days, showing a younger, wilder version of himself wrapping his arms around you from behind while you laughed into the camera. When he showed them to you, you just stared at them blankly. It was killing him.
At the end of the third week, Sukuna was sitting heavily on the living room sofa, completely exhausted after another failed search through the house. He was mindlessly scrolling through the candid photos of you on his phone, a faint, melancholy smile touching his lips. His fingers traced your face on the photo, your bright smile. your bubbly laughter at his most unfunniset jokes, now all of that are vanished.
The heavy front door clicked open. Shoko had taken you out for an afternoon of shopping to get you out of the house, and she had just dropped you off at the curb. You stepped into the foyer, balancing several shopping bags in your arms.
Sukuna instantly locked his phone, shoving it into his pocket as he stood up, his red eyes drinking in the sight of you. "Had fun, princess?"
"Yes, I did. And thank you... for letting me use your credit card" you said softly, walking over to the coffee table and gently sliding the black card back toward him.
"You bought dresses?" he asked, pointing toward the bags. Honestly, he didn't give a single fuck about the money. you could have emptied his entire bank account and he would have gladly signed it away just to see you happy.
"I bought a few things..." You cleared your throat nervously, your fingers twisting together. "But... I actually bought something for you, too."
The words hit his chest like a physical blow. Even with her mind completely wiped, your beautiful, kind soul was still looking out for him. "Really?" he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "Can I see it?"
You gave a small nod, walking over to the couch and tentatively sitting down right next to him. The close proximity made his heart start to hammer against his ribs like a trapped bird.
"I don't know if it's really your style, or if you'll even like it..." you mumbled bashfully, reaching into a small velvet pouch and pulling out a heavy, intricately braided silver bracelet studded with raw, brilliant red stones. "The color... it just immediately reminded me of you. Of your eyes."
You gently reached out, grasping his massive, calloused wrist to drape the metal over his skin. Oh God, if you only knew how fast his heart was racing beneath his chest. Your soft, warm fingers lingering against his pulse point was pure, exquisite torture.
"It looks incredible, Y/n. Thank you." he whispered, a genuine, breathtakingly soft smile spreading across his tattooed face as he looked down at the crimson stones.
"Thank you... for being so incredibly patient with me" you said quietly, looking up at him through your eyelashes.
Sukuna let out a long, ragged sigh, his hand hovering over yours for a fraction of a second before he pulled back. "I will always be patient with you, princess. Always."
You looked directly into his burning red eyes, and for the first time in three weeks, a warm, genuine smile broke across your face. Sukuna felt his breath hitch. he was entirely certain he was about to pass out from the sheer weight of his love for you.
"Can you stay right here for a bit? I need to go jump in the shower real quick. I'll be fast" he muttered hoarsely, his hand instinctively reaching out to gently ruffle your hair a comforting, domestic habit he had carefully maintained. You let out a soft chuckle at the gesture.
The moment his heavy footsteps disappeared up the stairs and the sound of running water echoed through the pipes, you stood up, wandering aimlessly around the quiet main floor. Your feet pulled you toward the small, cozy library nestled just off the living room. The walls were lined with hundreds of books some ancient leather volumes, others modern art textbooks. You pulled one off the shelf, flipping through the pages before sliding it back into place.
As you stepped back, your eyes caught a glimpse of something hidden on the absolute highest shelf, shoved far back into the shadows near the ceiling. It looked like a massive, heavy frame leaning flat against the back wall, obscured by a decorative ceramic vase. Intrigued, you stood on your tiptoes, stretching your arms up as high as they could go, blindly reaching for the top edge of the wooden frame.
Your fingers caught the molding, but as you pulled, the heavy ceramic vase shifted, losing its balance.
Crash!
The vase shattered against the hardwood floor with a deafening, echoing smash. Startled, you let out a sharp cry, stumbling backward as the massive hidden frame came tumbling down from the top shelf, striking the edge of the desk before landing flat on the rug. The backing of the frame split completely open upon impact, and a massive cascade of loose, glossy photographs erupted across the floor hundreds of them, scattering like playing cards across the room.
You gasped, placing a hand over your racing heart as you looked away from the broken pottery, your eyes drifting down to the sea of images covering the floor.
You froze.
Right at your feet lay a massive, professionally printed portrait. In the photograph, you were sitting securely on Sukuna's lap. You were wearing a breathtaking, flowing white lace wedding dress, holding a vibrant bouquet of sunflowers, and laughing so brightly your eyes were crinkled shut. Sukuna was clad in a sharp, tailored black tuxedo, his massive arms wrapped fiercely around your waist from behind, an absolutely massive, unbothered, triumphant grin plastered across his face.
Your breath hitched violently. You stumbled forward, falling to your knees as your hands frantically snatched up another photo from the pile. In this one, you were hoisted high up on Sukuna's broad shoulders at a crowded, flashing outdoor music festival; your mouth was wide open in a breathless scream of laughter, while his large hands were clamped firmly around your thighs to keep you safe, both of your faces painted with pure, unadulterated euphoria.
You grabbed a third photo, and the entire world stopped spinning. It was a quiet, intimate shot taken right in the backyard garden outside. You were sitting cross-legged on the green grass, wearing a simple summer dress with a soft, shy smile, while Sukuna’s heavy head was resting completely in your lap. He was looking up at you with an expression of such pure, unconditional adoration it made your soul ache, while your fingers were woven gently through his soft pink hair.
Pink hair.
The backyard.
The jazz music.
The napkin.
A sudden, violent explosion of memories ripped through the barriers of your mind. It wasn't a trickle; it was a catastrophic, roaring tidal wave. Seven years of laughter, fierce arguments, passionate late-night apologies, the smell of his skin, the exact weight of his body pressing you into the master mattress, the sound of his deep voice whispering "I've got you, princess" into the dark. It all hit your brain at once with the force of a freight train.
The sheer, overwhelming velocity of the memories made the room spin violently. Your vision blurred into a vortex of white light and crimson eyes. You let out a choked gasp, your strength entirely giving out as your body collapsed sideways onto the hardwood floor with a loud, heavy thud, the scattered photographs of your life pooling around your unconscious form.
When you finally opened your eyes again, the harsh glare of the ceiling lights was gone, replaced by the warm, dim ambiance of the living room. You were laying flat on the soft fabric of the sofa.
"She's waking up! Sukuna, look, her eyes are moving!" Yuji’s panicked, loud voice cut through the quiet room.
You blinked heavily, your vision slowly focusing. Megumi was standing right beside his cousin, his dark eyes wide and completely swimming with anxiety. Shoko was hovering over you, a small medical flashlight in her hand, her face pale as she checked your vitals.
But your heart didn't care about any of them. Your eyes frantically scanned the tight circle of people, instantly landing on the massive, tattooed man standing frozen at the foot of the couch. His pastel pink hair was damp from the shower, his chest heaving under a plain black t-shirt, and his face was a mask of pure, absolute terror.
As your eyes met his, a single, heavy tear spilled over your eyelid, tracing a hot path down your cheek. The vast, terrifying void in your mind was completely gone, replaced by the roaring, beautiful fire of your reality.
"Ryo..." you choked out, your voice a broken, breathless sob.
Sukuna froze, his entire frame visibly violently shuddering at the sound of the nickname the private, intimate name only you were ever allowed to call him.
Before anyone else could even blink, you threw yourself forward off the sofa cushions, completely ignoring the dull ache in your muscles. You lunged straight into his space, your arms wrapping fiercely around his massive neck. You buried your face in the crook of his collarbone, gripping the fabric of his shirt with a desperate, white-knuckled intensity as you pressed a hard, crying kiss directly against his tattooed jaw.
"I remember... us" you sobbed violently into his skin, your entire body trembling as the tears flowed freely. "I remember everything, Ryo... I remember you."
Sukuna’s mind completely blanked. For a single, breathless second, he couldn't even process the words. And then, a raw, ragged sound escaped his throat a mixture of a sob and a laugh. His massive, powerful arms came crashing down around your frame, pulling you so close against his chest you could barely breathe, lifting your knees entirely off the floor as he buried his face into the crook of your neck.
And there, in the middle of his living room, surrounded by his family and the scattered photographs of your love, Ryomen Sukuna closed his eyes and wept for the fourth time in his life.
"I fucking love you" he whispers
(not me me writing all night just for 36 like and one reblog😣🙏🏾)
was talking to a coworker and realised i could not for the life of me remember his name but i was too embarrassed to ask because we've spoken multiple times so mid-conversation i started concocting a plan to nudge the conversation towards the ID photos on our building passes so that i could be like oh my ID photo is awful haha the camera they use to take these has a real talent for making me look as unphotogenic as possible and then he would say oh yes me too haha everyone says that (because they do) and then i would be able to say well let me see yours it can't be as bad as mine! and he would show me his ID because we are coworkers and why wouldn't he and this would allow me to see his building pass which of course would have his name on it and then i would be able to say well yours is perfectly nice it must be me that's the problem! and then we would have a polite chuckle about it and i would have his name without needing to ask for it and he would be none the wiser and all would be well but then before i could execute this fine plan a little voice in my head went "so this is some light yagami bull shit you are about to pull" which was such a violent reality check it shocked me completely out of my embarrassment and i went "hey im so sorry your name has slipped my mind could you remind me" and he did and it was fine.
May I humbly request something for Sanji, Zoro, Buggy, Mihawk and Law (separately)
With an S/o who is trying to be a good contributing member of the crew. But has a chronic pain and numbness in their hands making it difficult to do, a lot of things like ship chores and fighting.
And s/o feels guilty for not being able to contribute/struggling to contribute as much as the others?
Hands That Matter
gn!reader
characters: sanji, zoro, buggy, mihawk, law
a/n: sorry for the wait! I tried to make them have all different but it was kinda hard to not repeat myself, but I still gave them different moods. also I hope I described the reader's feelings right (づ￣ 3￣)づ
word count: around 1.2k - 1.6k each
anime m.list || ao3 || ko-fi || requests list
── .✦ Sanji:
tags: established relationship, chronic pain, soft sanji, hurt/comfort, domestic moments, emotional talks, hand pain, caring sanji
Usopp and Luffy are yelling somewhere above deck. Nami is complaining about something being broken. Chopper laughs so hard you can hear it through the walls.
And you stand in the kitchen trying to hold a plate without dropping it.
Your fingers shake… again.
You tighten your grip, jaw clenching “Careful, love.”
A warm hand slides under yours before the plate slips. Sanji takes it easily.
You immediately pull your hand back “I had it.”
“Mhm.” He smiles softly “And I’m the Pirate King.”
You huff quietly.
He places the plate down and turns back to the stove. The kitchen smells warm. Garlic, butter, something sweet baking in the oven.
Usually the smell makes you happy.
Today it only makes your chest hurt.
“I can still help…” you mumble.
“You are helping.”
“I barely cut two carrots.”
“That’s still helping.”
You look down at your hands.
Your fingertips are numb again. That strange heavy feeling like your hands are asleep and aching at the same time.
You flex them and pain shoots through your wrists.
You hide it quickly but Sanji notices everything. His eyes flick toward you for one second.
“You should sit.”
“I’m fine.”
“Sweetheart…”
“I said I’m fine.”
Silence.
Only the sound of oil sizzling in the pan.
You hate that tone in your own voice… sharp and angry, but not at him, never at him, mostly at yourself.
Sanji says nothing after that. He just moves around the kitchen calmly, cigarette hanging from his lips while he cooks for the crew like always.
Perfect movements.
Your eyes stay on his hands… strong hands. Fast hands. Hands that work.
You swallow hard.
“I can wash the dishes at least.” you say.
“You washed them yesterday.”
“And dropped three.”
“You dropped one.”
“It still broke.”
“So?” He shrugs “Franky breaks half the ship every week.”
“That’s not the same…”
He glances at you again and you look away first.
You move toward the sink before he can stop you. The plates are already stacked there.
You can do easy.
You grab the sponge, but the moment you squeeze it, pain burns through your palm so suddenly your breath catches.
The sponge slips right out of your hand.
Splash.
Water everywhere.
“Ah—shit.”
You try to grab it quickly, but your fingers refuse to close properly. The plate beside it tilts dangerously.
Sanji catches it before it falls, of course he does.
And suddenly your eyes burn.
“I’m sorry…” you whisper.
“Hey.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I can’t even do dishes right.” your voice cracks embarrassingly at the end.
You turn away fast.
Stupid.
You hate crying about this.
You hate the pity even more.
But Sanji doesn’t sound pitiful when he speaks… he sounds serious “Look at me.”
You don’t.
A chair scrapes softly against the floor.
Then he’s in front of you, looking at you carefully “Look at me, love.”
Slowly, you do.
His brows are slightly furrowed “You think I care about dishes?”
“No, but—”
“You think I want you here because you can scrub pans?”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Then tell me what you mean.”
You open your mouth but nothing comes out, because the truth feels ugly.
Sanji waits patiently anyway.
Your throat tightens.
“I just…” you stare at the floor “Everyone does so much.”
“Hmm.”
“Luffy fights sea monsters like it’s nothing. Zoro trains until he bleeds. Nami handles navigation alone during storms. Usopp builds things. Franky fixes everything. Robin knows everything. Chopper is our doctor.”
You laugh weakly.
“And I can barely hold a knife some days.”
The kitchen goes quiet.
You expect him to answer immediately, but he actually doesn’t. He just moves closer and very gently, he takes your hands.
Even though you try to hide how stiff they are, his thumbs rub over your knuckles carefully.
“Does it hurt right now?” he asks softly.
You hesitate “…Yes.”
“Numb too?”
You nod.
“Since this morning?”
“Since yesterday.”
“And you still tried to help me cook breakfast.”
You shrug helplessly “I wanted to do something useful.”
Something flashes across his face, not anger at you, but something sadder “Oh, sweetheart.”
The nickname almost breaks you.
You look away again.
“I know everyone says it’s okay,” you whisper “but it doesn’t feel okay.”
Sanji stays quiet for a second, then he suddenly pulls you gently against his chest.
One hand cradles the back of your head while the other rubs your back slowly.
“You listen to me now.” he says quietly.
His voice is low and firm in that rare way he gets when he means every word.
“You’re part of this crew.”
You grip his shirt weakly.
“You hear me?”
“…Yeah.”
“No. Really hear me.” He leans back enough to look at you “You think being useful is the reason we love you?”
Your eyes widen slightly “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
You fall silent.
Sanji sighs softly “When Chopper gets sick, do we throw him overboard because he can’t work?”
“No.”
“When Zoro is half dead after a fight, do we tell him he’s lazy?”
“Of course not.”
“When Luffy can’t move after doing something stupid?”
“That happens every week.”
Sanji snorts quietly “Exactly.”
Despite yourself, a tiny laugh escapes you.
“There it is.” he murmurs.
Your face warms.
He brushes his thumb under your eye.
“You’re hurting,” he says simply “that’s not failure.”
“But I make things harder.”
“You don’t.”
“I do.”
“You don’t.”
“I can’t even help in fights.”
“And?” His brows pull together again “Do you think your only value is fighting?”
You hesitate “A little…”
“Absolutely not.” he says it immediately, strongly “You make this place softer.”
Your breath catches.
Sanji continues before you can answer.
“You stay with Chopper when he studies too late. You listen to Usopp’s stories even when they’re terrible lies.” he smiles faintly “You help Robin find books. You calm Luffy down sometimes, which is honestly a miracle.”
You blink rapidly.
“And me?” he says quietly “You help me too.”
“How?”
He gives you a look like the answer is obvious “You sit with me during late nights in the kitchen.”
Your chest aches.
“You taste every new recipe.”
“You cook those for everyone.”
“I still want your opinion.”
His fingers squeeze yours carefully “You remind me to rest.”
“You never rest.”
“Exactly. Someone has to tell me.”
Another tiny laugh escapes you.
Sanji smiles softly at the sound.
Then he lifts one of your hands carefully to his lips and kisses your knuckles, slowly, like your hands are something precious.
Not broken or useless.
“You do enough.” he whispers.
The words hit harder than you expect, because part of you still doesn’t believe them.
And maybe he sees that, because he suddenly tilts your chin upward gently.
“And even if you did nothing,” he says, “even if all you could do was sit here and breathe beside me, I would still want you here.”
Your eyes sting again immediately “Sanji…”
“I mean it.” his forehead rests against yours now “You don’t have to earn your place every single day.”
The tears finally spill over.
You hide your face against his chest with a frustrated sound.
“Ah, don’t cry…” he murmurs immediately, holding you tighter “Now I’ll cry too and the others will never let me live it down.”
You laugh weakly through tears.
“There you are.”
His hand rubs your back slowly.
After a while, your breathing finally calms.
“…I still hate it.” you admit quietly.
“I know.”
“I hate needing help.”
“I know that too.”
“And I hate feeling weak.”
Sanji hums thoughtfully. Then he gently pulls back just enough to look at you “You know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think you’re strong as hell.”
You immediately shake your head “No.”
“Yes.”
“I can’t even—”
“Love.” His voice softens again “You wake up hurting and still try every day.”
You go still.
“That sounds strong to me.”
You don’t know what to say to that.
Maybe because nobody ever says it like that.
Sanji smiles a little.
“Now.” He wipes under your eyes gently “Doctor’s orders.”
“You’re not the doctor.”
“Temporary doctor’s orders.”
You snort.
“You sit right there.” he says pointing toward the small chair near the kitchen window.
“And what are you doing?”
“Cooking.”
“I should help.”
“You should rest.”
“But—”
He gives you a look… not angry, just stubborn. Very Sanji.
You sigh dramatically and sit down.
“Good.” He smiles again finally, softer now “That’s my sweetheart.”
You watch him move around the kitchen again.
Comfortable.
After a minute, he speaks without turning around “Can you do something for me though?”
Your shoulders tense immediately “What?”
“Tell me if the sauce needs more salt.”
You blink “That’s it?”
“That’s a very important job.”
A small smile pulls at your mouth.
Sanji glances over his shoulder and catches it immediately “There’s the smile I like.”
He brings over the spoon carefully.
You taste the sauce. Warm. Rich. A little spicy.
“It needs more pepper.”
Sanji gasps dramatically “Perfect. I trained you well.”
He bends over and leaves a soft kiss on your lips before moving back to the kitchen.
You laugh again, more real this time.
And somehow, sitting there while he cooks beside you, the guilt feels quieter.
Not gone maybe, but quieter.
Sanji notices that too as he smiles softly to himself before turning back to the stove.
“See?” he says gently, winking at you “Always helping the chef.”
Pain shoots through your fingers immediately. Your hands feel numb in some places, burning in others. You try to ignore it and keep sweeping.
“You missed a spot.”
You look up and see Nami pointing near the stairs with her pen.
“Oh—yeah. Thank you.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” You smile quickly “Just tired.”
She watches you for a second longer before walking away.
The second she leaves, you shake your hands behind your back.
It hurts.
Again…
Later, everyone eats lunch together.
Luffy is stealing meat from everyone’s plates.
Sanji is yelling “LUFFY! STOP TOUCHING THE FOOD!”
“I’m hungry!”
“You already ate three plates!”
“I’m still hungry!”
Basically the usual.
Across the table, Zoro drinks quietly.
You glance at him and he notices immediately.
He watches you with a questioning expression on his face and says “You’re staring.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m thinking.”
“That face means trouble.”
You laugh softly, making him smirk.
Then his eye move lower to your hands.
You pull them under the table immediately, which makes his expression change a little.
That evening, you find him training on deck. Weights. Swords. Sweat.
Normal Zoro things.
You stand nearby awkwardly “Can I train with you?”
He pauses “You trained yesterday.”
“I know.”
“And the day before.”
“I know.”
“And you could barely hold the practice sword after.”
You force a laugh “I’ll get better.”
He studies you carefully “You sure?”
“Yeah.”
Big lie… but you hate saying no. You hate sitting around while everyone works.
Everyone has something.
Nami navigates.
Sanji cooks.
Usopp fixes things.
Chopper heals people.
Robin researches.
Franky builds.
Brook plays music.
Jinbe steers.
Zoro fights.
And you… you struggle to even hold a mop some days.
So you keep trying, even when your hands shake, even when your fingers go numb, and even when you wake up at night because pain crawls up your wrists.
You keep trying because if you stop, what are you useful for?
“Again.” Zoro blocks your attack easily.
Your wrists hurt already.
You tighten your grip at your best and then swing again.
He blocks again “You’re too tense.”
“I’m fine.”
“You say that every five minutes.”
“I am fine.”
Your fingers suddenly lose strength and the sword slips.
You freeze.
Your hand tingles painfully.
Zoro looks down at the fallen sword, then at you.
You quickly bend down to grab it, but pain shoots through your wrist so hard you suck in a breath.
But he already heard that “You’re hurt.”
“No.”
“Don’t lie.”
“I’m not lying.”
“You’re terrible at lying.”
“I said I’m fine!”
Your voice comes out sharper than you mean.
The deck goes quiet, even the wind feels still.
Zoro stares at you, then he sighs “Come sit.”
“I don’t need—”
“Sit.”
You hate how weirdly gentle his voice sounds… it makes your chest hurt.
You sit down near the railing while he puts the practice swords away.
For a while, neither of you talks.
Then he sits beside you.
“You’ve been hiding it.”
You stare at the ocean “Hiding what?”
“The pain.”
You shrug “It’s not a big deal.”
“It is to you.”
You laugh weakly “Not really.”
“You can barely hold things some days.”
Your throat tightens.
“I can still do stuff.”
“I know.”
“I just…” You swallow hard “I’m slower.”
Zoro says nothing.
“And everyone else does so much…” you continue quietly “I can’t even finish basic chores without messing up.”
“You don’t mess up.”
“I do…”
“You don’t.”
“I do.” you repeat, louder this time “I can’t scrub the deck long enough. I drop things. My hands stop working in fights. Sometimes they go numb for hours.” your voice shakes “I’m supposed to help the crew.”
“You do help.”
“How?”
The question comes out too fast and too honest.
You immediately regret it, but Zoro doesn’t get angry.
He leans back against the railing “You think helping only means fighting and chores?”
“I mean… yeah? In a pirate crew, yeah.”
“That’s stupid.”
You blink “That’s rude.”
“It’s true.”
You glare at him weakly.
He continues anyway “When Chopper patches us up after the smallest cut, is that useless?”
“No.”
“When Brook plays music or makes you all laugh after bad days?”
“No.”
“When Luffy drags us into trouble and somehow makes people free?”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
You open your mouth and close it again.
Zoro looks toward the sea “You stay awake with people when they can’t sleep.”
You blink.
“You listen when someone’s upset.”
You stare at him.
“You remember small things.” he says “Like how Chopper likes compliments. Or how Usopp gets nervous before fights and what calms him down.”
Heat rises to your face and say “That’s not important.”
“It is.”
“It’s not enough.”
Zoro goes quiet for a moment, then suddenly snorts “You know? I don’t like using him as an example, but even the weird eyebrows man never uses his hands to fight.”
You stare at him “…Sanji?”
“Unfortunately.”
A small laugh escapes you.
Zoro points at your hands “There are other ways to fight.”
“I can’t exactly kick like him.”
“You don’t have to.”
“But—”
“Even I use my mouth for a sword.”
You blink again “That… sounds weird when you say it out loud.”
“It works, doesn’t it?”
You laugh despite yourself.
“There’s more than one way to help people. More than one way to fight.” He looks directly at you now “You keep trying to force yourself into something that hurts you.”
Your eyes sting suddenly “I just don’t want to be dead weight.”
His expression hardens immediately “You are not dead weight.”
The words come fast, strong and certain.
“You hear me?”
You look away quickly.
“You belong here.” he says quietly now “With us. With… me.”
Your chest aches painfully, in that overwhelming kind of way that isn't always bad.
“You noticed all that?” you ask softly.
“Obviously.”
“I thought I hid it well.”
“You hide it terribly.”
You groan “Great.”
“You flex your fingers every ten seconds.”
“…Oh.”
“And you make this face.”
“What face?”
“This one.” he copies your annoyed expression badly.
You stare at him “That looks nothing like me.”
“It does.”
“You look constipated.”
“Tch.”
Now, that makes you finally laugh… a real laugh this time.
Zoro watches you carefully afterward, like he’s checking if the sadness is still there.
And it is, but lighter now.
“You really think there are other ways?” you ask quietly.
“Yeah.”
“What if I still can’t do enough?”
“You don’t decide that alone.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means the crew already wants you here.”
Your eyes widen slightly.
“And I want you here…” he adds.
The softness in his voice nearly kills you but his red ears are so cute.
You stare at him for a long moment, then suddenly lean forward and kiss him.
Zoro makes a surprised sound against your lips.
Then one hand moves carefully to your waist, pulling you closer in a gentle push. Always gentler than people expect from him.
The kiss is warm and slow, feeling close and safe.
When you pull back, your face feels hot.
“That was a thank you.” you mumble.
“Hm.”
“What?”
“You can thank me again if you want.”
You snort loudly “There’s the idiot swordsman again.”
“And there’s the smiley you.”
You lean against his shoulder.
Finally, you don't feel guilty about all this.
── .✦ Buggy:
tags: established relationship, chronic pain, insecurity, comfort, subtle care, emotional hurt/comfort
The ship rocks hard under your feet as someone on deck is screaming again.
“WHO TOOK MY FUCKING CAPE?!”
You close your eyes “…There he is.”
One of the crew points quickly “Captain Buggy, Mohji used it to cover the cannon!”
“WHAT?!”
You hear stomping, loud crashing and then a man screaming in fear.
Then Buggy’s voice again “YOU USED MY CAPE FOR A CANNON?! ARE YOU INSANE?!”
You smile a little despite yourself, because your hands ache badly, today too.
The numbness started this morning before sunrise and it crawled from your fingertips to your wrists until even holding a spoon felt strange… like your hands belonged to someone else.
You flex your fingers slowly, pain shoots up your arm “…Ow.”
You hide the sound quickly.
You still have work.
Everyone on this ship works.
Even if Buggy acts dramatic and lazy sometimes, the crew still moves because people do their jobs.
You want to do yours too.
You grab the rope beside you and start tying down the supply crates before the weather gets worse.
Your fingers slip immediately “Damn it.”
You try again but the knot comes loose.
You try again and again and again.
Your jaw tightens “Come on…”
You can fight through pain, usually… but numbness is worse. It makes your hands stupid.
You try pulling harder.
A sharp sting suddenly burns through your palm and your fingers give out completely. The rope falls.
“Shit—”
“Why are you doing that?”
You jump.
Buggy stands behind you with his arms crossed.
“You’re gonna tie the crates like that?” he asks.
“I can do it.”
“Yeah? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re fighting a rope and losing.”
“I said I can do it.”
Buggy narrows his eyes.
You hate that look… that careful one. The one that says he noticed something is off.
“I’m fine.” you add quickly.
“Uh-huh.”
“I am.”
“Sure.”
You glare “Why are you even here?”
“Because this is my ship.”
“You were screaming about your cape two seconds ago.”
“That’s different. That was important.”
You snort softly.
Buggy walks closer and grabs the rope from your hands and says “I’ve got it.”
“No, give it back.”
“Why?”
“Because I should help.”
“You are helping.”
“How?”
“You’re standing there looking pretty and keeping morale up.”
“That’s not real work.”
Buggy starts tying the knot quickly “Well, good thing I, the captain, didn’t ask.”
You cross your arms.
The ache in your hands pulses harder now from trying too much.
Buggy notices you rubbing your fingers, but he says nothing, and for you, that somehow feels worse.
Later, the crew gathers for lunch.
You sit beside Buggy while everyone argues over portions.
Cabaji points across the table “Captain, they’re taking extra meat again!”
“I CAN SEE THAT!”
“It was one piece!” someone shouts.
“THAT’S STILL THEFT!”
You try picking up your cup but your fingers twitch halfway there and the cup slips.
Buggy catches it before it falls, fast.
Nobody else even notices.
“Careful,” he says loudly “you break my cups, you buy new ones.”
You stare at him “…Thanks.”
“Tch. Don’t get emotional.”
He pushes the cup back toward you more carefully this time.
Under the table, his foot bumps yours once, soft, as if he’s checking you’re okay.
You look down quickly before anyone sees your face.
That night, the pain gets worse.
Rain hits the ship hard. Wind screams outside your room.
You sit on the edge of the bed trying to wrap your wrists tighter. Maybe if you press hard enough, your hands will listen again.
You hiss quietly.
The door opens.
Buggy walks in carrying a plate “What are you doing sitting in the dark like some tragic widow?”
You blink “What?”
“I brought food.”
“I can see that.”
“Well don’t sound too grateful.”
He puts the plate beside you.
You stare at it “…I wasn’t hungry.”
“Yeah, because pain does that.” he shrugs “Eat anyway.”
You freeze.
Buggy starts taking off his coat like he said nothing strange.
“You didn’t have to—”
“I know.”
Silence fills the room for a moment except for the storm outside.
You look down at your hands again “I hate this.”
Buggy pauses “Hate what?”
“This.” You flex your fingers weakly “I can’t do basic things some days.”
“So?”
“So I’m supposed to help!”
“You do help.”
“How? I can barely hold a cup lately.”
Buggy scoffs loudly “Please. Half my crew can barely hold conversations.”
“That’s not the point.”
You stand suddenly and start pacing “I can’t fight right. I drop things. I mess up knots. I slow people down—”
He looks at you. No jokes. No yelling. Just sharp eyes watching carefully.
“You think I keep you around because you can fight?” he asks.
“I mean… it helped.”
“That’s stupid.”
You blink.
Buggy points at you dramatically “You think I, the great Captain Buggy, only values people for strength? Look at my crew! Half these idiots eat soap if nobody stops them!”
A crash sounds outside.
Someone yells, “IT WASN’T SOAP!”
Buggy shouts toward the door, “YES IT WAS!”
Then he looks back at you again as his voice lowers “You’re with me because I want you here.”
Your chest hurts suddenly, but different from before.
“You don’t get it,” you whisper “I feel useless.”
Buggy groans loudly like the conversation annoys him.
Then he walks over to say “You know what I think is useless?”
“What?”
“You sitting here hurting yourself because you’re too stubborn to ask for help.”
You look away “I don’t want people treating me differently.”
“Good. Because they won’t.” Buggy crouches in front of you “But I will.”
You blink again “What does that mean?”
“It means,” he says slowly, “and please don’t make me repeat it, that I’ll help before you ask. And I’ll make it look natural so nobody bothers you about it.”
You stare “…You already do that.”
Buggy freezes for half a second, then immediately points at you “HAH! So you noticed!”
“You’re not subtle.”
“I’m extremely subtle.”
“You literally steal things from my hands when they hurt.”
“That’s called romance.”
Despite everything, you laugh, small and tired, but real.
Buggy watches your face carefully after the sound leaves you, like he missed hearing it.
“Tch.” he mutters “There it is.”
“What?”
“That annoying laugh.”
“You like my laugh.”
“I never said that.”
“You smile every time.”
“I do NOT.”
“You’re smiling right now.”
“I’m just naturally charming.”
You laugh again.
Buggy’s shoulders loosen slightly, then he grabs your wrists carefully.
“You’re warm.” he says.
“My hands always are when they hurt.”
“…Does it feel bad now?”
“A little.”
He rubs circles into your wrists with his thumbs, awkwardly. Like he refuses to admit he learned how to help properly.
“You don’t have to fix everything alone.” he mutters.
You look at him quietly and admit “For someone who screams all day, you say really nice things sometimes.”
“Don’t spread that around.”
“Your reputation?”
“Exactly.”
You smile softly.
Buggy notices immediately and squints at you suspiciously “What?”
“You’re being cute.”
“That sounds like a threat.”
“It is.”
The storm outside gets louder, but inside the room, it feels strangely calm.
Buggy keeps rubbing your wrists.
You finally whisper, “I’m scared sometimes.”
He goes still “Of what?”
“That one day I won’t be able to do anything useful.”
Buggy clicks his tongue “Then you can sit next to me and insult people professionally.”
“That’s your job.”
“I can share… with you.”
You smile weakly.
“But really,” you say, quieter now, “what if I become a burden?”
Buggy’s expression changes immediately, sharp and obviously offended “Don’t say that.”
You blink at the sudden tone.
“I mean it.” he says “Don’t call yourself that.”
“…Sorry.”
“Tch.”
He stands up fast and pulls you with him.
Before you can react, his arms wrap around you tightly, not graceful and not elegant at all, just very Buggy style.
“You’re an idiot sometimes.” he mutters against your hair.
“You say that lovingly.”
“I say it truthfully.”
You relax slowly against him.
His chin rests on your head.
Outside, thunder cracks loudly.
Buggy squeezes you once more and then he pulls back enough to look at your face “You done being dramatic now?”
“You’re literally hugging me.”
“That’s unrelated.”
You snort softly.
His eyes flick down to your mouth for one quick second, then away immediately.
“…What?” you ask.
“Nothing.,,”
“You made a face.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
Buggy groans like this is exhausting, then suddenly grabs your jaw dramatically and say “Fine! Since you clearly require attention—”
He kisses you, fast at first, almost clumsy. Then softer when you lean closer.
His gloves brush your cheeks carefully.
You melt a little against him.
Buggy huffs quietly into the kiss.
When he pulls away, his face is slightly red under the makeup.
“You better not get all emotional about that now.” he says immediately.
“Too late.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
You grin.
Buggy rolls his eyes dramatically, but he kisses your forehead anyway before pulling you back against his chest.
It doesn't fall far, it falls onto the wooden table with a dull clack and your shoulders tense instantly.
You stare at your numb hand… again.
The feeling comes and goes every day. Sometimes it burns. Sometimes your fingers feel heavy like stone. Sometimes you cannot even tell if you're holding something until it drops.
Today is one of the bad days.
You flex your hand slowly “Damn it…”
Across the kitchen, Dracule Mihawk looks up from the book in his hand.
His eyes move from your face to the knife “You are pushing yourself again.”
“I’m fine.”
“You dropped it three times.”
You hate that he notices everything.
You grab the knife again before he can stand up “I said I’m fine.”
Mihawk closes his book with one quiet motion.
The sound alone makes you nervous.
Not because he's angry, Mihawk rarely raises his voice and that almost makes it worse somehow. His silence always sees too much.
He walks toward you slowly “Give me the knife.”
“I can still cut vegetables.”
“You can barely hold the handle.”
Your jaw tightens “I’m trying to help.”
“And I didn’t say otherwise.”
“But you’re doing everything lately.”
“That’s incorrect.”
“You know what I mean.”
Mihawk studies your face for a long moment, in a calm and sharp way “You're in pain today.”
You look away first “…It’s not worse than normal.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
The numbness crawls higher into your wrist. You hate it and so you hate your own body. Hate the stupid weakness in your fingers. You used to fight beside him. Not at his level, obviously, nobody is at his level, but enough to stand proudly beside him.
Now even holding a teacup too long hurts.
You laugh quietly, bitterly “Some good partner I am.”
Mihawk’s expression changes slightly but enough that most people would miss it… you don’t.
“You think your worth depends on what you can carry with your hands?”
“It should depend on something.”
“It does.”
“Like what?”
“You're here.”
You blink “That’s not enough.”
“For you, maybe.”
“Mihawk…”
“You speak as though I chose you for labor.”
His voice stays even, deep and calm.
“But I can’t fight properly anymore.”
“You still can.”
“Not like before.”
“No,” he agrees immediately “not like before.”
The honesty hurts more than pity would.
You pull your hand back against your chest “See?”
Mihawk sighs softly through his nose.
“You continue to measure yourself against impossible standards.”
“That’s rich coming from you.”
That actually earns the faintest look of amusement.
“Yes. Perhaps.”
You lean against the counter, exhausted already.
“I just…” You swallow hard “I hate needing help.”
“You have needed help since the day we met.”
The memory flashes immediately. You trying to hide shaking hands while wrapping a wound. Mihawk silently taking the bandages from you without a word. The first time he held a cup near your lips because your fingers stopped cooperating halfway through dinner.
He always knew. Always.
And somehow that makes the guilt worse.
“I thought maybe if I worked harder…” you mumble.
“To accomplish what?”
“To stop being a burden.”
Silence.
You shouldn't have said that.
Mihawk steps closer.
His voice lowers “Never say that about yourself again.”
The words are quiet, but firm enough to cut stone.
You stare at him.
“You think caring for you is a burden?”
“I mean—”
“You think I am forced into it?”
“No…”
“Then don't insult my choices.”
You look down quickly “…Sorry.”
Another silence.
Then you feel leather gloves brush lightly against your wrist.
Mihawk lifts your hand carefully, like he already knows exactly where it hurts.
“Where is the numbness?”
“Mostly fingers. Wrist too.”
“And pain?”
“Everywhere.”
“Hm.”
You almost laugh tiredly “Very helpful answer, I know.”
“It's accurate.”
His thumb presses lightly against your palm. Testing.
You flinch and his eyes narrow immediately and he asks “That bad?”
“It’ll pass.”
“You say that often.”
Because it usually does… sometimes.
You watch him remove his gloves one finger at a time before setting them aside.
Then he reaches for the kettle.
“I can still make tea myself.”
“I'm aware.”
“Then why are you—”
“Sit down.”
“…You sound like a doctor.”
“You would ignore one of those as well.”
You mutter something under your breath.
“I heard that.”
“I know.”
You finally sit at the table while Mihawk moves around the kitchen with smooth, easy motions. Precise and controlled like always.
He never rushes.
“You don’t get annoyed?” you ask quietly.
“At what?”
“At me struggling all the time.”
“No.”
“But doesn’t it get tiring?”
Mihawk pours hot water into a cup “Yes.”
Your chest sinks immediately.
Then he continues calmly “Pain is tiring. Watching someone you care for hurt is tiring. That doesn't mean I resent you.”
You stare at the table “I can’t even hold my sword properly some days.”
“You're grieving.”
The words hit harder than expected “What?”
“You speak as though you lost nothing.”
Mihawk sets the cup in front of you carefully.
“But you did.”
You look up slowly.
“You lost ease. Strength. Freedom. Certainty in your own body.” His gaze stays on you “Yet you expect yourself to feel nothing about it.”
Your throat tightens painfully.
Nobody says things like that to you.
Most people tell you to stay positive, to try harder or to be grateful it isn't worse.
Mihawk never lies to make things easier, and somehow that comforts you more.
“I’m tired…” you admit quietly.
“I know.”
“I hate feeling useless.”
“You aren't useless.”
“I can’t even help around the castle without messing up.”
“You help me every day.”
“How?”
“You listen.”
You blink.
“You stay.”
Another answer comes before you can speak.
“You make this place feel inhabited instead of empty.”
Your face warms immediately “Mihawk…”
“And,” he says calmly, “your presence discourages idiots from interrupting my evenings.”
You laugh despite yourself “There it is.”
“There what is?”
“The romantic talk.”
A faint smirk touches his mouth “Don’t become spoiled now.”
You wrap your hands carefully around the warm cup. Heat helps sometimes.
MMihawk watches your grip for a moment, then he asks“Have you practiced the stretches I showed you?”
“…Sometimes.”
“You forgot.”
“Maybe.”
“Hm.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“I am.”
You groan softly “I knew you were going to say that.”
“You injure yourself further by ignoring limits.”
“I’m trying not to have limits.”
“That's foolish.”
You glare at him weakly “You’re supposed to encourage me.”
“I am encouraging you… to use your brain.”
You snort into your tea.
The room grows quieter after that, but a comfortable quiet. Rain taps lightly against the castle windows.
Mihawk sits across from you again with his wine.
You watch him for a while.
“How are you so patient with me?”
“I’m not patient.”
“You are with me.”
“That’s different.”
The answer comes too fast to be accidental.
Something soft pulls painfully in your chest.
You look at your hands again “They’re ugly lately.”
Mihawk immediately looks irritated “Your hands.”
“The swelling’s worse.”
“They’re hands.”
“You know what I mean.”
“They’re yours.”
He says it like that settles everything and maybe to him, it does.
You laugh quietly again “You’re impossible.”
“And yet you remain here.”
“Unfortunately.”
“How tragic.”
You smile into your tea.
Then the numbness suddenly spikes sharply through your fingers.
You hiss softly.
Mihawk is beside you immediately and says “Show me.”
“It’s fine.”
“Show me.”
You hold out your hand reluctantly.
He takes it carefully between both of his larger hands.
His thumbs move slowly across your knuckles, with a gentle pressure.
“You should rest.”
“I rested yesterday.”
“You rested poorly yesterday.”
“…You notice too much.”
“Yes.”
His fingers continue massaging your hand slowly and it kinda helps, but not enough to remove the pain completely. Nothing ever does. But at least it’s enough to loosen the tightness in your chest.
“You know,” you mumble, “most people would leave.”
Mihawk looks genuinely unimpressed “I’m not most people.”
“I know.”
“Then stop speaking as though I’m temporary.”
Your eyes sting unexpectedly.
That’s the problem with him. Mihawk doesn’t speak gently often, or at least not so obvious, but when he does, every word lands directly inside your ribs.
You look at him quietly. At the sharp golden eyes, at his calm face… at the man feared across entire seas sitting here massaging your aching hands without complaint.
“You really don’t mind?”
“No.”
“Even when I can’t do things?”
“Yes.”
“Even when I get frustrated?”
“I expect it.”
“Even when I’m difficult?”
One eyebrow lifts slightly “You’re frequently difficult.”
You gasp softly in fake offense.
“But yes.”
You shake your head with a tiny laugh.
“You’re terrible at comfort.”
“And yet you’re calmer now.”
“…Damn it.”
That tiny almost-smile appears again.
Victory.
You stare at him for another quiet moment before speaking softly.
“Thank you.”
Mihawk pauses, then he nods once “You don’t need to thank me for loving you.”
Your breath catches immediately, because he just said it so simply, like it’s a fact. No embarrassment and no hesitation, and that makes it feel even more real.
You stand slowly from the chair.
Mihawk watches you carefully in case your hands fail again.
But instead, you step closer until you are standing between his knees.
His gaze lifts toward you “What are you doing?”
“You said something nice.”
“A rare mistake.”
“So I’m rewarding you.”
“Hm.”
You place your hands lightly against his chest and he just lets you.
Then you lean down and kiss him softly and slowly.
Mihawk goes still for half a second before one hand settles against your waist.
His thumb brushes once against your side while he kisses you back with quiet restraint, controlled like everything else about him… but warm… always warmer than people expect.
When you pull back, he looks at you silently for a moment.
Then he says “You’re smiling.”
“You noticed?”
“I notice everything.”
You kiss the corner of his mouth quickly this time and tell him “That’s annoying.”
“And yet,” he murmurs, eyes softer now, “you continue to stay.”
Not enough to stop functioning completely and not enough to count as an emergency.
Just enough to make every small thing irritating and exhausting and humiliating if you think about it too long.
Today, unfortunately, you keep thinking about it.
You stand in the kitchen of the Polar Tang staring at the container in your hands, jaw tight as you try twisting the lid open again.
Nothing.
Your fingers slip as pain sparks through your wrist.
You grit your teeth and try again anyway, but the lid doesn’t move.
God, this is stupid.
Behind you, the crew is loud as usual… Shachi laughing too hard at his own joke, Penguin arguing back, Bepo trying unsuccessfully to calm them down before Law inevitably tells everyone to shut up.
Normal.
Everything feels normal except for you.
You finally force the lid open using the edge of the counter, but the motion sends a sharp ache through your palm that makes you hiss quietly.
And for some reason, the fact that something this easy has to become a whole ordeal every single time, makes your chest feel tight suddenly.
You set the container down harder than intended and stare at your hands.
The numbness comes in waves today.
Fingertips tingling, grip weakening without warning, joints stiff and sore like your body is punishing you for existing in it.
You hate it and you hate that everyone else can move without thinking about it.
You hate that you have to calculate every little task.
You hate needing help.
Most of all, you hate that you’re used to it now.
“You’re glaring at the counter.”
Law’s voice makes you jump slightly.
You look over your shoulder.
He stands in the doorway with his hands in his pockets, expression unreadable beneath the brim of his hat.
“…I’m fine.” you say automatically.
“Hm.”
That hum means liar.
He watches you for another second before his eyes drop to your hands.
Your fingers curl instinctively.
Law notices that too, of course “You’re hurting.”
It isn’t a question.
You look away “It’s manageable.”
“That bad, then.”
“I said manageable.”
“And I said that’s bad.”
His voice stays calm, flat, irritatingly perceptive.
You exhale sharply through your nose and lean back against the counter “I’m just tired today.”
Law walks into the kitchen quietly, stopping in front of you “Tired physically or mentally?”
You laugh once without humor “Guess.”
His gaze stays on you long enough that your throat starts tightening.
You hate that he can read you this easily and you hate that part of you is relieved by it too.
“I can’t do anything right today.” you mutter finally.
“That’s not true.”
“I almost lost grip on my weapon yesterday.”
“You still hit your target.”
“Ikkaku had to finish maintenance for me.”
“Because your hands were locking up.”
“I can’t even open containers normally half the time…”
“So?”
The word catches you off guard.
You blink at him.
Law’s expression barely changes, but there’s something firmer in his tone now.
“So,” he repeats, “you adapt. Or someone helps you. That’s not a moral failure.”
“It feels like one.”
Silence settles heavily between you while the submarine hums around you softly.
You stare at your hands again.
“I just feel useless sometimes…” you admit quietly “everyone else contributes so much more than me.”
Law’s eyes narrow slightly “You think your value to this crew depends entirely on physical ability?”
“No, but—”
“No,” he interrupts flatly “you don’t get to ‘but’ your way out of this one.”
Despite yourself, your mouth twitches weakly.
Law steps closer.
“You help Bepo study navigation routes because he gets overwhelmed reading maps.” he says “You reorganized the medical storage because none of these idiots know how to put things back correctly. You stay up repairing clothes and equipment even when your hands hurt.”
“That’s small stuff.”
“It still matters.”
You swallow hard “It doesn’t feel like enough.”
Law goes quiet, then he sighs softly through his nose and reaches for your hands “Give me these.”
You let him take them without protest.
His fingers are warm around yours, steady and careful as he turns your hands over in his grip. He presses gently along your palms and wrists, thumbs working against the sore muscles like he already knows exactly where it hurts most.
Because he does know… he always does.
“You’ve been overusing them.” he mutters.
“I know.”
“You compensate when they start going numb.” His thumbs press into the base of your palm, easing some of the ache immediately “That strains everything else.”
You watch his face while he works, focused and quiet. Slightly annoyed in the way he always gets when he cares too much about something.
“You notice everything.” you mumble.
“I’m a doctor and captain.”
“You’re nosy.”
“Hm.”
The corner of his mouth twitches faintly.
Your chest aches but not in a bad way.
You suddenly feel exhausted all over again.
“I hate this…” you whisper.
Law’s hands still for half a second “I know.”
The simple honesty in it almost breaks you.
No forced positivity and no pretending it’s easy. Just understanding.
Your eyes sting embarrassingly fast.
Law notices immediately, because of course he does.
“You’re thinking too much again.” he says quietly.
“I can’t help it.”
“You can.” his thumbs resume their slow movements against your hands “You just don’t know how to stop.”
You laugh weakly “Amazing diagnosis, doctor.”
“I’m very talented.”
That actually earns a real laugh from you this time, and there it is that tiny shift in his expression when he hears it, small enough most people would miss it entirely.
You don’t, you know Law too well for that.
Warmth blooms slowly in your chest, soft and aching and without thinking too hard about it, you step closer and reach up to grab his face.
Your fingers fumble slightly against his cheeks from the numbness.
Law lets you reposition your hands without a single complaint.
Then you kiss him right on the mouth, slow and warm.
He exhales softly through his nose, surprised for only a second before one hand slides automatically to your waist.
When you pull back, you kiss his cheek… then under his eye, then the corner of his jaw.
“You’re being weird.” he mutters.
“You’re nice to me.”
“I’m literally treating your symptoms.”
“You’re holding me.”
“That’s unrelated.”
You laugh quietly against his skin before kissing his forehead.
Law sighs like you are personally exhausting him, but his grip on your waist tightens slightly.
“You know,” you murmur between kisses, “you’re really bad at pretending you don’t like affection.”
“I don’t like affection.”
“Mhm, sure.”
You kiss his nose. Then beneath his lip. Then his temple.
Law’s ears start turning faintly pink beneath the brim of his hat.
Victory.
“You’re annoying.” he grumbles.
“But you love me.”
He goes silent for one fatal second too long, making you grin immediately.
“There it is.”
“Shut up.”
“No.”
You kiss him again before he can argue further, softer this time, lingering long enough to feel the way he melts despite himself.
Law’s hand slides from your waist to the back of your neck, fingers warm against your skin.
When you pull away again, he rests his forehead lightly against yours with a quiet sigh.
“You done?” he asks.
“Not even close.”
He gives you a deeply unimpressed look that loses all effectiveness when you kiss both his cheeks in quick succession.
“You’re clingy now.”
“I’m having a bad day and you’re my cure.”
“Hm.”
That stupid soft hum again.
You smile a little and then you say softly “You know? You’re a good doctor and a good captain… but you’re also a perfect partner. I love you a lot.”
Law rubs his thumb slowly along the side of your neck while looking at you with that quiet, intense focus he gets sometimes, the one that always feels like he’s paying attention to every tiny detail about you at once.
“Then… for that, don’t forget you don’t have to prove you’re useful to deserve being here.” he says quietly.
Your chest tightens.
Even now, hearing that from him feels overwhelming.
You lean forward and kiss him one more time, gentler now.
Law lets you… of course he does.
Then, after a second, he presses a small kiss back against your mouth so quickly you almost think you imagined it.
heyy! Love your writings !! Can you do insecure reader who compares herself to model and celebrities the bllk boys are around during interviews and events... Include Sae, Kaiser and Rin please! Thankyou!! Have a good day.
⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢 WHY DO YOU EVEN LIKE ME ⋆˚࿔
.☘︎ ݁˖ synopsis : your boyfriend is constantly surrounded by models and celebrities. eventually, the comparisons start getting to you and they notice..
˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀ content + warnings : fluff, comfort, reassurance, insecure fem! reader | ft. rin, sae, kaiser
𓏲ּ𝄢 author note .ᐟ i love this request. thank u soso much. the drabbles are kinda similar, but i hope u like it! ദ്ദി( • ᴗ < )♡
ITOSHI RIN ─
press events were never your favourite thing.
the room was too bright, too loud, too full of people who looked like they belonged in magazines. camera flashes went off every few seconds, briefly flooding the room with white light before fading back into the warm glow of the venue.
you stood near the side of the stage where the interviews were happening, hands loosely clasped in front of you as you watched.
or at least, you tried to watch. your attention kept drifting. not to the reporters, not to the cameras but to the woman standing across from him.
she was the interviewer ─ tall, elegant, perfectly styled from head to toe. her dress hugged her frame effortlessly and even the way she stood seemed graceful.
she laughed softly at something rin said. it wasn't even a big reaction. rin barely reacted at all ─ just the small nod he usually gave during interviews.
still, the sight made something twist in quietly in your chest. you gaze dropped. suddenly you became painfully aware of everything about yourself.
your dress. your hair. the way you were standing.
the room suddenly felt so much larger like everyone in it belonged here except you.
you shifted your weight slightly, eyes lowering to the polished floor. you didn't notice the way rin's gaze flickered toward you between questions.
but he noticed. the change in your posture. the way you stopped watching him. the way your shoulders curled inward like you were trying to shrink.
rin answered the last question quickly, voice flat and efficient as always. the moment the interviewer thanked him, he was already stepping away from the cameras.
straight toward you.
you looked up just in time to see him approaching. your heart jumped.
"hey ─ " you started, but the words barely left your mouth before he spoke.
"what's wrong?" the question came out blunt as usual.
you blinked at him. "nothing."
rin stared at you. not the casual glance people usually gave during conversation ─ but a full, steady look. the kind that made it feel like he was quietly picking apart every detail.
your eyes drifted away first. that was enough confirmation for him. his gaze briefly flicked over your shoulder. to the interviewer. then back to you.
".. seriously?" he said.
your shoulders stiffened. you hated how easily he could read you.
"it's nothing," you repeated, softer this time.
but rin didn't move. didn't drop the subject. didn't even look convinced in the slightest.
the silence stretched just long enough to make your chest tighten.
finally the words slipped out. "she's just.. really pretty, okay?"
you immediately regretted saying it.
rin blinked. once. then again.
not in confusion ─ more like he was trying to understand the logic behind what you just said.
his eyes drifted back toward the interviewer for a brief second before returning to you.
".. so?'
you stared at him. "rin."
he exhaled slowly through his nose, the faintest sign of irritation creeping into his expression.
not at you. at the situation.
his hand suddenly reached out, fingers wrapping around your wrist.
the gesture wasn't rough, but it was firm enough to guide you a step closer to him ─ away from the crowd drifting around the venue.
the movement startled you.
"look at me."
you did. rin's teal eyes were sharp, focused entirely on you now.
"why are you comparing yourself to someone i wasn't even looking at?"
your heart skipped. ".. you weren't?"
"no."
the answer came immediately. no hesitation. no second thought.
his grip loosened slightly, sliding from your wrist down to you hand instead. his fingers intertwined with yours ─ an action that felt surprisingly gentle coming from him.
rin rarely showed affection like this in public. which made it even more real.
"i hate these things," he muttered, glancing curtly toward the stage where another interview had started.
your thumb brushed lightly against his hand without you realising.
"i know."
"the only reason i agreed to come was because you were here."
your chest tightened.
he said it so casually, like it was obvious. like it should've been obvious.
rin looked down at you again. ".. and you think i'd rather be with someone else?"
you didn't answer. you couldn't. your silence made him click his tongue quietly. then lifted your joined hands slightly.
before you could process what he was doing, he pressed a brief kiss against your knuckles.
your entire brain froze. rin looked faintly embarrassed the moment he did it, his ears tinged pink ─ but he didn't pull away.
"stop thinking stupid things," he muttered.
his hands squeezed yours once. "you're the one i chose."
the words settled heavily in your chest. simple. honest. very rin.
camera flashed again across the room, but you barely noticed anymore.
rin didn't let go of your hand when the next interview started. and somehow, standing beside him no longer felt so overwhelming.
━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━
ITOSHI SAE ─
media events were always overwhelming.
the bright flashes of cameras, the constant chatter of reporters, stylists rushing around backstage ─ everything about it felt loud. you usually tried to stay out of the way while sae handled the attention effortlessly.
he was good at it. too good.
right now he stood beneath a wall of flashing cameras, answering questions with that same composed expression he always wore. his posture was relaxed and confident like the entire room belonged to him.
a few models lingered nearby waiting for their own interviews.
they looked unreal.
tall. refined. graceful.
they had perfect makeup and perfect smiles.
one of them giggled at something sae said, touching his arm lightly as she leaned closer.
your stomach twisted. you tried not to stare but the comparison crept into your thoughts before you could stop it.
of course he fits in with people like that.
by the time the interview wrapped up, you'd already taken a small step away from the crowd, pretending to scroll through your phone.
sae noticed immediately. he always did.
the moment he returned to your side, his sharp eyes lingered on you longer than usual.
something in your posture had changed ─ shoulder slightly hunched, gaze lowered.
"why are you sulking?"
the bluntness made you sigh quietly.
"i'm not."
but sae didn't move. he simply watched you, studying the way you avoided eye contact.
"you are."
you hesitated, fingers tightening around your phone.
"don't you ever think it's weird?" the words came out softer than you expected.
his brow furrowed slightly. "weird how?"
you gestured vaguely toward the room behind him where the models and celebrities still mingled beneath the lights.
"you're always around people like them," you murmured. "models, actresses.. people who look like they walked out of a magazine.
you paused.
"and then there's me."
when you finally looked up, sae was staring at you with an expression you couldn't quite read.
not annoyed. not amused. just.. serious.
he stepped closer, lifting a hand to tilt your chin upward so you couldn't look away.
"do you think i'm stupid?"
the question caught you off guard.
".. what?"
"do you think i'd choose someone i didn't want?"
your breath hitched slightly.
his gaze softened ─ barely but still enough that you noticed.
"yes, those women are attractive," he said calmly.
your heart sank for half a second.
"but they're not you."
his thumb brushed lightly across your cheek, grounding you.
"they don't understand me. they don't know how to deal with me when i'm irritated. they don't laugh at my terrible jokes.
a faint smirk tugged at his lips.
"and they definitely wouldn't put up with me the way you do."
the warmth in your chest surprised you.
"so stop comparing yourself."
his voice lowered slightly.
"it's insulting."
"to who?" you asked quietly.
sae's lips curved faintly.
"to my taste."
you blinked, heart still racing.
he leaned closer, the noise of the crowd fading around you. "you think being around them makes me want them instead of you? that i'd trade the comfort of knowing you for someone who's just.. polished?"
you shook your head slightly, words caught in your throat.
"stop worrying then."
you felt your lips twitch in a shy smile as you look up into his genuine eyes.
"i don't care about them," he continued, his voice low and steady. "you're the one looking at them too much. look at me instead. i'm the one who notices you.. who wants you.. who only chooses you."
your chest warmed. the crowd felt far away, and for the first time since feeling this way, you could breathe.
━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━
MICHAEL KAISER ─
red carpets were practically built for people like kaiser.
the lights, the cameras, the attention ─ he thrived in it. meanwhile you stood just off to the side, clutching the small invitation card they'd given you at the entrance like it somehow gave you the right to be there.
the venue was filled with celebrities, athletes and models dressed in outfits that probably cost more than your entire closet. every time the cameras flashed, the room glittered.
and right now, kaiser was right in the middle of it.
he moved through the venue like he owned it, answering questions with that lazy smirk reporters loved so much. every word he said seemed calculated to keep attention on him.
and it worked. people gravitated toward him.
models, influencers, actresses ─ all effortlessly beautiful and perfectly styled. one of them even asked for a photo with him after his interview, sliding beside him with practiced elegance.
you stood several feet away, pretending to look interested in the decorations lining the wall.
you told yourself it didn't matter. people like them were everywhere in his world. people like you.. weren't.
"kaiser, over here!"
another camera flash. the model beside him laughed at somethinghe said. her hand brushed his sleeve.
you looked away.
maybe you shouldn't have come tonight.
"there you are."
you heart nearly stopped.
kaiser's voice appeared right beside you. you turned and nearly walked straight into him.
he was staring down at you with narrowed blue eyes, head tilted slightly like he was studying something strange.
"well, well," his voice drawled, amused. "why does my favourite person look like someone just told her that her puppy died?"
your head snapped up. "what? no, i don't ─ "
kaiser leaned down slightly, his smile fading slowly.
"hm."
your stomach dropped.
that hm meant he was already figuring it out.
his gaze drifted briefly across the room. right towards the group of models still standing near the interview stage.
then slowly back to you.
suddenly his smile reappeared. oh no. that smile meant trouble.
"ahhh," he hummed softly. "i see."
your stomach dropped.
"see what?"
"you're jealous."
your face heated instantly. "i'm not jealous."
he leaned closer, clearly entertained. "so you weren't staring holes through that poor woman five minutes ago?"
"i was not ─ "
"liebling," he interrupted smoothly, "you're terrible at lying."
you groaned quietly and looked away.
".. she's just really pretty, okay? and different.. not like me at all."
for a moment, kaiser said nothing. then he laughed. not softly either ─ loud enough that a few nearby people glanced over.
"that's what this is about?" he said incredulously.
you crossed your arms. "you wouldn't understand."
"oh, i understand perfectly."
he wiped a tear from corner of his eye like you had just told the funniest joke in the world.
"mein gott," he sighed dramatically. "you think i'm interested in her?"
he gestured vaguely toward the interview stage like the thought itself offended him.
"she's literally doing her job."
"still," you muttered.
kaiser suddenly stepped closer. too close.
before you could react, his hand slid under your chin and tilted your face up toward his.
your breath caught. his expression had changed.
the teasing was still there but something softer lingered underneath it.
"do you know how many people were in that room just now?" he asked quietly.
".. a lot?"
"exactly."
his thumb brushed lightly against your jaw.
"and yet," he continued, voice lowering, "the only person i kept checking for the entire time was you."
your eyes widened slightly. kaiser smirked faintly at your reaction.
"did you really think i'd care about some random model where you're here?"
he leaned even closer, voice dropping to near whisper.
"liebling, if i wanted someone else.. i could have had them long before i met you."
your heart skipped nervously.
"but i didn't."
his grin sharpened. then before you could react, he grabbed your wrist and pulled you forward.
"kaiser ─ ?!"
he guided you straight back toward the centre of the room. towards the lights. towards the cameras.
"what are you doing?!" you whispered urgently.
"fixing your problem."
that was the last warning you got.
the moment you reached the open area, kaiser casually wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you flush against his side.
camera flashes immediately exploded around you.
"kaiser! over here!"
"who's this?"
"is this your girlfriend?"
you froze. kaiser looked absolutely delighted.
"of course," he said smoothly like the answer was obvious.
his hand tightened slightly on your waist.
"did you think i'd bring someone unimportant to stand next to me?"
your brain short-circuited.
the reporters turned their cameras toward you now.
you wanted the ground to swallow you whole.
kaiser leaned closer, his voice dropping so only you could hear.
"look at them."
".. i don't want to."
"do it."
hesitantly, you glanced you.
dozens of cameras were pointed directly at you. not the models. not the celebrities. you.
kaiser's thumb traced slow circles against your side.
"see?" he murmured.
"everyone in this room was looking at them earlier."
another flash.
"now they're looking at you."
your chest tightened.
"because your standing next to me."
he tilted your chin slightly upward so the cameras could see your face.
his smirk softened just barely. "and because you're the one i choose."
his hand slid from your chin to your waist, pulling you gently closer against him despite the busy crowd around you.
he tapped your forehead gently.
"next time you start thinking stupid things," he murmured, "come ask me instead and remember this moment."
his arm slid comfortably around your shoulders.
"i'll happily remind you who the real prize here is."
you raised an eyebrow. "you?"
"obviously."
kaiser grinned.
".. but you come very close."
requests/asks are open! also feel free to chat or message me.
sukuna was scary — many people on campus made sure to try not to cross paths with him. the face tattoos, the rough,deep voice and his pure hight and muscles attracted many girls while still scaring away half.
there was really no inbetween being inlove with him or hating him. not that he cared about that anyway. because since he laid his eyes on you for the first time something clicked in his brain — he wanted, no, needed you to be his.
to his surprise,you, the sweet, shy girl, weren't scard of him — the opposite, you always looked at him with this loving expression it made him feel strangely warm.
to many people it didn't make any sense how he got with a sweet girl like you. everytime someone asked you why in the hell you would choose someone like sukuna your eyebrows furrowed in confusion becuase, what's wrong with sukuna?
well, they probably wouldn't expect the king of fratboys to spend his day tasting the sweets you baked, or watching a badly written romance movie under a baby pink blanket.
" you made this for me?"
he was sound asleep when you decided to knock on his door an a saturday morning, still hungover from the night before. he was ready to lash out on the person who decided to wake him at this hour, quickly desregarding any anger he felt the moment he openend the door — seeing you stand there in a cute outfit, hair styled and a fresh batch of cookies in your hands.
you're looking up at him smiling, letting yourself in when he stands at the side to make space for you to come in. "yeah, i know you're always hungry after partying all night so i wanted you to have somethning fresh to eat!"
and bless your heart, you don't realise what you're doing to your boyfriend, his chest warming as he trails behind you back to his room, where you put the cookies down.
"do you have a headache? i can get you some painkillers if you need some." the way you'Re worrying makes him almost smile if he weren't so tired. he unexpectedly pulls you into a hug, burrying your head into his chest, his head ontop of yours inhaling the strawberry vanilla shampoo scent.
you let out a quiet surprised squeal, quickly adapting and trying, keyword trying, to wrap your arms around him. "are you alright babe?" voice muffled against his chest.
he lets out a huff, thightening his embrace before pulling back just enough to tilt your chin up to make you look at him with those adorable eyes he loves. "what did i do to deserve such a sweet girl like you hm?" his voice is sleepy, but full of honestly, like he seriously can't wrap his head around how he got you.
you blush, shying away from the eye contact. "i just made you something to eat it's nothing special." you mumble but he still hears you cleary.
"f'course it is." he doesn't explain further, dragging you back to bed with him, laying ontop of you. "let me sleep with you and after i'll eat your cookies." it's not a question, his arms trapping you under him, making it impossible to escape, and he's already snoozing off.
so yeah, you're confused when someone says sukuna couldn't possibly be nice enough for you because he's not just nice he's actually caring.
5 times sukuna was heavily yearning + 1 time you finally noticed.
oblivious, lonely reader who’s used to doing things alone x downbad!sukuna. jealous!sukuna. gn!reader. reader wears glasses. uncle!sukuna. sukuna calls reader angel. he’s so down bad bro. ooc sukuna as usual. mentions of nsfw contents.
— ☆ —
1. movie nights.
you had a specific, detailed, high maintenance routine for watching movies. you had slowly perfected the process— a mental to do list popping up every time a new movie dropped that you needed to watch.
first, you needed to be in your designated ‘movie night pajamas’, the most comfortable you owned. your favorite blanket had to be there, along with your favorite pillow for support. you liked watching in your home more than cinemas, because you disliked the idea of not being able to pause the movie for whatever reason. who decided to make bathroom breaks that short, anyways?
for snacks, chips poured into your favorite bowl, your favorite niche flavor. a chocolate bar sat beside it just incase the movie got intense enough for you to crave it. your favorite drink was set beside them in a thermal cup, allowing you to drink it as slow as possible without it melting too quickly.
your phone had to be on dnd, blocking out every notification. the room had to be cold, and you avoided any distractions because pausing the movie on piracy websites meant three minutes of closing ads to turn it back on.
tonight, everything was perfect.
you were perfectly wrapped in your blanket, eyes wide as it watched the screen perfectly, chips tasting perfect, drink perfected, everything absolutely perfect—
bzzz.
you immediately groaned. who could possibly be showing up? you hadn’t ordered food. no one was invited over. it was late. what could possibly be urgent enough to prompt someone to ruin your little routine?
you paused the movie (which took three minutes of pressing ‘x’ on ads urging you to ‘text hot, single ladies in your area’, and ‘ai bots who can make you cum in three minutes!’), pushed the blanket off, and pulled the door open with a soft pout you didn’t even register, just to pause when you saw sukuna standing there, eyebrows furrowed, frowning.
you and sukuna weren’t that close, really. you were in the same friend group, but you always felt nervous around him. he was intimidating, scary, too cool for you. he always stared at you blankly, and you decided he was judging you for… everything. you were awkward, nervous, a little odd.
so, him showing up to your home at midnight was a little… nerve-wracking. his red eyes slowly scanned your comfortable, worn out pajamas, messy hair, tiny pout that faded as your eyes widened, before he blinked blankly. “sorry for showing up unannounced.”
he didn’t sound apologetic. at all. his tone was monotonous, almost unamused.
“can i come in?”
you slowly blinked, before realizing how dumb you must look. you grimaced internally, stepping aside, letting him in. immediately, his eyes landed on your little set up, and he arched an eyebrow. “movie night, huh? watching part two of your little movie series?”
“how did you know?” you mumbled, genuinely confused. much to your surprise, his lips twitched up in something that looked like admiration, amused, and it was the closest you ever got to see him smile.
holy fuck, he was so gorgeous it felt unfair. now that you were actually focusing on the man towering over you, dressed in a black shirt and gray sweatpants, tanned skin peaking from under his clothes, muscles on view—
“it’s your favorite series, and it just dropped. i can recognize the sketchy ass website because you hate netflix. you have your little movie night routine, pajamas, chips, and drink.” he murmured casually, nonchalantly, as if it was normal that the guy you thought disliked you knew this much about you. “i listen, you know.”
your jaw was slack, eyes wide. he only snorted, arching an eyebrow. “don’t tell me fucking gojo was right and you really think i hate you.”
you paused. “well…”
“are you serious?” sukuna scoffed. “you’re my fucking favorite in the group, dumbass.”
“what?” you mumbled back, more confused. “you always glare at me. you never talk to me. i was starting to think you didn’t even know my last name.”
he stared at you, almost as if you were insane, then sighed. “you really are oblivious, huh?”
“hey—“
he shook his head, still looking mildly amused. “here’s the notes suguru said he would drop by to give you and forgot. i know you like studying early.”
“oh. you didn’t have to—“
“i wanted to.” he immediately stated, face serious. “‘ll leave you to it, can’t have someone ruining your perfect night. goodnight.”
with that, he was out, leaving you even more flabbergasted.
what. the. fuck.
2. hangouts.
you were still getting used to the idea that sukuna told you that not only did he not hate you, but that you were his favorite in the group. to you, the idea was unbelievable. flabbergasting. maybe even a little more scarier than being hated by him for some reason, but you managed pretty well.
at least you were more comfortable hanging out with your group now.
however, you had a tiny little habit. you hated the coffee at the place your friends loved, so often, you just walked away to the place next to it to buy your own coffee. it provided you a break, making the little pit of your stomach that grows when having to be around people, even your best friends, for too long reset, and you just get a chance to catch your breath.
today wasn’t different. in the middle of the hangout, you grabbed your wallet and slipped out, enjoying the tiny walk in fresh air before you stepped into your favorite cafe.
the familiar barista immediately lit up at the sight of you, boredom fading from his face. he was your age, friendly with a cute grin that grew whenever you two chatted— something that made you feel at ease when ordering.
“my favorite customer,” he immediately greeted, grinning. the bell at the door chimed, and you both didn’t pay any mind to it. “i wonder what you will order this time.”
you snorted. you both knew you ordered the exact same thing every single time. “yeah, i wonder too.”
he chuckled, eyes flickering to the screen. you could feel a figure stopping behind you. “well, you know your total.”
you hummed, about to pay, when the familiar scent of sukuna’s signature perfume finally registered in your mind as he moved to step beside you, eyes narrowed, jaw slowly twitching. “make it two.”
you slowly glanced up. the barista looked up in surprise, before he nodded calmly. “of course.”
before you could register it, sukuna’s card was pressing against the machine, paying for you both. your jaw went slack for the second time this week, flabbergasted once more, but sukuna was already pulling you out of line so that the people behind you could pay.
and, more unfazed that he should be by his own actions, he casually held out the receipt. “here. you take the code and collect points on their app, right?”
“…how the fuck do you even know that?” you mumbled, utterly confused. “why are you here? how did you find me— did you even know what you ordered—“
“easy there, angel.” he murmured, calm. “you always carry the receipt and i see you type something from it on your phone often. ‘m here because the coffee in the other shop is ass. you always come here, so i figured i would try my coffee with you. i know what i ordered because i know your order.”
you openly gaped at him. he only reached over, grabbing both drinks, arching an eyebrow. “are you gonna gape at me forever or drink this sweet shit?”
“…did you just call me angel?”
his amusement immediately faded, ears turning red as he shoved your drink your way, looking away. “absolutely not. hallucinations. let’s go.”
that was what he chooses to deny? not that he knew your movie night in details? that he knew your exact drink? that he knew you secretly collected points from your favorite coffee shop?
you let out a tiny chuckle, amused, following behind him. that somehow managed to make his ears even more red, a scowl pulling on his pretty lips.
fuck. he was gorgeous, and adorable.
how horrible for you.
3. aquarium.
you laid face-down on shoko’s bed, face showed between the pillows, eyes shut in pure horror. “‘m so screwed.”
she sighed for the nth time from where she sat on the ground, studying. “you quite literally could not be more not screwed.”
“i have a crush on him, shoko. i never have crushes. and now i have one, on fucking sukuna. the guy once punched a guy for breathing ‘his’ air. he fucking hates people. i am so utterly fucked. he will kill me.”
she glanced up, as if she knew something you didn’t. “he won’t kill you. kiss you? maybe.”
“stop being delusional.” you mumbled, voice muffled as you buried your face into the sand further. “‘m so fucked.”
she sighed. “you’re delusional too if you don’t realize what’s happening. anyways, isn’t it the twenty seventh? your monthly aquarium night?”
you jumped up, gasping. “it is! fuck!” you quickly grabbed your phone to check the time, before opening the aquarium’s instagram page just in case there were any updates.
and, unfortunately, right there on their instagram story, posted twelve hours ago, was a simple statement.
‘couples only day!’
“oh, fuck my fucking life.” you mumbled, eyes on the story, shoulders drooping. “shoko, be my aquarium date.”
“couples only, huh? if only these weren’t the conditions,” she mused, almost flirty, before tilting her head.
“yes.”
“ask sukuna to go with you.”
you blinked once, twice, before pulling up your phone, nodding, serious. “good idea. ‘m asking gojo or geto.”
“that is quite literally not what i said.”
“you’re a genius.”
you sent off a quick text to geto and gojo, jumping off her bed to head to your own apartment to get ready. after dressing up all cute for the sake of your loved marine animals, you glanced down at your phone, where a vague text from gojo said he couldn’t, followed by maybe three million crying emojis (which was maybe because he had begged before to accompany you said no. aquariums were a single, you-only trip), and geto sent back a simple ‘he’s almost there’, and a thumbs up.
what kind of reply was that? you frowned, sending five questions marks, about to ask who the fuck ‘he’ was, when your doorbell rings.
you pulled the door open, and freeze when your eyes landed on the one and only sukuna. he glanced at you, eyes blank, and nodded once. “let’s go.”
“…where?”
he raised an eyebrow. “the aquarium. date night. let’s go.”
“…are you sure?” you immediately mumbled, voice uncharacteristically low. “‘m, uh, kind of enthusiastic about this. nerdy. geeky. um, annoying.”
his lips twitched up into an endeared smile that he immediately pushed back. “i know what ‘m getting into. let’s go.”
you grabbed your jacket, eyebrows furrowing. “suguru could have just said he couldn’t come. i’m sorry he sent you instead.”
“oh, he could come.” sukuna stated blankly, stepping into the elevator behind you. you glanced up at him, confused, and he stared back blankly, as if waiting for you to collect dots you didn’t even see. he only sighed after a few minutes, shaking his head. “this is both cute and infuriating. so, which stupid creature is your favorite?”
you expected a night with sukuna to be awkward. tense. uncomfortable. a night where you had to hold back so you don’t become labeled as talkative, or annoying, or too much.
you didn’t expect for him to be a good listener. nodding at whatever you said, asking questions at first to keep you talking until you were comfortable rambling. you didn’t expect him to hold your things so you could comfortably get closer to the glass, or stay longer at your favorite animals, or ask you about ones that seemed interesting, his eyes soft and lips twitching upwards just the slightest. you didn’t expect him to disappear at one point and come back with a few limited-edition items from the small gift shop either, dumping them in your arms wordlessly as you two were walking out.
“thank you for being my fake date for the night, kuna.” you mumbled as he was dropping you off, sleepy, eyes soft and voice slurred. he paused at your words, lips twitching into a frown before he eyed how sleepy you were and only sighed.
“of course, angel.” he muttered, reaching over and nonchalantly pressing a kiss to your forehead before he turned around, walking away. “…sleep well, goodnight.”
gaping at him seeming like a new routine, except this time, your sleepy eyes were set on his back as he left, almost getting distracted by his muscles showing through the fabric. oh, you were so, utterly fucked.
4. the beach.
you sat quietly on the sand, wrapped tightly in a towel, eyes ahead as you watched gojo, geto and shoko shoving each other in the water. choso was on a towel beside you, deeply asleep and snoring. toji was playing around with megumi and nobara and yuji, who was yapping about how his uncle dropped him off and disappeared. everyone was enjoying themselves.
you were freezing.
you had gotten there earlier, having known they would all show up too late. you liked swimming alone with no eyes on you, so with too much sunscreen, you stayed in the water under the sun in what you knew was the perfect time for you. by the time everyone else arrived, you were already drying in the shade.
oh, how you wished you had a dry towel—
a dry towel dropped into your lap before the thought even finished. you froze, glancing up at the sky, before immediately closing your eyes again and wishing for a million dollars just in case.
“don’t stare at the fucking sun.”
ah. your genie.
you peaked through your lashes at sukuna, who glared at you, a hand going to shade your eyes from the sun. he was dry, holding a small bag which you assumed was for his wallet and phone and car keys and towel, the sun kissing every spot on his perfect body, as if purposely teasing you.
fuck. how could someone be so pretty?
he sighed, pulling a cap out of the bag. he pushed it on top of your damp hair, shading your face, and slumped beside you. “switch towels. mine is dry.”
“hi.” you mumbled dumbly, blinking a few times to snap yourself from the daze seeing his beautiful red eyes in the sun put you through. his lips twitched, face softening, and he only pulled the cap down further. you finally remembered how to think. “don’t you need your towel dry?”
“‘m not going into the water this late.” he stated. his eyes flickered to choso asleep, and he rolled his eyes, standing back up. you watched shamelessly as he effortlessly pulled the heavy umbrella so it was covering the sun kissed stoner, sighing, voice lower. “that dumbass.”
“i spray him with sunscreen every two hours. flipped him once.” you mused, taking the chance of sukuna being distracted to switch towels, sighing in relief once the warm, dry, soft towel wrapped around you. “thank you, kuna.”
“don’t mention it.” he grunted, then frowned once he registered your words, “you rub sunscreen on him?”
“oh, no, it’s a spray.” you hummed, pulling it out. “isn’t it cool?”
he glanced at the spray bottle, shoulders slowly relaxing. “mhm. it is. can you spray me?”
you nodded, moving to stand up, immediately stumbling in the towel. firm fingers immediately steadied you, and you deeply hoped he couldn’t feel the warmth radiating off you from being flustered as he slowly let go.
you slowly sprayed him, the sunscreen leaving a shiny coat that made him look even more beautiful. after making sure every part of him was covered, you slowly sat back down. “try to rub it to make sure it’s even.”
he hummed, eyes shut, slowly spreading it out, spreading it out on his tan skin.
what a fucking sight, really. he was so, unbelievably gorgeous. you were so fucked.
“…you went early, huh?”
“…yeah.” you mumbled, eyes still on him, hoping he keeps his eyes closed.
“tell me next time. ‘ll go with you.” he sighed. “these idiots always come when it’s already too cold.”
you nodded slowly as he finally finished, slumping next to you on the little beach mat gojo had gotten, so close that his thigh was pretty to your covered figure. he frowned. “your lips are pale. still cold?”
you grimaced. “‘ll be okay. thank you for the towel—“
he sighed, an arm wrapping around your shoulder before he was pulling you towards him. you missed the way his body relaxed, lips twitching into a repressed grin, the face of a man finally achieving one of his long lost goals.
holy fuck. you were pressed to his side, his body oozing warmth. he smelled great, and you could feel his muscles every time he shifted. as you stared ahead, trying to pretend like you weren’t malfunctioning, your eyes landed on shoko, gojo and geto staring back at you guys from the water, jaws slack.
well. at least it wasn’t you this time.
5. studying.
as much as it seemed otherwise, studying with gojo actually helped you. you both kept each other in check— you stopped him whenever he started yapping, and he distracted you whenever you were spiraling. you both were a team when studying— having been one since the first semester, when you both met.
during breaks, however, was when you really liked studying with gojo. you both sat with thirteen expensive pastries in front of you, gojo’s treat, and he grinned excitedly. “oh, this will be so good. you go first.”
“you don’t have to tell me twice.” you mumbled, picking one up. you immediately moaned in delight, holding the rest to gojo, who reached over and took the rest from between your fingers. “fuck. this is so good.”
gojo let out an even louder moan. you both ignored the disgusted glares from the people around you, happily chewing. “oh, these are fucking godsent. thank you for being my taste buddy.”
“thank you,” you mumbled, grabbing another one. “you’re the one spoiling me with these. you’re, like, my dream man right now.”
gojo let out a loud laugh, before pausing, shivering in horror at whatever he imagined. “do not let sukuna hear you saying that. he’ll have my head.”
“why would he have your head for that?” you mumbled, mouthful, and distracted by the heavenly taste of these. you weren’t even a fan of pasteries, but these were on another level. you tried another, and immediately groaned. “fuck. try this one.”
you immediately extended your hand out to gojo. he, as usual, ate half of it off your fingers instead, and dramatically melted in his seat. “ten out of ten. perfect. stunning. i will marry whoever made these.” he swallowed, and quickly ate the rest off your fingers to. “and he will because he’s, like, in love with you.”
“you flipping liar.” you mumbled, unamused with the obvious fake news. “he doesn’t. he’s just a good friend.”
“he’s not a good friend,” gojo snorted. “he almost shoved my head into the toilet bowl yesterday because he was bored. he likes you.”
you did not believe him the slightest. “uh-huh. wanna try the red one?”
“yes, please.”
later that night, you were curled up in bed— going over everything you had studied earlier to lock the information into your mind. the groupchat was blowing up after choso was caught kissing someone (you already knew the news. choso blurted about his ‘secret’ crush to you before when he was high, and forgot.) and you just shot back a sticker laughing, said you were studying and you needed more caffeine to deal with this, and shut your phone off completely.
you really needed caffeine.
everytime you shut your eyes, all you can see is a cold, cup of your favorite coffee from your favorite shop. the condensation running down, the inviting taste, everything—
fuck. you needed one so bad. you frowned, turning your phone on to glance at the time, and paused when a notification stood out from between the ones on the groupchat.
sukuna: pick u up for coffee in five?
you stared at the message, then slowly glanced down at the sweatpants and oversized hoodie you were in, your hair messy, broken glasses on because you were too lazy to get these specific ones fixed and you lost the other, before sighing. you needed caffeine too bad to worry about how you looked in front of him right now.
you: please :c
a car honked downstairs a few minutes. you quickly grabbed your wallet and your half-dead phone, rushing downstairs, grabbing an oversized jacket on the way so you could tug it on top of your thick hoodie, grimacing at how much of a mess you looked. you slid into the passenger seat, and sukuna only stared at you, eyes slowly taking in your appearance, lips softly pulling up.
“don’t say anything.” you immediately mumbled. his smirk widened, but he didn’t speak, immediately resuming to drive, eyes ahead. “‘m so sleepy.”
“uh-huh. let’s get some caffeine in you.” he murmured, turning more serious. “don’t overwork yourself tonight. did you have dinner?”
you nodded, ignoring how your heart felt like it was twirling in your chest. “i did. ate and drank and slept well.”
he hummed. “good.”
in the coffee shop, he got the same as you, paying despite your complaints. once the drinks were out, he grabbed both, wrapping yours in tissues to keep your fingers from being cold before handing it over, humming.
you were looking over notes in your phone, too tired to register his actions. you only quietly took the cup, immediately sipping, shoulders slowly rolling down, tense muscles relaxing. “thank you, kuna.”
he clicked his tongue. “don’t mention it.”
in the car, you focused on sipping the coffee, and he cleared his throat. “gojo said you two were on a study date this morning. pastries and shit. said you called him your dream man.”
you snorted. sukuna glanced over, utterly unamused, almost pouting. “i love gojo.”
his lips immediately formed a scowl. “you love him?”
“not like that,” you snorted. “he’s just… he was the first person who was nice to me in university, you know. the first person who made sure i never felt like a burden. he means a lot to me, platonically.”
he was silent for a while, then nodded, pulling up in front of your building. “good. you deserve to never feel like a burden. you… mean a lot to me.”
was he trying to kill you? you immediately shuffled out, heart beating like it was trying to escape your chest, cheeks burning. “you mean a lot to me too, kuna. um, goodnight. thank you for picking me up.”
“don’t mention it, angel.”
+1.
against your will, you were dragged to a party.
you would have been enthusiastic, really, if finals hadn’t just ended— leaving you too sleep deprived that you couldn’t even walk straight. gojo had came over to force you out and picked your outfit out for you, keeping in mind your pleads for it to be something warm, and you ended up in the passenger seat of his car, asleep soundly, vaguely aware of his whining about you needing to be awake as he drove you there.
you could only remember little snippets between your tiny naps, really.
gojo having his arm around you as he dragged you in.
you slumping down beside choso, immediately falling asleep on his shoulder.
sukuna crouching down in front of you, concerned, eyes worried.
sukuna covering you with a blanket.
sukuna sitting beside you, pulling your head into his shoulder instead.
geto replacing choso. you shifting, head falling into his shoulder because he was warmer.
sukuna immediately pulling you back towards him, an arm falling around your waist to keep you close, bickering with geto.
after that, you drifted into deep sleep— the kind that only came after a week straight of pulling all nighters. and, when you woke up again, you were wrapped in a blanket, on the roof, on a tiny couch with your head on sukuna’s lap and a cigarette between his lips.
the second he registered you awake, he pushed the cigarette into the ashtray, eyes soft, fingers on your shoulders to help you sit up. “you okay, angel?”
“mhm. sleepy.” you mumbled, blinking slowly, still half asleep. you yawned, rubbing your eyes. “thank you for watching over me, kuna. you’re, like, my angel.”
“…don’t mention it.” he whispered— although, it sounded more like a pained whimper. “i… yeah. don’t mention it.”
it was silent for a few minutes. you both stared up at the sky, lost in thought, before sukuna cleared his throat.
“…the stars are pretty.”
“mhm.”
he paused, before speaking again. his voice was low, soft, but it was laced with quiet frustration that you could tell wasn’t pointed at you. “we’re, uh, done with the semester.”
“…mhm.”
he clicked his tongue, and sat up, like he’s restarting. “…we’re good friends.”
“we are.” you mumbled, still dazed from your delicious, needed nap. he let out a small groan, face buried into his palm.
“fuck.”
“…kuna?” you murmured, voice soft, sleepy. his eyes finally flickered up, frustrated and almost disappointed in himself, and you only gave him a small, sleepy smile. “i like you too.”
and finally, it was his turn for his jaw to go slack, eyes widening, before he turned to you quickly. “you’re not fucking with me, right? you like me?”
you nodded, sleepy, but focused. “i like you.”
he didn’t hesitate before dropping to his knees in front of you, eyes soft and almost pathetic. “say that again. please.”
“i like you, kuna.” you repeated, quieter, softer, more serious.
he let his head drop, face pressed against the blanket covering your thighs briefly, voice muffled when he spoke. “…you have no idea how many years i have been dying to hear this, angel. fuck.” when he lifted his head back up, his red eyes were almost glossy. “‘m marrying the fuck out of you one day.”
that managed a sleepy laugh out of you. “take me on a date first, at least. we haven’t even kissed yet.”
his eyes lit up at the mere thought— before you watched him visibly holding himself back, trying to appear more relaxed, probably to not scare you off, despite his reddening ears at the idea. “right. dates. i will date you so fucking good, i promise, you will never think of anyone but me again. not even that stupid barista who clearly wants you so bad. only me.” he nodded, serious, scowling, before his eyes softened again. “best dates of your life. where do you want to go? dinner? coffee? aquarium? your little movie night routine at my place? do you want me to make it a surprise? i will be the best boyfriend— wait, fuck, not that yet—“
you reached over, softly pressing your lips to his,
he froze, eyes probably wide, then immediately melted the second your fingers gently cupped his face to pull him closer, letting out a soft, little sound into the kiss that had his face flushing further.
once you pulled away, your eyes met his dazed ones, and he slowly sucked in a deep breath. “….fuck.”
“dinner sounds good.” you whispered back, thumb brushing over his bottom lip, and he shut his eyes, as if it took visible effort not to groan. “next week?”
“you think ‘ll make it to next week?” he let out a sharp laugh. “you have me fucking kneeling for you, angel. tomorrow. 8. please.”
“okay.” you murmured, voice soft. “now, come back up, i will want to continue napping on you.”
!Ryomen Sukuna; who falls in love with the concubine he hated the most
Every woman brought to his estate understood the rules of survival before they even crossed the threshold.
You bowed until your forehead touched the tatami. You spoke only when spoken to. You anticipated his moods, read the terrifying language of his four eyes, and offered flattery or tears depending on what type of amusement he was seeking that day.
To center your entire existence around Ryomen Sukuna was the only way to ensure your head remained attached to your shoulders.
Except you didn't.
You hadn't knelt when he first entered your quarters three months ago. You had been lying on your side, propped up on an elbow, reading a translated scroll from the northern provinces, and you had merely shifted your gaze to look at him, entirely unimpressed by the sudden, heavy drop in atmospheric pressure that usually accompanied his presence.
"Stand when I enter," he had commanded, his upper eyes narrowing into dangerous, ruby slits.
You had turned a page. "Then leave and enter again. Perhaps I will feel like it next time."
The attendants behind him had turned white as ghosts, bracing for the inevitable spray of blood. Sukuna’s jaw had set, a terrifying, low growl vibrating from his chest. But you hadn't trembled.
You hadn't scrambled to fix your posture. You had just looked at him with an expression of profound boredom.
If he wanted to kill you, he would kill you. Fawning over him wasn't going to change his nature, so you simply refused to waste the energy.
He hadn't killed you. Instead, he had left, the doors slamming shut with enough force to rattle the shoji screens.
And that was the exact moment the nightmare began. Because from that night onward, Sukuna became an insufferable, permanent fixture in your life.
"You are eating that wrong."
You stopped your chopsticks halfway to your mouth, letting out a long, slow exhale through your nose. It was midnight.
You had been looking forward to a quiet, solitary meal of cold rice and pickled plums, but Sukuna had simply materialized in the corner of your room ten minutes ago, dripping wet from a thunderstorm, and had proceeded to sit directly on the edge of your bedding.
"I am eating it the way I have eaten it for more than twenty years," you said, not looking at him. "If my technique offends you, the door is exactly where you left it."
Sukuna scoffed, leaning back on his palms. His massive, tattooed frame took up half the space in your small room, his lower arms crossed over his chest while his upper right hand casually reached over and swiped a plum straight from your bowl.
"You have a wretched attitude," he remarked, popping the fruit into his mouth and chewing lazily. "The women in the east hall weep with gratitude if I so much as glance toward their courtyard. You look at me like I am a stray dog that ruined your garden."
"Stray dogs are quieter," you muttered, finally looking up to glare at him. "And they don't steal my food."
Sukuna’s lower mouth twitched into a sharp, jagged grin. He loved it. The realization turned your stomach, a strange, dizzying mixture of irritation and heat.
He didn't come to your room because he wanted a concubine; he came because he was a creature driven entirely by conflict, and you were the only person in the entire empire who refused to give him the satisfaction of a fight. You gave him nothing. You gave him a wall of pure, unbothered apathy, and it was driving him entirely insane.
He leaned forward suddenly, crowding your space. The smell of the storm, ozone and rain, rushed over you. Before you could pull back, his large, calloused hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around your jaw.
It wasn't the brutal, bone-crushing grip he used on his enemies. It was controlled, a heavy, unyielding restraint that forced your face up toward his.
"You should fear me," he murmured, his upper eyes tracking the movement of your throat as you swallowed. His thumb thumbed the soft skin right beneath your lower lip, a deliberate, electric friction that made your toes curl inside your robes. "A single flick of my finger, and this pretty little throat splits wide open."
You met his gaze evenly, refusing to let the wild, frantic thudding of your heart show on your face. "Then do it. I'm tired of your bragging."
Sukuna froze. For a second, the silence in the room was deadly. Then, a loud, booming laugh tore from his throat, the sound rough and genuine as he released your jaw, shifting his weight until he was practically draped over your lap, his heavy head resting casually against your thigh.
"Insufferable," he muttered, closing all four of his eyes as if he owned the space. "Utterly insufferable."
You stared down at the King of Curses currently using your legs as a pillow, your hand hovering over his unruly pink hair, entirely tempted to shove him off. But you didn't. You just sighed, picking up your chopsticks again, ignoring the way his subconscious weight felt entirely too natural against you.
The shift happened. In Sukuna’s dictionary, words like love or devotion were meaningless concepts invented by the weak to justify their dependency. He would never admit to favoring you. If anyone asked, he would simply say you were a minor amusement, a dull distraction from his boredom.
But the rest of the estate wasn't blind.
The servants noticed that the rare silks brought from the western raids, the ones Sukuna usually threw into the treasury to rot—somehow kept finding their way into your wardrobe because he had casually grumbled that your current robes looked "like rags."
The guards noticed that if Sukuna left your courtyard irritated, he was significantly less likely to execute someone in the main hall.
And then there was the incident with the lord of the northern clans.
During a formal banquet, the lord had made a passing, disparaging remark about your status, calling you an "eccentric, useless mouth to feed" who didn't know her place.
You hadn't even heard the comment; you had been across the pavilion, systematically ignoring Sukuna’s attempts to make you try a cup of sake.
But Sukuna had heard it.
He hadn't made a scene. He had simply stood up, walked over to the lord’s table, and dismantled the man’s entire lineage within three seconds, leaving the pavilion drenched in red before sitting back down next to you, casually picking up his chopsticks as if nothing had happened.
"You're exhausting when you're angry," you had murmured, wiping a stray drop of blood from the sleeve of your robe with a click of your tongue.
Sukuna hadn't answered. He had just grabbed your wrist, pulling your hand toward him until you were forced to use your sleeve to wipe a smudge of gore from his cheek instead. He hadn't asked. He had just assumed your hands belonged on his skin.
Late one evening, weeks later, the heat of the summer had turned the air thick and oppressive. You were lying awake in your bed, staring at the ceiling, when the shoji screen slid open without a sound.
Sukuna stepped inside. He looked exhausted, the heavy marks of a curse battle still lingering in the tension of his shoulders. He didn't speak. He just shed his heavy outer robe, letting it hit the floor, before crawling directly onto your sleeping mat.
"Go away," you groaned, trying to roll over to the far edge. "It is too hot for this."
"Silence," he grunted, a large, heavy arm snaking around your waist from behind. He hauled you back against his chest with a single, effortless tug, his massive body completely enveloping yours.
His chest was blazing hot, a furnace of pure cursed energy, and his face buried itself directly into the crook of your neck.
"You cling too much," you muttered, though you didn't actually fight the hold. It was a useless endeavor anyway.
"What nonsense," Sukuna rumbled, his voice thick with sleep, his lower arms tightening around your hips, anchoring you so securely to him that you could feel the rhythmic, heavy thud of his heart against your spine. "You are small. You fit here. Stop complaining."
You lay there in the dark, his breath warm against your skin, his long, sharp fingernails absentmindedly tracing patterns into the fabric of your garment near your ribs.
He was completely unaware of how intimate the gesture was, how entirely possessive his body became the moment he was near you. He thought he was just resting. He thought he was just taking what was his.
You turned your head slightly, looking back at him. His eyes were closed, his expression unusually peaceful in the dim moonlight.
"You're an idiot, Ryomen Sukuna," you whispered softly.
A faint, arrogant smirk touched his lips, though he didn't open his eyes. His hand moved up, his fingers lacing through yours with a casual, unthinking pressure, locking your hands together against the bedding.
"And you are still breathing," he murmured into your skin, his grip tightening just a fraction more. "Be grateful I find your stupidity so entertaining."
You closed your eyes, letting yourself sink into his terrifying, inescapable warmth, finally accepting that while the King of Curses would never say the words, his actions had already rewritten the entire world around you.
[𝝑𝑒] :: true form!sukuna finds out his favorite pregnant concubine is injured :: tags. fluff, angst, reader gets called ‘woman’ :: ac. @/greybookman on x
you want that damn scroll.
one of the old texts on yokai lore sukuna left half-unrolled on a high shelf days ago. boredom and the restless energy of pregnancy drives you to it. standing on the tips of your toes, with one hand braced against the lacquered cabinet, you stretch up.
your belly, round and full at nearly eight months, shifts heavily. the baby kicks hard as if protesting.
“just... a little more—“
the wood creaks. your foot slips on the woven tatami mat and then the world tilts.
you hit the floor with a sharp cry, pain lancing through your side and wrist. the scroll clatters beside you. for a moment you lie there, breathlessly. your hand instinctively cradles your belly. the baby moves again. it’s still strong and alive.
relief floods you, but it’s followed quickly by fear.
because your hear them. those heavy footsteps echo down the corridor. too fast and way too purposeful.
the sliding doors slam open with enough force to rattle the entirre frame. sukuna stands there, all four beefy arms tense, crimson eyes blazing with immediate and lethal irritation. the mouth on his abdomen twists into a snarl before the one on his face even opens.
he takes one look at you on the floor, at the displaced cabinet, the way you clutch your wrist and the temperature in the room seems to drop.
“what,” he growls, “is the meaning of this, woman?”
you try to push yourself up. trying to make yourself seem presentable, “it’s nothing, my lord. i only—“
“do not.”
two of his arms move before you can finish. one massive hand catches your shoulder while the other slides beneath your knees. he lifts you as if you weigh nothing before carrying you to the thick futon piled with silks. the third hand hovers over your belly, not quite touching, while the fourth grips your injured wrist with surprising gentleness. though his expression promises murder.
you wince as he probes the swelling. a bruise is seemingly already blooming.
sukuna’s eyes narrow at the bruise on your wrist. something inside him twists, “you fell.”
“well, i reached for a scroll,” you admit quietly as you hold your head down in shame, “didn’t think—“
“yeah. you obviously didn’t think,” his voice is deceptively calm now. the kind of calm that precedes slaughter.
he sets your wrist down and rises to his full imposing height. the black tattoos shift across his skin as his muscles flex, “tsk. y’re crawling about like some reckless servant chasing trinkets, and look where that got ya.”
the air grows thick with that ominous cursed energy you’ve grown used to. outside in the gardens, you hear a distant scream. you swallow thickly. that was an unfortunate soul who was probably been lingering too close at the wrong moment.
sukuna doesn’t even glance toward the sound. his focus remains locked on you.
he kneels again, red eyes boring into yours. one hand cups your chin to tilt your face up, “do you have any idea what i would do to this entire fuckin’ country if you lost that child?”
your heart stutters.
you know he isn’t exaggerating. sukuna’s affection is a double edged blade. it’s obsessive, violent and all-consuming. you have seen villages erased for lesser offenses than inconveniencing his property.
“y-yes, but i’m alright,” you whisper, “the baby kicked just now. it’s still strong and kicking."
as if to prove it, another solid thump presses against your belly. sukuna’s big hand moves immediately, his warm palm spreading over the curve.
for a long moment there’s silence. then he exhales through his nose, a sound closer to a growl.
“you will not leave this chamber without my presence until the birth.” it isn’t a suggestion. “servants will bring you everything. if you desire a scroll, they will fetch it. if you desire the moon itself, they will bleed trying.”
you reach up with your good hand to brush fingers along one of his wrists. you tilt your head as you look up at him, “you’re angry.”
“furious.”
the word drips with venom. yet he lowers himself beside you on the futon, two arms pulling you carefully against his chest while the other two adjust pillows behind your back. the contrast is dizzying. his body radiates power and heat, capable of tearing mountains, but he handles you like a fragile thing.
“i should chain you to this bed,” sukuna mutters, lips brushing your temple, “perhaps then you’d stop testin’ me.”
a small smile tugs at your lips despite the dull ache in your wrist. “you’d miss my stubbornness too much,” you chuckle softly.
the king of curses huffs. the mouth on his stomach licks its lips, tasting the air—probably the lingering trace of your blood from a scraped elbow.
you lean into him and lett the solid bulk of his true form surround you. four arms are useful for this, at least. one idly strokes your hair, another rests over your belly, the third keeps your injured wrist elevated and the fourth simply holds you close.
minutes pass in comfortable silence. his cursed energy fluctuates wildly. you can feel the rage still simmering, but it’s more contained. you can feel it coiling around the room like invisible smoke, ready to lash out at the first person who enters.
a hesitant knock sounds at the door.
“enter,” sukuna barks.
a trembling servant girl slides the door open, carrying a tray of bandages and herbal salve. her eyes widen at the sight of sukuna holding you so intimately. she nearly drops everything.
“give it here,” he snaps while extending one arm without releasing you. the girl approaches on her knees, head bowed low, and places the tray within reach before scrambling back.
sukuna tends to your wrist himself.
his touch is precise, almost clinical, wrapping the linen with surprising care. every so often his gaze flicks to your face to check for discomfort. the fury hasn’t left his eyes, but it has shifted. it’s now directed outward. toward the world that has dared let you fall.
when he finishes, sukuna pulls you closer again. “if this swells worse by morning, i’ll flay the physician who attends you. slowly.”
you chuckle softly as exhaustion creeps in. too much happened in a small amount of time for your heavily pregnant self, “‘kay, noted.”
he stays like that long after your breathing evens out. sukuna rarely sleeps much, but tonight he remains vigilant and his hand never leaves your belly.
. . .
by the next morning, word has spread through the estate like wildfire. no one is to allow you out of the inner chambers without the king of curses’ permission.
extra guards patrol the halls. when a maid brings breakfast, she keeps her eyes on the floor and moves with exaggerated slowness, terrified of triggering his wrath.
you watch sukuna from the futon as he paces, big arms crossed in various combinations. he has already executed one overzealous attendant who suggested you might have ‘overexerted’ yourself earlier in the week. the body has been removed before you woke.
“ryo.. come here,” you call softly, trying carefully to calm that rage by using that nickname you made up for him. instead of the usual politeness.
sukuna pauses. then, with a reluctant grunt, he returns to your side. you take one of his large hands and place it back on your belly.
"feel it. he’s fine. we’re fine.”
sukuna’s expression remains stormy, but the tension in his shoulders eases fractionally, “if anythin’ changes...”
“‘you’ll destroy the world’. . . i know.”
a rare, sharp-toothed smirk tugs at his lips, “good. you’re learning.”
synopsis: their embarrassing on-the-pitch moments. this is inspired by that one soccer player who recently got his shorts stepped on by an opposite player and as a result, it tugged down and his bare ass cheeks flashed everyone, both in the crowd and on live TV. totally wasn’t inspired by the recent blue lock chapter (rin fans, forgive me)...
isagi's starts with what should have been the coolest goal celebration of his entire career.
he scores the game-winning goal in the final minutes.
crowd screaming. teammates losing their minds. cameras immediately zooming in on him. adrenaline is through the roof.
so naturally he decides to do a knee slide. a classic. a timeless celebration.
except nobody informed him that the field had just been watered.
he drops to his knees, launches forward, and keeps going. and going. and GOING.
the momentum is so absurd that he slides straight underneath the legs of a teammate who was running toward him. he accidentally takes that teammate out. crashes into another teammate. creates a domino effect.
three grown men hit the grass and eat shit because of him.
but it somehow gets worse. because the slide finally stops when he slams face-first into a field microphone.
the microphone catches the impact. the entire stadium hears a loud THWACK! followed by: "OW, WHAT THE FUCK–"
broadcast microphones catch EVERYTHING.
commentators immediately go silent.
teammates are on the ground laughing too hard to help him.
the replay gets shown from six different angles.
one angle catches him eating grass.
another angle catches him blinking in confusion afterward.
a third angle zooms in on the microphone violently vibrating after impact.
for months afterward, fans bring toy microphones to games. it haunts him.
itoshi rin
rin's isn't embarrassing because something happens to him. it's embarrassing because he becomes the public enemy of an entire fanbase the second it happens.
it's the championship final. score tied. final minute. literally the dream scenario.
everyone is exhausted. everyone is stressed. then his teammate and rival isagi gets the perfect pass. emphasis on the PERFECT pass.
defenders beaten. goalkeeper out of position. the goal is basically gift-wrapped.
commentators are already halfway through screaming:
"ISAGI'S GOING TO WIN IT–"
except rin sees it. and rin's brain immediately goes: mine.
he charges in from absolutely nowhere. ignores all common sense. ignores teamwork. ignores physics. ignores isagi's existence.
both of them swing at the ball simultaneously. their legs connect at nearly the same time. the shot launches forward. and the crowd holds its breath.
the ball flies. beautiful trajectory. perfect height. perfect speed. then–
CLANG. straight off the top of the crossbar. the noise echoes through the entire stadium. everyone collectively dies inside.
the rebound falls to the opposing team counterattack. sprint downfield, goal, whistle, game over. championship lost.
somewhere in the crowd, cameras catch a fan slowly covering their face with both hands like they're witnessing the collapse of civilization. another fan is already staring into the distance, completely motionless and devoid.
broadcast cameras immediately cut to rin and isagi. they smell content, of course. and what do they catch?
rin looking genuinely annoyed and saying: "i can't believe we missed that goal."
isagi turns so fast you'd think he got flash-banged. he points directly at rin, full arm extension, absolutely no hesitation. "WE?? WE??? BUDDY, THAT WAS ALL YOU 🫵"
the camera catches the entire exchange. rin looks offended. isagi looks offended. fans are screaming.
social media immediately pauses the frame of isagi pointing at rin. it becomes a reaction image overnight. people use it for EVERYTHING.
when your friend eats your leftovers and says "we ran out of food."
when your group project gets a zero and the slacker says "we failed."
rin spends the next several months insisting the shot would've gone in if isagi hadn't touched it.
isagi spends the next several months insisting rin is delusional.
analysts create diagrams. fans create slideshows. debates rage for years.
and every single replay always ends with that poor fan in the crowd covering their face in disappointment 😭
itoshi sae
sae's doesn't even happen during a match. it happens during an open training session. cameras everywhere. fans in attendance. media recording content.
sae is standing off to the side listening to a coach explain something. arms crossed. looking mildly annoyed as usual.
meanwhile, a teammate is practicing long passes nearby. and said teammate absolutely launches one.
beautiful technique, amazing power… terrible aim.
because the ball comes flying across the field like a missile. and absolutely SMOKES sae in the face.
full force. no warning. no time to react. just WHAM!
the ball bounces off his beautiful forehead and comes flying back.
everyone freezes. coaches freeze. teammates freeze. fans freeze. even the guy who kicked it freezes.
because the look on sae's face afterward? you might as well just… get on your hands and knees as the bare minimum.
he slowly lowers his hand from his face. slowly turns his head. and locks eyes with the guilty teammate.
no shouting. no screaming. only pure concentrated m*rder in his gaze.
the teammate immediately starts apologizing before sae even says anything.
"IT WAS AN ACCIDENT. I SWEAR."
the clip goes viral because people start zooming in on sae's expression.
comments are like:
"that's the face you see before becoming a cautionary tale." "bro just shortened that man's lifespan by 50 years."
the teammate spends the rest of practice looking over his shoulder.
nagi seishiro
nagi's is so bad that people physically leave the livestream from secondhand embarrassment.
the match is paused and the players are taking a quick water break. cameras are doing close-up shots of different athletes.
nagi gets handed a sports drink. simple enough. except he isn't paying attention (when is he ever paying attention).
he unscrews the cap. starts talking to a teammate. gestures with the bottle. accidentally squeezes it. the drink launches directly into his own face.
not even a little splash. an absolute jet stream. right up his nose.
he chokes, coughs, sputters, tries recovering, somehow inhales wrong, and now he's coughing harder.
eyes watering, face bright red.
millions of people are watching him lose a fight against a blue raspberry sports drink.
but wait. it gets worse 🥰 because while he's coughing, the drink starts coming back out through his nose.
not much, but enough to be visible… for the cameras… and for social media.
the entire stadium witnesses nagi being defeated by blue liquid.
the clip gets slowed down, zoomed in, and reposted everywhere. people edit boss battle ahh music over it.
nagi watches the footage later. stares for five seconds. then quietly closes all his social media apps.
that's the closest anyone has ever seen him get to embarrassment.
mikage reo
reo's is honestly the most in-character thing ever. like of course the friendly rich boy gets taken out by his own kindness.
before a match, he's walking along the sidelines greeting fans. waving, smiling, signing things. generally being adored by the public.
then he spots someone in the crowd waving enthusiastically – huge smile, lots of energy, clearly trying to get his attention.
so reo lights up immediately. he waves back. points at them. gives them a finger heart. even mouths "thank you!" the whole package.
the fan looks confused. very confused to say the least. because they were never waving at reo. they were waving at someone standing directly behind him.
reo realizes in real time.
the camera catches EVERYTHING. you can literally watch his soul leave his body.
his smile falters. then slowly collapses. he lowers his hand. glances behind himself. sees the actual target. and suddenly understands.
meanwhile, the giant stadium screen is displaying this tragedy in 4K.
commentators notice immediately:
"oh no..." "that wasn't for mikage, yikesss."
the crowd collectively groans in sympathy. because everybody has experienced this before. just not in front of a minimum of 50,000 people.
clips of it go viral overnight. fans start recreating it constantly.
every time someone waves at him afterward, he has to spend a full second checking if it's actually meant for him.
congrats reo, you've unlocked social anxiety 😭
bachira meguru
bachira's goes viral because it starts as a harmless joke and somehow escalates into one of the most replayed sports clips of all time.
it's after a match during a team celebration. everybody's in a good mood. players are shoving each other around. cameras are still rolling. fans are still cheering.
and one teammate decides it would be REALLY funny to tug on bachira's shorts while running past. just a little prank. a teeny tiny little joke.
unfortunately for everyone involved… bachira's shorts actually come down. not all the way. but enough for the cameras… and for the stadium screen… and social media.
and MOST IMPORTANTLY, enough to reveal his boxer shorts.
now, if these had been plain boxers? he'd be fine. mildly embarrassed, but fine.
unfortunately, bachira owns the most bachira underwear imaginable. bright yellow. covered in cartoon bees. correction: smiling bees. with their little wings. some of them wearing crowns. some of them holding a soccer ball.
the entire design looks like it was chosen by a seven-year-old with unlimited power.
the stadium goes silent for exactly one second. then absolutely explodes.
teammates collapse. one player falls to his knees laughing. another has to physically turn away.
bachira himself? doesn't even notice at first. he's still celebrating, still running around, waving at the crowd, completely unaware that 40,000 people have just learned about his bee-themed underwear collection.
eventually someone points at the giant screen. bachira looks up, sees himself, sees the bees, sees a close-up zoom on one specific bee wearing sunglasses.
and just goes: "... oh."
then proceeds to proudly stick his ass out so people can get a better view.
the clip reaches millions of views overnight. fans start bringing plush bees to his games. bee emojis flood every comment section he's ever appeared in. the underwear design gets recreated for actual consumer purchase in common clothing stores.
years later, no one remembers who won the match. everyone only remembers the bee boxers.
shidou ryusei
shidou's starts as what should have been the greatest celebration of his career.
ninety-third minute. game-winning goal. stadium is exploding. teammates are screaming. commentators are losing their minds.
shidou himself is operating on approximately zero brain cells and pure adrenaline.
naturally, he decides a normal celebration isn't enough. no. he needs a GRAND ENTRANCE.
he sprints toward the corner flag at full speed, leaps onto the advertising boards, and points dramatically at the crowd like he's the protagonist of reality itself.
and for about two seconds? it actually works. he looks cool as hell.
then he decides to jump down. unfortunately, his cleat gets caught here. for one horrifying moment, he's suspended in midair. then his legs go one way. his body goes the other. and he folds. completely.
there is genuinely no elegant way to describe what happens next. he just crashes directly onto the edge of the advertising board in the worst possible location imaginable.
the entire stadium reacts at once. 60,000 people simultaneously making the same pained noise. every man in the audience immediately sits forward.
commentators stop speaking for a full three seconds. one of them literally mutters: "oh dear. not the family jewels…"
shidou rolls off the board and lands on the grass clutching his pride. and maybe several other things.
teammates run over thinking he's injured, only to find him lying there staring at the sky in complete silence. which is somehow MORE concerning because this man never shuts up.
replay angles start appearing. every single one is worse than the last. one angle catches his soul physically leaving his body. another catches three opposing defenders wincing in sympathy.
the clip reaches millions overnight. the internet comments:
"bro got hit with a factory reset." "the bloodline almost ended right there." "he scored the goal, but lost the war."
to this day, any time shidou starts celebrating too hard, his teammates start yelling: "WATCH THE BOARD WATCH THE BOARD."
karasu tabito
karasu's humiliation is especially devastating because it's entirely self-inflicted.
nobody tackles him. nobody embarrasses him. fate simply watches him make terrible decisions.
it starts with him talking trash, shocking absolutely nobody. he's been verbally tormenting the defender assigned to him for almost the entire match.
little comments. little smirks. sarcastic remarks. generally acting like the smartest guy on the field.
and honestly? he's backing it up. he's playing great. which makes what happens next so much funnier.
because he steals the ball and turns toward the defender with the most obnoxious grin imaginable. the kind of grin that says: i am about to become a twitter edit.
then he decides to hit them with a wink. though unfortunately, the human body betrays him. a huge drop of sweat flies directly into his eye the exact moment he winks.
suddenly, he's blinking hard. then harder. then aggressively. then he's squinting. then rubbing his eye. now both eyes are watering. and because he's still running, he can't stop.
so from the audience perspective, it genuinely looks like he's sprinting around the field while crying. tears streaming. face scrunched up. blinking every half second.
meanwhile, the defender he's been bullying all game notices. "are you crying?"
karasu nearly trips from outrage. "NO."
"you look emotional."
"SHUT YER TRAP."
"did i actually hurt your feelings?"
cameras zoom in. it’s the worst mistake of his life. the footage clearly shows watery eyes and an angry expression.
social media absolutely feasts. edits appear with sad music. memes are instantly created.
people start posting:
"karasu after she said she likes someone else." "he got friendzoned mid-match y’all."
the image becomes one of the most popular reaction memes in sports.
even as time passes, people still don't know the actual context. they just know there's a picture of karasu looking devastated.
kaiser michael
kaiser's goes viral because he gets caught being the biggest attention seeker alive. and for once… it backfires spectacularly.
it’s a huge match. packed stadium. cameras everywhere. one of those games where every movement gets clipped and posted online within 30 seconds.
kaiser scores an absolutely ridiculous goal. it was a genuinely incredible bicycle kick that made the crowd go insane. commentators are screaming. teammates are running toward him.
now here's the thing: kaiser has spent DAYS planning this celebration. not consciously, of course. he'd never admit that. but this man absolutely practiced it in the mirror.
he starts walking toward the corner slowly, looking like he knows he’s about to be in the hardest sports edit of all time. he knows the cameras are on him. he KNOWS.
so he spreads his arms. tilts his head slightly. gives the crowd that signature smirk.
and then he waits. he's expecting the crowd to erupt. expecting cheers, chants, and the whole stadium to be focused solely on him.
except… the giant screen behind him isn't showing him. it's showing a replay. and not of the goal. of a random fan in the audience. specifically an elderly woman demolishing a rotisserie chicken all by herself.
the crowd LOVES her. absolutely adores her. they're cheering at the screen laughing, pointing, chanting.
kaiser hears all this noise and assumes: ah yes. naturally. they're celebrating me.
so he leans into it harder. spreads his arms wider. nods like a king acknowledging his subjects. even gives a little wave.
he doesn’t know the entire stadium is looking past him. at grandma rotisserie chicken.
the cameras catch EVERYTHING. especially eventually when kaiser notices.
he glances over his shoulder. sees the screen. sees the woman. sees her absolutely mauling a costco chicken while the crowd loses their minds. then sees himself standing there like he just won an award nobody gave him.
there is a brief moment where his face completely checks out. a moment so short most people would miss it.
but the cameras don't. the cameras NEVER miss. social media zooms in. slows it down. circles it. analyzes it frame by frame.
comments are brutal:
"bro thought they were cheering for him 😭" "main character syndrome final boss.” "grandma won the aura battle.”
the woman becomes a fan favorite overnight. she gets invited back to future matches. even receives team merchandise. gets nicknamed "rotisserie chicken queen.”
now every time kaiser touches the ball away from home… someone in the crowd yells: "WE LOVE YOU ROTISSERIE CHICKEN LADY!"
cameras once catch him hearing it and immediately looking annoyed. which only makes the memes stronger 😭
his death stares could genuinely rival homelander’s.
ness alexis
ness somehow manages to create a chain reaction of embarrassment so catastrophic it deserves scientific study.
it happens during warm-ups. not even during the actual match, which means there's absolutely no excuse.
cameras are filming behind-the-scenes content. players are casually passing balls around. everything is normal.
then someone sends a very easy pass toward ness. we're talking kindergarten-level difficulty. the kind of pass professional players receive hundreds of times a day.
ness opens his body to control it. completely misjudges the bounce. the ball rolls directly between his legs. not close to his legs, THROUGH them. cleanly, beautifully, disrespectfully.
the entire warm-up group freezes. getting accidentally nutmegged by the ball itself is already embarrassing enough. but the universe isn't finished.
ness whips around to chase it. his cleat catches the turf. he stumbles. tries recovering. stumbles again. now he's doing that horrible awkward run where your body knows you're falling, but your legs are desperately negotiating.
one step. two steps. three steps. no recovery. he's going down.
and while falling, he accidentally kicks the ball. a pure panic, uncontrolled kick.
the ball launches into the air. everyone watches it. coaches watch it. players watch it. cameramen watch it. nobody knows where it's going.
then– CLANG! straight into a nearby trash can.
it was a perfect shot. absolutely perfect. nothing but net.
there’s silence before the entire training ground erupts. players are screaming. coaches are laughing. somebody starts clapping. somebody else starts bowing dramatically. one teammate falls to their knees. another starts chanting: "MVP! MVP! MVP!"
ness is still lying face-down on the grass, wishing the earth would swallow him whole.
cameras catch everything. this is never getting erased. including the moment he slowly lifts his head and realizes everyone is cheering.
not because he did something impressivem but because he accidentally failed so successfully that it became impressive. so obviously the clip gets millions of views.
but the worst part? even kaiser can't keep a straight face. there's footage of kaiser turning around and physically walking away because he's laughing too hard.
and honestly? that's the clip ness never recovers from.
synopsis: you have a crush on red hood and your best friend stephanie brown thinks it’s so funny. funny enough that she introduces you to her brother, jason todd.
word count: 1.9k | cw: reader almost gets mugged, this is also not super canon compliant - the batfamily are all happy and hang out together because that's what i want lol
note: i'm back! sorry i've been gone! took a little break from pitt fiction to write for my (second) favorite robin <3 i’ve been a jason stan for a while, but here i am finally throwing my writing into the ring, enjoy!
No matter how many times you told Stephanie that you didn’t have a crush on the Red Hood, she refused to believe you.
You’re sitting on your couch in your apartment, there’s some movie in the background and Steph is next to you. You’d thought she had fallen asleep, so you pulled out your phone. You were looking at a Red Hood updates page when she suddenly sprung up, ready to tease you about your crush again.
“Red Hood updates, huh?” you quickly turn your phone off and look to the blonde next to you.
“It’s nothing, just an account I followed a while ago.”
“Hmmm, sure,” she laughs, reaching for the popcorn bucket that was sitting on your coffee table, “I’ll try to believe that.”
She goes back to watching the movie for a bit and then asks, “Hey, are you still coming with me to the gala thing next week? Cass will be there and all her brothers.”
“Yeah, sure,” you say, “I still need to find a dress, though.”
Stephanie and Cassandra invited you a couple weeks ago, you were out getting dinner for a girl’s night when the topic of Cass’s brothers came up. You knew a little bit about her background, but not much, and you could tell she didn’t want to give much, which was fine. You’d let her share on her own time. You did know that she was adopted by Bruce Wayne, though, which meant that she had an assortment of brothers that had also in some way or another come into Bruce Wayne’s care. “You should come! You can meet them all, it’ll be so fun!” Stephanie had said excited, “Tim would love it if you were there!” Tim would hang out with you and Cass sometimes, you’d also heard random stories about his brothers from him too.
“Yes, please come,” Cass chimed in.
“You can finally meet Dick, Jason, and Damian,” Stephanie winked at you. You’d heard a lot about the rest of the brothers, but you hadn’t yet met them in person.
The time would finally come when a couple weeks later when it was time to make your Wayne gala debut. You’d gone dress shopping with Steph and Cass and landed on a floor length silk crimson dress, which of course Stephanie poked fun at. “Hoping we run into a certain batboy on the way?”
“Shut up,” you playfully swat at her arm as you get into Tim’s car. Steph, Cass, and Tim had shown up at your apartment to pick you up, Tim agreeing to be your chauffeur for the night.
You’d feel out of place if your friends weren’t there that night. You weren’t used to this world of excess — gowns, champagne, tuxedos, and designer heels everywhere you looked — but everyone else handled it with ease.
The four of you found a table to set up at. At some point, Tim started waving, calling over to what you soon figured out were his other brothers.
Dick was the first to introduce himself, flashing you a killer smile that almost had you swooning. Sparkling blue eyes and a suit that was tailored just right to him, he was quick with a joke and when he talked, you felt like the only other person in the room. He was so charming it was kind of annoying.
Damian carried himself with such grace you were impressed, he was short, but well built, and all sharp features. He was quiet, but you could tell he was taking it all in, observing every movement the others in the group made. He did perk up when you referenced your cat at some point in conversation, he even asked to see a picture.
But the one who really stood out to you was Jason. He demanded your attention in a way, well over six feet tall, the fabric of his tuxedo stretching around well defined muscles, and your eyes kept drifting to the little white curls that peeked out of his black hair. You noticed scars running along his large hands when he moved to grab his flute of champagne, which made your mind wander to where he got them from. He was quiet at first, taking a bit of time to warm up, but when he did, he cracked jokes and teased his siblings.
You don’t remember how it got brought up, maybe when you made a joke about looking for your next boyfriend on the dance floor, when Steph said, “I thought you were saving yourself for Red Hood?”
“Steph!” you gasp, “why would you say that!” Dick laughs and looks away, Tim makes wide eyes at you, and Jason looks, intrigued?
“It’s nothing,” you say, trying to wave it off.
“Please tell,” Dick implores.
“Well,” you start up your story, the same one Steph and Cass heard two months ago after it happened. “I was walking home one night aftera bad date, which was my first mistake. I wasn’t really focused, I was on the verge of tears — I didn’t even notice the creep behind me until he was pretty close. I started to speed up, he did too. I call Steph, thinking that would make him go away, it doesn’t. He’s starting to get really close, I’m honestly thinking about throwing my purse at him and running away. He starts to shout at me, and then boom, Red Hood is there and he’s punched the guy, telling him not to be a — in his words, fucking creep — and then,” you hesitate for a second, “he asked me if I was okay. Said he’d walk me to the nearest subway station. I don’t know, he just showed me kindness in a moment when I needed it. It’s a silly little schoolgirl crush, nothing more.”
“I think it’s sweet,” Dick rushes to your defense, shooting a look at Jason.
“Yeah, Red Hood’s cool,” Jason says, fidgeting with the now empty champagne flute in front of him.
“Steph thinks I’m so crazy for it,” you say, relieved.
“Don’t listen to her, her taste in men is Tim,” Jason says and you laugh, glad that her brothers have your back.
At some point in the night, people drift away, leaving you and Jason at the table alone, which is also when you learn that Jason is a bit of a gossip.
“That’s Barbara, she and Dick used to date,” he points to the woman with long orange hair who Dick left to talk to, “and that” — he says pointing to the boy Damian left to talk to — “is Lois Lane’s son Jon, they’re good friends.”
You’ve really enjoyed your time with Jason, he’s funny and you mesh well. You’ve been telling him stories of your own life, how you ended up in Gotham, what you do for work, how you met Steph and Cass (the answer: your 8am lecture at Gotham University, which Steph would come late to and ask you for lecture notes).
Before you know it, it’s the end of the night, and everyone’s trickling out. Tim is rounding up you, Cass, and Steph to leave when Jason stops you on your way out, asking you for your number.
Over the course of your first year together, Jason find is endearing how much you really do love Red Hood. He thought that Steph was exaggerating, but when he saw you change your lockscreen from a picture of Red Hood to a selfie of you and Jason, he knew you were in deep.
You have little Red Hood figurines around your apartment - on bookshelves and by your bed. You wear a ratty oversized Red Hood T-shirt when you go to bed, and he, like Steph, saw your name came up as following the most popular Red Hood updates account on twitter.
He thinks it's sweet, but it also kills him that you don't know that this whole time you're harboring a secret crush on your own boyfriend. He thinks about telling you multiple different times - when he has to cancel on a lot of dates that include hanging out at nighttime, when he has to explain away random bruises and scrapes, or when he stops himself before he accidentally tells you a story that reveals his secret.
He finally decides, at some point, that he'll tell you as a part of your one year anniversary together. He figured that you stuck around with his weird excuses for long enough and that you deserved to know the truth. He also figured that you weren't going anywhere, he really loved you and he could tell that you carried that same love for him. Now, he wanted you to love every part of him, vigilante activities included.
"You ready, babe?" Jason calls from the kitchen of your apartment, dressed up for the dinner reservation that he made for your anniversary. He was supposed to patrol tonight, but he bribed Dick to take his place.
You come out of the bedroom in a red dress that Jason is obsessed with, it hugs your body in all the right places, looking through your purse to make sure you had everything you need. You looked up and smiled at him, "Yeah, let's go."
He took you to a cute little Italian place that just opened up in Gotham and then out for ice cream after. He was nervous on the way back to your apartment, not knowing what your reaction to his surprise would be. When it came to gifts, he asked you to go first. You gifted him some new penguin classics for his collection and some gear for his motorcycle that Dick helped you pick out.
Then it was Jason's turn - he gave you the standard gifts first: a beautiful necklace with a little J on it, so you could wear his initial around; and some other little trinkets that he saw and thought of you. You move in to hug him and kiss him on the cheek, "Thank you Jay, this is really sweet," he helps you put the necklace on, his large hands warm on the back of your neck. He's a bit nervous when he says, "I actually have one more surprise for you."
"Oh?" you smile at him, "What is it?"
"Just give me a second," he says, disappearing back into your bedroom. When he comes back out a few minutes later, he's dressed in his Red Hood garb, his helmet in his hands. Your jaw drops and you're silent for a couple seconds, which has him nervous, bouncing on his feet.
"What," you're still stunned, "where did you get this costume?"
"It's mine," he laughs, "I'm the Red Hood."
"Oh my god!" You jump up, covering your mouth with your hands, "is this why you're always randomly busy at night? You're out there," you move closer to him, looking at his costume and feeling all the little details, "saving people. And all the bruises, you're fighting all the time."
"Are you mad?" he asks you, eyes searching your face for an answer.
"What?" you look up at him, "Jason, you've basically just made my biggest fantasy come true," you put your hands on his chest, "I can't believe this whole time I've been dating the Red Hood."
"Do you know how hard it's been to keep this secret from Red Hood's biggest fan?"
You laugh, "So that night, when I almost got mugged, that was you that stopped him, you that offered to walk me to the subway station?"
"All me, baby," he wraps his arms around your waist.
"And Steph, she knows?"
"Yeah, she knows."
"I'm so stupid," you hide your face in Jason's chest, "that whole time she was making a big deal out of it, she knew! She was," you gasp, "she was trying to set us up, wasn't she?"
"Knowing her, probably," he laughs.
"She let me make a fool out of myself, talking about my crush on Red Hood while he was right in front of me the whole time."
"For what it's worth, I thought it was cute."
"You know what would be cute?" you raise an eyebrow at him and move your hands down his chest a bit, "if you and I went back to that bedroom and kept talking about this there."
𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬 ✷ established relationship. domestic arguments. fluff & angst. financially reckless behavior. independent!reader. morally gray income sources. soft!red hood. bickering. slightly clingy jason. implied violence. criminal interrogation. protective behavior. unhealthy coping mechanisms disguised as acts of service. rich boyfriend problems.
Dating an independent woman, Jason had learned, was an exercise in chronic frustration. Not the exhausting kind—the kind that settled warm beneath his ribs, irritating and addictive in equal measure. The kind that made him want to grind his teeth one second and kiss her stupid the next. Because loving y/n was easy. Christ, it was the easiest thing he’d ever done. Existing around her, however, was another story entirely.
She refused help with the same ferocity Jason usually reserved for gunfights and emotional repression.
And that was saying something.
Jason liked taking care of people. It was buried somewhere deep beneath the violence, the sarcasm, the helmet, the terrifying reputation, and the lifetime’s worth of anger issues, but it was there. Raw and instinctive. He liked memorizing what people needed before they asked for it. He liked patching wounds, carrying heavy things, walking on the outside of the sidewalk, checking locks twice before bed. Maybe it came from a childhood where nobody took care of him properly. Maybe it came from being Robin once upon a time, before the world had split him open and rebuilt him meaner. Whatever the reason, taking care of someone he loved felt as natural to him as breathing.
Unfortunately for him, y/n would rather throw herself into oncoming traffic than accept assistance gracefully.
Which was deeply inconvenient considering Jason Todd had money now. Not respectable money, obviously. Not “stocks and mutual funds” money like Bruce. Jason’s finances existed in a morally gray area populated by terrified drug lords, black-market deals, confiscated cash, and the occasional envelope Bruce shoved into his hands disguised as “mission funding” when they both knew it was guilt money.
Jason accepted all of it without shame.
And when he got a girlfriend? Jesus Christ.
He immediately developed the overwhelming urge to spend every cent on her.
Not in an obnoxious way. Not because he thought she couldn’t survive on her own. If anything, y/n surviving independently despite Gotham actively trying to eat people alive was one of the things he admired most about her. She worked herself ragged, paid her own bills, handled her own problems, and carried herself with this stubborn, infuriating pride that made Jason want to simultaneously shake her and marry her.
But he loved her. Of course he wanted to make her life easier.
Apparently that made him public enemy number one.
Every single attempt at paying for something turned into a war of attrition.
Coffee dates were the worst. Jason would buy their drinks with the smug satisfaction of a man fulfilling his divine purpose as a boyfriend, only for his phone to buzz ten minutes later.
Y/N SENT YOU $10.00
Jason would stare at the notification with pure resentment.
Once, after their fourth argument about it that month, he’d deliberately paid for dinner while she was in the bathroom, thinking he’d finally outsmarted her.
The next morning she’d transferred him exact reimbursement down to the tax.
Psychotic behavior.
Another time, he’d tried being direct about it.
“You know normal girlfriends let their boyfriends spoil them,” he muttered while leaning against her kitchen counter.
Y/n, sitting cross-legged on the counter eating a banana with the confidence of a woman impossible to embarrass, looked unimpressed. “Normal boyfriends don’t source their income like Batman’s most wanted.”
“That’s hurtful.”
“That’s accurate.”
Jason narrowed his eyes before pulling a thick stack of cash from his jacket pocket and tossing it onto the counter beside her. “Take it.”
She glanced at the money, then at him, then back at the money. “I don’t want your guilt money from your daddy.”
“It’s not guilt money,” Jason corrected immediately. “It’s drug money.”
Y/n stared at him slowly, banana halfway to her mouth, looking genuinely uncertain whether she should kiss him or book him a therapist.
Jason had shrugged like that clarified everything.
Because to him, honestly, it did.
Then there were the bills.
God, the bills argument nearly killed him.
It had been late evening, rain tapping softly against the apartment windows while Gotham drowned itself in neon and smog outside. Y/n’s apartment wasn’t terrible, but it was small in that distinctly Gotham way—thin walls, unreliable heating, pipes that screamed like dying animals whenever someone showered. Jason practically lived there anyway despite technically owning a much nicer place. Mostly because he preferred her cluttered little apartment over any penthouse money could buy.
She was sprawled on top of him on the couch, wearing one of his hoodies and soft sleep shorts, her cheek pressed into his neck while he worked on his laptop balanced precariously against her lower back. One of his arms rested around her waist automatically, hand underneath the hoodie, fingertips tracing absent patterns against her skin while he typed with the other hand.
“Ugh,” she groaned suddenly into his throat. “My landlord is up my ass about rent.”
Jason’s fingers paused over the keyboard instantly.
“How much?”
“No.”
“You don’t even know what I was gonna say.”
“You were gonna offer money.”
“I was gonna offer money.”
She made a triumphant sound against his skin. “Exactly. Denied.”
Jason clicked his tongue in annoyance, shifting slightly beneath her. “Baby, I basically live here anyway. Let me help with bills.”
“No.”
“You’re working doubles.”
“I’ll survive.”
“You shouldn’t have to survive,” he muttered.
That made her lift her head slightly. Her expression softened around the edges when she looked at him, because no matter how much they argued about this, she knew where it came from. Jason wasn’t controlling. Wasn’t condescending. He wasn’t trying to own her.
He just loved hard. Recklessly. Like a man who never learned moderation.
“I wanna do things myself,” she said quietly. “I need to prove I can.”
Jason looked at her for a long moment.
Most people saw anger first when they looked at him. Violence. Volatility. But underneath all of that, Jason understood pride better than almost anyone. Understood what it meant to claw your own survival out of the dirt with bloody hands. Understood how humiliating dependence could feel.
So instead of arguing, he just sighed softly through his nose and kissed the top of her head.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Okay.”
Which should’ve worried her.
Because when Jason Todd stopped arguing, it usually meant he’d already decided to do something significantly worse.
The next afternoon, while Jason was in the middle of interrogating a weapons trafficker, his phone vibrated in his pocket.
He glanced at the caller ID and immediately smiled beneath the Red Hood helmet.
“Hey, gorgeous.”
“You paid my fucking rent?”
Jason leaned casually against the damp brick wall beside him while the criminal tied to the chair whimpered quietly in the background.
“For the next six months, yeah.” He checked his gun lazily. “Oh, and your car’s in the shop. Your brakes sounded like a dying walrus. Figured I’d get them replaced.”
There was silence on the other end.
Then came one long inhale that positively radiated fury.
Jason grinned harder.
“I’m going to kill you.”
“Yeah?”
“You are insane.”
“You still love me though.”
“I’m considering arson.”
“That’s my girl.”
The line went dead with an aggressive beep.
Jason stood there for another second staring at the phone in his hand, helpless affection spreading warm through his chest before he could stop it. The kind that made him feel seventeen again. Human again. Soft in places he usually kept armored shut.
If anyone ever saw the look on his face right now, Jason would actually have to kill them.
With a sigh, he slid the phone back into his jacket and finally turned toward the terrified criminal still zip-tied to the chair in the abandoned warehouse.
“You know,” he muttered while pulling another zip tie tighter around the guy’s wrists, “I buy one woman six months’ rent and suddenly I’m the bad guy.”
The guy had apparently developed a death wish.
“F-females,” he laughed nervously, sweat dripping down his temple. “Am I right?”
Jason’s smile vanished instantly.
Gone was the lovesick idiot paying for brake repairs. This was the man criminals whispered about in panic.
Jason grabbed the chair sharply, yanking it forward until the man nearly choked on his own breath.
“That,” Jason said quietly, “is my girl you’re talking about.”
The criminal went pale.
“And trust me,” Jason continued, voice calm in the way that scared people most, “you do not wanna disrespect the woman willing to date me voluntarily.”
“R-right. I’m sorry. Sorry.”
Jason stared at him another second before sighing heavily and releasing the chair.
The elderly couple – Margie and Paul – both smile at you before they nod. Paul holds out the unopened menus to you and once you grab them, you head your way towards the kitchen. Pushing the door to the kitchen open, you’re immediately greeted with the familiar sizzling of patties and rhythmic chopping of lettuce.
“Hey Johnny, the usual for Marge and Paul in booth six!”
A quick ‘yep yep’ is thrown back at you in acknowledgement before you’re grabbing the ketchup and mustard bottle for booth two, and heading out the kitchen again.
The lunch rush had extended into a dinner rush at the diner tonight, but with all the good staff on, things were going exceptionally well, and tips were looking fantastic.
Approaching booth two, you set down the mustard and ketchup, the two teenage girls both quick to thank you before you’re headed towards the reception to put in Marge and Paul’s order – with a heavy discount – into the machine. The machine spits out a receipt and you stuff it into your apron pocket with the rest of the miscellaneous rubbish.
The bell at the top of the door rings signifying new customers, and you look up and – Holy fucking shit.
Your jaw practically unhinges as the one and only Red Hood stands in front of the counter you’re situated behind, head tilted up, casually scanning the menu.
You might as well have a microphone taped to your neck with how loud that gulp was, but he doesn't say anything as he keeps scanning the menu. Before you can muster up the courage to ask him something – anything – he speaks.
“Could I just get two regular cheeseburgers – one without pickles – and a triple cheeseburger?”
His voice is deeper than expected. You barely process that he has a voicechanger on before your hand quickly runs across the screen punching in his order.
“Any drinks with that?”
A deep hum comes from him before he adds, “just three cokes please.”
You nod before adding the drinks to his order. Looking up, he’s got a credit card in his hand – his fingers meticulously covering the name – and you barely stutter out, “o-oh, uh, on the house.”
“No, let me pay.”
You can feel your face flush pink but you shake your head no, and he mimics you by nodding yes. You groan before pushing through one burger.
“Fine. $12.50.”
He stops right above the card reader and you realise he’s caught onto you undercharging him.
“Triple that, and then I’ll pay.”
You look at the white where his eyes are, and you can imagine he has a matching unamused expression. Your eyes glance down to his gloved hand where his hand is still hovering above the waiting card machine before a comical lightbulb lights up beside your head.
Please don’t pull your gun on me for this.
Your hand darts out from behind the counter, landing on top of his and pressing it to the reader. His head darts down and a beep reverberates around the silent air around you both before he realises what you’ve done.
With your hand still on top of his, you look back up at his helmet and purse your lips to stifle your laughter. You take your hand off his and slowly back away.
“Thank you. Your food should be ready in 15 minutes.”
And you’re running off to the kitchen to tell Johnny.
Johnny couldn’t help when he peeked out the kitchen door to see the Red Hood, but the sight encouraged the man to have the food ready in 12 minutes instead of the 15. The cool breeze that snuck in from the front door had you taking your hoodie out your locker and shrugging it on.
You placed the takeaway food and coke cans in the plastic bag – adding some extra sauces – before you headed back out of the kitchen and to the front. The front counter was empty, and you headed towards the door, before spotting him leaning against the wall just outside.
Pushing the door open, a shiver crawls up your spine and his head snaps to you before he comes forward.
“Hey, here’s the food.”
You hand the bag over to him, and he takes it from your hands. He stares at you for a second, and you shift awkwardly in your spot. He reaches a hand out to your stomach, and before you can flinch, he’s shoved something in your hoodie pocket and is jogging away.
“Hey!”
You yell out after him instinctively, before your hand goes wandering in your pocket. You feel what seems to be… paper? Your hand pulls out a hundred dollar bill, and the last thing the cold air hears from you before you grumble your way inside is…
Guy Gardner/Reader, Wally West/Reader, Roy Harper/Reader, Matt Murdock/Reader, 2.1K
a/n: my partner is ginger i hold no ill will against gingers this is in good fun
cw: flirting, nudity (Matt's part), playful discrimination against gingers, gn!reader (no description of features/clothing)
masterlist ao3 requests
PREVIEW:
Too bad your man doesn't like your opinion. Guess it's up to him to change your mind.
Guy Gardner/Reader, Wally West/Reader, Roy Harper/Reader, Matt Murdock/Reader
Guy Gardner:
"What?" Guy asks in abject, offended disbelief. "Who told you that?"
He doesn't seem to be enjoying the particulars of the statement that you just regaled him with—but that's okay. You didn't expect him to—after all, it's not his fault that he happens to be a ginger. Everything else, however, does happen to be his fault.
This is why you offer him nothing but idle smirk as you stand your ground opposite him on the kitchen island, folding your hands over each other. He leans a determined hip on the marble, scowling—though the manifestation of a smile at the challenge you're lobbying at him seems to be making quick headway.
"No one did." You reply back smartly, staunchly. Defiantly—the way his smile grows in size indicates just how much he likes it. "I just know because of interacting with you."
"Me?" His eyes widen, those thick eyebrows tick up his forehead, a wide hand splays over the span of that chest. "I'm a fuckin' paragon of virtue."
"Oh?" Your laugh comes immediately and unbidden at this blatant lie. "Big words, big guy."
His hackles rise, his shoulders spread, he takes a daring step forwards to you across the space that elapses between you both. He likes 'em with a little bit of fight in 'em. And the fact that you haven't provided verbal or physical retreat means he's happy to keep invading closer and closer.
"You know it—"—Guy rolls his head on his neck, in slow, languid swivel, "I got my education and everything."
You chuff in good cheer as he comes closer and you have to bid crane your neck up to him. "And they couldn't teach you any manners while they were there?"
He makes a scoff that clearly demonstrates his opinion on the subject. "Who needs manners when you're a classy fella like me?"
For good measure, he leans in closer to make sure that you're face-to-face with the broad span of his chest that is barely restrained by the tight green shirt he wears. God, it fits him so well. That smug look on his face as he watches you appraising the goods is also excellent complement as well.
You finally tear your eyes away from the appealing display, cocking up your brow. "What's your definition of class?"
Another step advanced, a smile that makes protracted growth. Oh, how happy he is to answer your question.
"Someone who makes sure to tell you how good you look." To provide example, his eyes take dedicated appraisal of your body, lingering on the parts he finds most visually interesting.
"Depends on how you say it, Guy." You say, your tone dry enough that he can't resist meeting the cant of your eyes.
"Never heard you complain." He offers in sly reply; another step that is made so that you are close enough to grasp. "Mebbe it's someone who's always tryin' to make sure they got your best interests at heart."
"Oh," You snort at this very elegant spin, "Is that what you call it?"
"Yeah," he agrees, his hand already taking familiar place upon the slope of your hips. Pulling you close into an embrace that you know very well.
"Someone who knows how to sweep ya off yer feet." Guy concludes, holding you with a significant stare—before he leans down to kiss you.
And it's wicked, the way that his teeth nip at your bottom lip so that he can summon the noises he likes from you—the way that his hands are already roaming around your body, trying to ensure that you are thoroughly flustered when you pull away.
And when you do, you're heaving for breath that you must take great instance to cycle through your body. He doesn't care—he's the cat who ate the canary, and intends to go back for seconds.
"Mmmm." You hum as you feel him pulling you back to again. "I guess you have a point."
Guy seems to be happy that you agree with the notion.
Wally West:
"Don't trust gingers?" Wally offended voice seems to be threatening octaves he hasn't attempted since prepubescence. You can't smother the smile that's already making tracks across your face as you watch him dart across the perimeter of the room to take closer audience to you.
"What did we do to you as a people?" He asks, stately representative on behalf of Derided Gingers International—and the glare that sparks across his face is clear that he's determined to have this out with you. Which, you already knew was going to happen the second you lobbied this statement at him.
You point an accusatory finger at him that he zeroes in on with disdainful regard.
"Sneaky. Mischievous." You arch a brow at him, daring him to say otherwise—his focus is riveted upon the next point of your argument. "Always have to have the last word."
He opens his mouth, decides that the profanity-laden first response will not suffice, and opts for something more diplomatic.
"That could describe anyone." He returns in rebuttal, holding his hands out to you at this crime that you've committed against him. This willful, hateful prejudice that attacks him to the core.
But you are unmoved. Even if those baby blues seem to be rife with a desperate need for appeasement. You won't succumb to them—yet.
"In my experience," You grin in dry fashion, "It describes you pretty well."
He makes a noise of appalled offense, and crosses his arms in stalwart manner across his chest. "I don't have to have the last word."
You can't resist your laugh as you gesture between you and Exhibit A. "Then what do you call this?"
"Call it—"—Wally searches the foreground of his thought for proper wording and comes away satisfied—"—Having a dedicated debate."
"Where you have to be the final speaker?" You ask with no small amount of amusement running undercurrent in your voice. Wally hems and haws for the span of a second, looking at the ground before giving you what he considers a winning smile. And damn him if it doesn't fit him oh-so-handsomely.
"And if there's a problem with that?" Wally asks with a cheeky smile, taking jaunty stride towards you.
"You're just proving my point." You reply. But the smile isn't chased away at this—he knows that he has a way to worm back into your good graces.
"But I do it so well, don't I?" He asks, and the look that he gives you is dashing, playful—most immoral indeed. But you don't stop him as he inches into the boundary of your space that you allow him to enter. After all, when he regales you with the pleasure of his presence, you know better than to turn him away.
"You do." You finally concede on his behalf as he drapes longing, needful arms around you. "But you didn't convince me."
"Maybe," His eyebrows wiggle in flirtatious manner, "I don't need to speak to do that."
"Oh, brother." You roll your eyes to the ceiling as he presses a slow, loitering kiss on the edge of your jaw.
"Don't you mean," He grins into the shell of your ear, "Oh, Wally?"
Roy Harper:
"You're right." Roy seems otherwise nonplussed at your assertion that you've supplied to him. "We're a superstitious, cowardly lot."
"Exactly." You find yourself relieved that he takes no opposition to what you've told him—so you decide to take further refuge in audacity. "And you don't clean up after yourselves."
"Yeah," Roy also agrees as he lounges in steep recline on the couch, "We indulge in that terrible sin of sloth."
"And wrath." You offer, recalling some rather intense moments of combat in patrols past. He also finds himself unmoved at the continual barrage you are providing to him.
"And greed." Roy says, and it's here that he begins to make significant movement across the couch to you.
Not that you would stop him, when he makes such impressive flex of those biceps across the cushions. When his thighs make such defined flex against those sweatpants—in addition to other…lower assets called into such mouthwatering definition as he shuffles closer to you.
But his statement does draw you up short in confusion.
"Greed?" You ask mildly as he continues to mosey on along your way. "Greed for what?"
"Greed for our partners—"—He drawls as he finishes crossing the meridian of the couch to you—"—And for their kisses."
"Oh?" You inquire as one of those great, muscular arms drapes across the back of the couch—and finds familiar settlement across the span of your shoulders. "Is that so?"
"And lust." He informs you. It's quite interesting how he seems to have energy in reserve for the way that he sidles up with impressive speed.
"Is that so?" You ask, and there's the ghost of restrained smile that is making passage on his face as he looks at you. As he seems to be making rather steadfast regard of the nuances of your mouth.
"Oh, lust." Roy agrees with your statement, letting you see the gleam of those teeth as he continues to admire you.
"Terrible, terrible lust for them." He continues. "And if it isn't sated—"—His hand encourages you to look at him, to see the hunger that is displayed in his eyes—"—Watch out."
You laugh across the terrain of his lips. "Thought you were slothful."
"Not with you. With you—"—He takes deep, circuitous breath to appreciate your scent, your proximity—you—"—Think I can engage in that sin of pride."
"Pride over what?" You tease, already knowing that you'll be most pleased with his answer.
Roy doesn't disappoint. "Pride I got such a babe in my arms."
And with the way that he pulls you to him in passionate kiss, you find that you're more swayed to his argument than you expected to be.
Matt Murdock:
"Frankly, I find the stereotype insulting." Matt says from where he lounges on the span of your bed, in state of delicious undress. Unfortunately, you can't appreciate it as much as you wish, for you've summoned the more litigious side of your naked lover.
And he seems to be on the good-humored warpath to discuss with you, so you prop yourself up on elbow as he begins cross-examination.
"To be judged for something I can't even see." He says, and there's a crooked smile that tells you it's all in good fun—if you play along.
"Unfortunately though," You return in retort to him, "You fit all the aspects."
Matt makes wry noise at the fact that you would commit such prejudiced statement against him—his eyes stare in your general, reproachful direction.
"Aspects that are based on slander and centuries of discriminatory practices?" He demands, and you chuckle at the heated note that bleeds into his voice.
"Aspects that you fit to a tee." You return, finding yourself instinctively moving across the diameter of the mattress to him. Trying to soothe that offended smile on his face into something more reconciliatory.
"Such as?" He asks, awaiting for you to provide proper thesis. But the smile seems to grow as he hears you approach, as he reaches out to find the incline of your arm and rub a calloused thumb into it.
"A need to be incorrigible." You provide to him, and he makes dubious laugh at this.
"Something that could be attributed to my lawyering." He replies without missing a beat. Still his arm continues to coax its way up your shoulder, making a shiver of goosebumps dart up you.
"The desire to find loopholes in any argument made." You incline your head to visually analyze him through the span of your lashes, though he can't see it.
He appears unmoved at this reasoning. "That could be my tenacity."
"The overarching desire to be morally just in any situation." You declare in progression of your argument.
"My personal code I abide by, perhaps?" He asks, his knuckle drifting over the pulse in your neck. How warm and welcome his hand is here.
"The lingering guilt—"—You proceed forward, and then pause in sudden realization—"—Wait."
"What?" Matt asks, his hand taking protracted analysis of your cheek. "Change of heart?"
"Yes—actually." You say—his eyebrows jump up in surprise, waiting to hear your hypothesis.
"It's not that you're ginger—"—You lean forward to him in conspiratorial manner so he can hear the smile in your inflection—"—It's that you're Catholic."
Matt laughs long, loud, and clear—and you can't resist joining him.
"Well," Matt closes in to find your mouth, "We can't all be perfect, can we?"
Perhaps not—though the way his mouth fits against yours certainly is.
