My now winter edition Disney Princess solved a murder between coughing fits
Tattoo Artist!Sukuna × Forensics Analyst!Cassandra Stone/reader insert
Established relationship | Domestic fluff | Christmas shenanigans | Eventual SMUT
synopsis: Half a year ago, Sukuna Ryomen didn’t even remember the names of the girls he fucked. Now, his apartment smells like raspberry shampoo , there are hair ribbons in his sock drawer, and there’s a forensic analyst who looks like she fell out of a pastel daydream sleeping in his bed every night.
This winter should have been simple: Christmas shopping, gingerbread cookies, hot chocolate and dumb holiday movies. Instead, his Barbie fell into a frozen lake at a crime scene, got herself a fever that could boil tea, and still managed to identify a serial killer between coughing fits at three in the morning. Followed by Christmas activities and mirror sex. You're welcome.
warnings: established relationship, Cass is still the pastel coquette nightmare of Sukuna’s dreams, possessive behavior, ridiculous amounts of fluff, fever care, banter that could be classified as foreplay, and holiday-themed smut. (itty bitty)
OC backstory/reader insert: Cass Stone is a recurring OC in my fics. In this universe, she’s a soft-focus dream — blonde hair with ribbons in it, thigh-highs and heels, pastel sundresses, and pearls. Glossy pink lips and big doe eyes that make people spill their secrets without thinking. A girl you’d expect to be sweet, shy, naïve. A pretty cherub, doll, or a lamb. On the inside? A razor-edged genius who works as a forensic analyst, with perfect recall, an arsenal of morbid one-liners, and zero tolerance for whining. She also only remembers the last 2 years of her life due to amnesia, more context in:
Part 1 - how they met & got together
The cold cut through the night like shards of broken glass, sharp and merciless, the kind of winter that turned every breath into a lingering ghost in the air. The frozen lake stretched out under the spill of crime scene lights, the silver broken only by the jagged cracks and scattered footprints of the forensic team. Cassandra was crouched at the edge of the lake, her boots crunching over the thin crust of snow. She leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees, the hem of her pastel coat grazing the icy surface as she studied the body laid out on the tarp.
Mid-thirties. Swollen from hours in the water. Skin the color of paper left out in the rain. His hair clung to his face in limp, ropy strands; his eyes, clouded and empty, stared skyward as if they’d been caught in mid-thought before the cold took him. Her gaze traced over every detail — the frayed fibers tangled near his collar, the faint bruising along the jawline, the crust of ice clinging like shattered glass to his clothes. Her gloved hand hovered just close enough to note textures, her mind already threading together a picture. Her voice carried in clipped, precise beats as she rattled off observations to the lead detective, each syllable as steady as the lake ice beneath her knees.
Until it wasn't.
She’d taken one step too far without realizing it. A fraction of weight shifted forward, her heel tilting, and the ice under her boot gave a sound — not a crack, not a shatter, just the smallest traitorous sigh — and then she was gone.
The shock was brutal, a fist to the chest made of pure winter. Her lungs seized, vision flashing white as every nerve screamed awake, pain that blurred thought, reduced her body to shivers and reflexes. She fought her way upward but the ice was slick under her gloves, refusing to give her grip.
Then hands closed on her arm — strong, desperate — and yanked. Her knees scraped over the edge, boots kicking against the ground until she was breathing air again.
"Thanks" she said, still coughing.
"Jesus, Stone. I’ll call—"
"I’m fine. Don’t even finish that sentence." The words came sharp, frostbitten, cutting off every offer before it formed.
People closed in anyway, the shuffle of boots on snow, jackets being shrugged off, hands reaching for her shoulders. Despite everyone knowing her personality by now, she still looked like a fragile doll, so of course you'd worry. She brushed past them with jerky movements, soaking clothes plastered to her body, hair dripping against her collar. Every second someone tried to fuss was a second wasted. She explained to the lead what had happened to the man, every little detail she observed, like she didn't just take a dive into the lake and flirted with hypothermia, though her voice was a little less steady now, impatient to be done. The sooner she wrapped this up, the sooner she could leave so nobody could get any cuter with their concern.
She drove back to her own apartment instead of Sukuna’s, cranking the heat so high it made the vents rattle. Her body was still shivering hard enough to hurt, and she could already feel the first sign of a fever creeping up the back of her neck. If he found out, she’d never hear the end of it.
Winter had already turned him into an overprotective nightmare — draping his jacket over her shoulders mid-walk, muttering about how princesses weren’t built for the cold, pulling her close under his arm even when she swore she wasn’t freezing. He’d never seen her sick before, and that was perfect. Because when she got sick, it was pretty bad. High fevers that lead to near delirium, coughing up her lungs, the works. That wasn’t something she wanted him to see. Not because it hasn't even been a year since they got together and all that crap. Nah. Everything was going well there, he even had her move in with him because "Fight me on it" and well...she couldn't walk the next day when she did. So yeah. She simply didn't want him hovering.
She got to hers and stripped out of her soaked clothes, dropping them in a heap on the bathroom floor, and stepped under a shower hot enough to steam up the mirror in seconds. The heat hit her skin like lava, hurting as sensation crept back into her toes and fingers. She stayed there until the water ran nearly too hot to bear, then toweled off and pulled on fresh clothes. All she had to do was get herself together, go to his place, and pretend nothing happened.
Easy.
Her phone rang.
Not easy.
She glanced at the screen — his name, of course — and her stomach dropped. That was a bit soon..wasn't it?
"Where are you?" His voice was low, too calm, the kind of calm that meant 'You're in deep shit'.
"At my apartment," she said, forcing her voice into something casual despite the clatter of her teeth. "Forgot to pick up one of my sweaters. I’ll be home soon—"
"That lie made up in the freezing lake or on your way back from it?"
Her blood ran colder than the lake. "‘Kuna—"
"Don’t ‘Kuna’ me. I’m on my way." The line went dead.
She stared at the phone, a sick twist in her stomach. Someone had told him. Whoever it was had just gained a free spot on her dissection table.
He’d been mid-session, tattoo gun buzzing, when the text came in: 'Your girl just went in the lake.' He’d looked at it, and for a second, the words didn’t even register as real. Then something hot and sharp detonated in his chest. He didn’t remember tossing his gloves aside or telling this new apprentice to finish it up and lock the studio afterwards.
All he knew was that she hadn’t called. Which meant she’d decided to hide it from him. Which meant she was absolutely out of her goddamn mind.
She'd learn quick that hiding it from him was ten times worse than a goddamn accident of falling into a lake, even though he was also going to chew her up for that.
She was gonna come back home acting like everything was good? She thought she could pull that shit? Cute.
Sukuna took the turn so sharp the back tires skidded, red lights bleeding over the dash. The whole way there his jaw was locked so tight it ached, one hand on the gearshift while the other gripped the wheel. Hard. His knee bounced impatiently at every stop. He hadn’t even bothered putting on his coat — just stormed out of the shop in a black thermal and jeans, sleeves pushed up to the elbows, still smelling of ink and machine oil.
His girl, his tiny, ridiculous pastel wearing girl- took a fucking dip in frozen water they probably just pulled a body out of. And the real kicker? She wasn’t going to tell him.
That kept repeating in his mind.
He killed the engine outside her building, shoved the gear into park like it had personally offended him, and was out before the hum faded. His boots hit the steps in heavy thuds, two at a time, the cold air biting at his cheeks. Every muscle in him was coiled tight.
He already had the keys — of course he did — not that the lock would’ve lasted long if she’d decided to keep him out. He’d made sure from week one that this whole “her apartment” thing was just a formality until he wore her down enough to ditch it entirely. He moved her in with him before the ink was dry on the idea. It wasn’t subtle. Within weeks, her life was already folded into drawers at his place. The delicate little ribbons she tied in her hair, rows of thigh-highs and pastel skirts, her stupidly tiny heels that made her legs look like sin.
He even told her to sell this place. So yeah, this little independence stunt she was pulling was definitely not welcome.
The lock clicked, and the scent hit him instantly — her. Sweet and warm and infuriating. Goddamn vanilla raspberries. He stepped inside and there she was, curled up on the couch like she’d just drifted in from a winter catalog. An oversized sweater practically swallowing her, fur-lined leggings tucked into fluffy socks. Blanket over her shoulders, hair still wet enough to darken the strands that clung to her neck.
“When I called you princess, I didn’t fucking mean Elsa.” He crossed the room in long strides, stopping just close enough to tilt her chin up. The heat rolling off her skin made his blood boil. She was flushed deep, the red in her cheeks spreading over her nose. Her eyes had that glassy, fevered sheen. If he wasn’t this pissed, he’d probably have kissed her just for looking at him like that — with those pretty eyes of hers.
“It was an accident. Accidents happen. It got handled, no need for overreacting.” she said calmly.
“Overreacting?” His laugh had no humor in it. “You think your fuck-up is the goddamn lake?”
“Then what are you so pressed about?”
“My girl decides to take a dip in the frozen lake and I hear it from someone else. That’s your fuck-up.”
“I didn’t fuck up anything, I simply—”
“You simply shut the fuck up.”
He didn’t give her a chance to argue. His hands were already on her, hauling her up like she weighed nothing, slinging her over his shoulder. She kicked — of course she kicked, that little brat would fight him for every single thing on this earth, and it drove him insane— but he ignored it, adjusting the blanket so it still covered her head. She was light, warm against his back, every movement reminding him of just how small she was in his arms. His voice dropped, more to himself than her.
“Oh, poor princess doesn’t want anyone fussing. Tragic. I’ll die crying.”
“Put me down, you jerk!”
“Don’t fucking try me, Cassandra.”
By the time she threw back, “Cassandra, huh? We’re on name basis now. Cool. Cool. You should start calling me Stone like those assholes at work who decided calling my daddy to fix everything would be a brilliant idea!,” he was already shoving the apartment door shut with his boot and locking it with his other hand.
The car was idling outside, heat already blasting. He opened the passenger door, set her down, and leaned over her long enough to buckle the belt before she even thought about wriggling out. Then he was sliding into the driver’s seat. He saw that big pout on her almost purple lips.
“Why do you act like I’m your goddamn enemy?” His eyes flicked to her, narrow, sharp. “What’s it with—” He stopped mid-sentence. Really looked at her. The stubborn set of her jaw, the way she refused to sink back into the seat even though she was shivering. “Oh, I get it. Right. That little complex you have.”
“Excuse me?”
“That cute little complex about your whole amnesia thing. You act like you should’ve died, and the fact you woke up is luck. And now you’re trying to prove you deserved it. You're so fucking dumb about it.” His tone was matter-of-fact, almost conversational, but it carried a weight that made her brows knit.
“You've earned your place. You got into the precinct without a degree because you’re brilliant, not because you’re 'amnesic' and 'got lucky'. They keep you on the worst cases because you’re a genius, not because they pity you. And me? I’m here because you’re you. Not because of your stupid little dresses and ribbons, although they do help your case a lot right now.”
“What are you even-.”
“You function on logic, right? Gave you logic. Why are you buffering?”
“I’m not—”
“I’ll tell you what. I’m not covering for the daddy you never remembered, or any of that shit you tell yourself to dodge normal human behavior. I’m your fucking man. And you deciding when I get to worry? You deciding when I get to fuss?” He shook his head. “Not on the list of things I’m fine with you doing. Meaning you’re gonna fucking stop, and it will never happen again.”
She didn’t answer. Not because she didn’t want to — he could see her tongue press against the inside of her cheek like she had ten comebacks ready — but because she was too goddamn tired. Fever was dragging her down, pulling her limbs heavy amd finally, her head back against the seat.
Good. Let her stew in silence. Think about what she did.
She was tucked into that blanket like she was trying to disappear inside it, head tipped toward the heater vent.
The studio’s back lot was empty, lit only by the white streetlights.
He pulled in, killed the engine, and got out without a word. Cold air cut against his bare hands as he came around to her side and opened the door. He scooped her up, ignoring the way she tensed in his arms. Adjusted the blanket over her head so the wind wouldn’t bite into that still-damp hair. She could call it whatever she wanted — fussing, hovering, being an overbearing bastard — he called it keeping her from getting worse.
Up the stairs, his boots thudding against the worn wood, he felt the weight of her against his chest.
This was home. Their home. What the fuck didn’t she get about that? How much clearer could he be than “I’m keeping you”? Why was she still on about boundaries and space like those were some sacred principles? Boundaries and space got him a text from some cop telling him she’d gone in a goddamn frozen lake. Boundaries and space got her shivering in a blanket, trying to hide it from him like she could just pretend it away.
He was going to fuck that whole “boundaries and space” bullshit right out of her pretty head when she got better.
The apartment door swung open, and the heat washed over them. He didn’t pause — just walked her straight into the bedroom and set her down on their bed. His bed, her bed, there wasn’t a difference anymore. She could pretend there was, but he’d already made sure every thread in this place screamed her.
He toed his boots off and was moving before she could even process. Thermometer. Different kinds of pills. Her winter pajamas — soft, fluffy, and pink enough to look ridiculous in contrast to the black ink running up his hands. He tossed them on the bed before heading to the kitchen, filling the kettle and trying to let the steam calm him down.
Okay. She was home.
When he came back, the sweater and leggings were folded neatly on the nightstand, and she was already tucked under the blanket in the pajamas he’d left.
The knot of irritation in his chest loosened just a fraction.
He handed her the tea and, without a word, slid her folded clothes into the wardrobe — the way she liked it, corners lined up, no creases. Then he popped a pill out of its seal and turned back to her.
“Open, or I’ll open it for you.”
She had that pout on, the one that could kill a lesser man. Big eyes, bottom lip pushed out just enough to make it obvious she was trying to get a rise out of him. He tried to keep his mouth in a straight line, but the corner wanted to twitch up anyway.
“Weren’t you mad?” she said.
“I am. Will be for a long while.”
“Yeah, ‘cause it’s all over your face. Such anger,” she teased, voice too smug for someone curled up under that ridiculous blanket and shivering like she was.
When she didn’t take the pill, he just pressed a finger against her lower lip and eased it open. She made a noise of protest, but he slipped the pill in anyway, watching her nose wrinkle at the bitterness before she took a sip of tea to wash it down.
“You don’t take pills with no goddamn symptoms just because-”
“If I put the thermometer in your mouth right now and you’ve got a fever, you’re shutting up and letting me take care of you as long as you need it.”
“I don’t have a—”
“It wasn’t negotiable. I was just sweet enough to inform you.”
Her glare could’ve set the room on fire, but it didn’t move him an inch. She was boiling — from fever and from irritation — and he was fine with both. He slid the thermometer between her lips without waiting for permission.
“You’re so dramatic,” she muttered around it.
He took it out, glanced at the reading, and held it up where she couldn’t miss the numbers. “No, you, princess, have just been revoked ‘moving out of this bed’ rights. I’ll tell Mark you’re not coming in until you’re good.”
“You can’t just—”
But he was already reaching for his phone. She made a grab for it, and he simply lifted his arm higher, his other hand scrolling to the contact without breaking stride. She switched tactics, going for his bicep, but he didn’t budge.
“JERK!”
“Yeah, yeah. You’re real scary. Now shut up and let me text.”
He finished the message, hit send, and set the phone on the nightstand.
He stripped his thermal off as he crossed to the bathroom, tossing it into the hamper. The water came hot, steam curling up the tiles and fogging the mirror.
She never made it easy for him. Not with the overworking. Not with the feelings. Definitely not with the way she seemed determined to draw invisible lines between them just to see if he’d cross them.
Spoiler: he would. Every time.
When he came back into the bedroom, the first thing he noticed was the quiet. Not the sulky, biting quiet she gave him when she was annoyed — this was softer. He leaned against the doorway for a second, watching her. Somewhere between him grabbing clean clothes and toweling his hair dry, she’d passed out cold.
He crossed the room, the floor cool under his bare feet, and climbed into the bed, sliding in behind her, wrapping an arm around her waist until her back met his chest.
She was warm. Too warm. The fever heat seeped into him instantly. His hand found its way into her hair, fingers combing through the now dry strands with slow movements. She didn’t stir.
The pill would work soon. It had to. She’d sleep it off, wake up cooler, less flushed, maybe even ready to bitch at him again. That's what he was telling himself. He tightened his arm around her, letting his chin rest against the top of her head. Her breathing was steady, the kind of rhythm that pulled at his own exhaustion.
Somewhere in the middle of the night, the steady rhythm of her breathing changed.
It was sudden, sharp — a wet, rattling choke that yanked him out of sleep like a gunshot. He blinked against the dark, disoriented for half a second before he realized she was coughing. Not just coughing — choking on it, her whole body jerking in the circle of his arm.
“Hey,” he muttered, voice still rough from sleep, but he was already pushing himself up on one elbow. His palm pressed against her chest, steadying her through the force of it, feeling the weak flutter of her ribs straining under each hack. She was folded in on herself, every breath coming like it scraped her lungs raw.
He waited until the coughs finally slowed, leaving her gasping in the dark. “Breathe, baby” he told her quietly, even though she was already trying.
When her shoulders stopped shaking, he reached up and pressed his hand to her forehead. The heat there made his gut clench — hotter than before, almost like she’d come out of an oven. Her eyes were half-lidded, glassy, the focus gone from them.
He swung his legs off the bed and padded to the bathroom, opening the cabinet to grab a clean cloth. Cold water ran over it until it was heavy and dripping, and he wrung it out with quick, practiced twists.
He sat on the edge of the bed beside her and laid the compress across her forehead. She hissed at the contact, trying to flinch away.
“Shh,” he said, the sound low, his free hand cupping her face to hold her still. The contrast of her burning skin against his palm was unsettling.
“You’ve ever gotten sick these past two years?” he asked, thumb brushing absently along her temple.
She nodded.
“And it’s usually like this?”
Another nod.
He let out a slow exhale through his nose, gaze dragging over her face. Yeah. It was going to be a long few days. Especially if she kept that smart mouth of hers. But… he couldn’t lie, there was a part of him that didn’t mind this. Not the fever. Not her looking wrecked like this, no, he hated that she wasn't okay. But the part where she needed him. Where he got to be the one to keep her in bed, make sure she ate, force the pills down her throat, wrap her in his arms and keep her there.
It never really hit him before — just how far gone he was. Obsessive? Yeah, probably. Who the hell moves his girlfriend into his apartment a week into dating her and doesn’t give a damn about protests? Who goes out of his way to make sure she always has the exact shampoo she likes, the right tea in the cupboard, the kind of pajamas that match her ridiculous aesthetic? He’d told himself it was just convenience. But he knew better.
He wasn’t supposed to be "that guy." The romance type. The pathetic lovesick fools he used to roast from across the shop, the ones who’d get wide-eyed over their girl just breathing next to them. That wasn’t him. And yet — the second he met her, it had all gone straight to shit. These past few months, his head had been full of things he’d never let anyone else hear. Her in a white dress. His ring on her finger.
Gods, get your act right.
You’re not like this. You’re not this.
But no matter how many times he told himself that, no matter how much he tried to shove those thoughts into a locked drawer, every time she looked at him — really looked at him — it was just white noise in his head. The rest of the world went quiet, and the only thing left was her.
Another thought slid in before he could shove it back where it belonged. It wasn’t exactly the kind of thing he wanted to be thinking about while she was lying there sick with a high fever painting her cheeks red. But it came anyway — uninvited, vivid as hell — because his brain was a bastard like that.
A few nights ago, tangled in the sheets with her under him, he’d almost let it slip. Not the usual low-voiced filth he liked to feed her when she was writhing for him. No, this was different. Raw. Too close to what was actually running through his head.
He could’ve passed it off easy — blamed it on the breeding kink she already knew he had, tossed it in the pile of dirty talk and left it at that. But it had scared him a little, just how clear the picture was in his head. Not fuzzy fantasy, not vague heat-of-the-moment bullshit. Detailed. Step by step. Her round with his kid, curled up on the couch.
And the worst part? It wasn’t even about kids. Hell no. He hated kids. Loud, sticky, unpredictable little shits — he had zero interest. She hated them too; they’d laughed about it before. It wasn’t about that.
It was about her. About the idea of her full of him. Carrying something of his, not in the sentimental way — but in the primal, possessive, 'mine' way that made his chest feel too tight. Her body changed because of him. The thought alone had his grip on her thigh tightening that night before he’d caught himself.
And gods, it had only been a few months. What the fuck was wrong with him? He’d gone from one-night stands to imagining his girl round with something he’d put there in the time it took most people to decide if they liked someone’s taste in music.
Why are Disney princesses so… fucking lovable? Was it a princess thing? Her pastel dresses? The way she moved like she’d stepped out of some perfect little picture book, only to open her mouth and gut you with a one-liner?
He dragged a hand over his face, shaking his head at himself, and reached for the compress on her forehead. Warm. Too warm. He cursed under his breath — fuck, that was quick. He dipped it back into cold water, wrung it out until it dripped, and laid it back across her skin.
“Dammit, Cassandra,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “And your falling in lakes for fun.”
He kept his hand on her cheek a moment longer, eyes dragging over her flushed face, and told himself to focus on cooling her down. Not on the shit his head kept replaying in vivid, unshakable loops.
Her breathing had evened out just enough for him to think she’d drifted back under, but then her lips parted and her voice rasped out, weak and slurred.
“Text Mark… and tell him that it’s the same guy from the other four cases. It slipped my mind completely.”
Sukuna froze mid-wring of the compress. “…Huh?”
“There’s a serial killer roaming around,” she said, like she was reciting a grocery list. Her eyes stayed mostly shut, lids heavy, pupils slow to focus. “We've established that he had a pattern that had to do with timing. Everything else is unrelated. But he times things. Hours, dates. It's one of his. And I suspect the weird OCD guy, Peter, or whatever his name was, he came in two days ago to ask about one of the victims. Said they used to be friends. He insisted on seeing it, acted like he was shocked he died. I clocked his reaction but thought it was just because he had a reason to want him gone, not exactly killed him. But then...he tapped his foot four times before leaving.. Just text him and tell him that, he’ll know what I mean.”
He stared at her, jaw slack for a second. “It’s three a.m.”
“He’s still there. Just text. It's important. He'll kill other people.”
He didn’t know whether to laugh or throw a blanket over her head until she shut up. Fever high enough to scramble her brain, barely able to keep her eyes open — and she was still talking like she was walking a crime scene in heels. Completely insane. But that was the thing about Cassandra: she could be delirious and still connect dots no one else even knew existed. Brilliant in a way that made it hard for him to argue, even when she sounded like she was two minutes from passing out.
He picked his phone up from the nightstand and thumbed out the message, exactly as she said. A minute later, the screen lit up:
You’re a lifesaver, Stone.
That was it. No explanation, no question, just confirmation.
He set the phone down and looked back at her. He laid the fresh compress on her forehead again, but the heat radiating off her was still intense.
“I think we should get you to a hospital,” he said. “You’re gonna boil alive at this rate.”
“Nah. Let the body ride it out. Chill.”
“You are infuriating. Your voice sounds like a fucking wolf’s.”
One corner of her mouth twitched — the ghost of a smirk. “You have a type for the infuriating ones.”
He snorted, more out of disbelief than amusement. “Yeah, well, I didn’t know that type came with a self-destruct button.”
Her eyes cracked open enough to meet his, glassy but still holding that sharp glint under all the fever. “You’d get bored if I was easy.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“You like that.”
He couldn’t even argue — not convincingly, anyway. The truth was, yeah, he liked it. Liked that even sick out of her skull, she was still pushing back, still tossing little verbal jabs like she was afraid the quiet would make him worry more. And hell, still thinking with that almost eerie precision of hers, enough to point out a killer from details she clocked that long ago. He couldn't even remember what he had for breakfast. Did he even have any?
The coughing started up again not long after their little back-and-forth — deep, chest-rattling hacks that left her doubled over and gasping between them. He stayed propped on one elbow, a steady hand braced against her chest to keep her from throwing herself off the bed.
It went on for hours. He lost track of the time between each fit. She wouldn’t let him fuss beyond holding her steady. Typical. So he kept his mouth shut and did what he could — adjusting the cold compress when it warmed, swapping it out for a fresh one.
Her fever refused to break. Each time he laid a new compress on her forehead, the heat that rolled off her made his jaw clench a little tighter.
Eventually, the coughing tapered into shallow, uneven breathing. Her body sagged into the mattress, and she was out — passed into a fever-heavy sleep that didn’t look restful at all. He stayed up a while longer, swapping the compress every time it lost its chill, until his own eyes started burning. Only then did he let himself stretch back out beside her, one arm resting loosely across her waist as sleep finally pulled him under again.
When morning hit, he woke first. The air in the room was warmer than he liked, probably the heat of her radiating into the space, so he kicked the blanket down his legs and slid out of bed as quietly as a man his size could.
First stop: the kitchen. If she was still hacking up her lungs when she woke, she’d need something easy to swallow (👀), something that would actually soothe her throat instead of tearing it up more. He pulled the chicken stock from the fridge, set it on the counter, and grabbed noodles from the pantry. Chicken soup with noodles.
He had already cleared the day last night while she was half-passed out. Clients rescheduled, studio closed.
He’d been keeping an ear out for movement while he worked, and the faint groan that came from the bedroom had him setting the ladle down and heading in.
She was exactly where he’d left her — buried under the blankets, except now she’d cocooned herself completely, the covers pulled over her head until she was just a vaguely human-shaped lump in the middle of the bed.
He stopped in the doorway, brow raised. “You hiding from me now?”
No answer.
He crossed the room until he was standing over the little bump she was making in the blankets. Reached out, touched the top of it with his fingertips — and she squeaked. Actually squeaked.
That got him. A low chuckle rumbled out of his chest as he peeled the covers back without asking. Her face peeked out, hair a total mess, eyes squinting up at him. The pout was immediate.
“Sorry,” she said, voice so raw and shredded from the night before it was barely recognizable. Laryngitis from the coughing. She sounded like she’d swallowed sandpaper and then tried to apologize through it.
He bent down and pressed his lips to her fever-hot forehead. “I hope that’s for not calling right away.”
“No.”
“Then it’s stupid.”
The pout deepened. He didn’t even think about it — just leaned down and kissed her. She tried to push him off, weakly, muttering something against his mouth.
“I can’t get your cold if it’s just your body reacting to being frozen over,” he said as he pulled back slightly. “Not viral or anything, so you’ve got no argument for pushing me off.”
“I don’t need one. You just annoy me.”
“Yeah? I annoy you?” His smirk was pure trouble.
She looked like she was debating if she had the energy to throw something at him. He grinned, straightened, and left the room for a second. When he came back, it was with a bowl in one hand and a spoon in the other.
He sat on the edge of the bed, reaching out to shift her upright against the pillows despite the muffled noise of protest she made. Once she was angled enough, he dipped the spoon into the soup, blew on it briefly, and held it out to her.
“No way. I can eat.”
“Yes way,” he countered, tone flat. “Unless you want to be stuck here even after you heal.”
Her eyes narrowed. “That’s fucking kidnapping.”
“Do I look like I’d give a fuck?”
“That’s worrying.”
“What’s worrying,” he said, still holding the spoon steady until she gave in, “is your nerve to comment after what you pulled on me. You know I count it as lying. Omission lie. Which I very much don’t appreciate. So you should be on your best behavior.”
“I’m not a dog.”
“Never said you were.”
“Ugh.”
But she opened her mouth, letting him feed her the first spoonful. The steam curled between them as she swallowed, pausing only when a cough caught her in the middle of the second bite. He set the bowl down for a moment until she finished, hand braced against her shoulder to steady her.
Because when he said I’m keeping you, he meant all of you, even the reckless parts.
When she finally finished the last spoonful, he set the empty bowl on the nightstand and leaned in without thinking, brushing the corner of her mouth with his thumb. She gave him a look like he’d just committed some dramatic romantic gesture, but he ignored it. She could keep her smart-ass comments for when she had enough air in her lungs to finish them without coughing halfway through.
The rest of the day went on exactly like that. First thing, he ran a warm bath. None of that quick-shower shit she usually did — he tested the water himself, made sure it was exactly the right temperature, and then just pulled her in with him. She was small enough to fit against his chest perfectly, her damp hair sticking to his collarbone as the heat worked some of the stiffness out of her. She dozed there, head tucked under his chin, his hand skimming slow up and down her back while the water lapped against the porcelain.
When he carried her out, he wrapped her in blankets and sat her on the bed while he pulled out socks. He poured vinegar into a bowl, soaked them, wrung them out, and slid them onto her feet despite her weak little what the fuck are you doing face. “Helps with fevers,” he said. She didn’t argue, probably because she was too tired.
He blow dried her hair and smiled at how cute she was scrunching up her nose like a cat when the warm air hit her face. He did that a couple of times for good measure and chuckled under his breath.
Between all that, he kept looking things up online — fever stages, laryngitis remedies — because she’d gone from mouthy to eerily silent in the past hours and it didn’t sit right with him.
He kissed her too much. Way too much. Her temple when he checked her temperature again. Her hairline when he tucked the blanket tighter. The tip of her nose when she glared at him for hovering.
He put on a movie to distract her, but she still ended up falling asleep on his chest fifteen minutes in. He didn’t move except to adjust the blanket so it was snug around her. Damn, she was cute.
Later, when the fever still clung stubborn, he massaged her arms and legs with rubbing alcohol, the cool sting of it drawing a little of the heat away from her skin. She shivered once and tried to kick him off, but he kept going until her breathing eased.
Night had crept in quietly. She was curled against his chest. He could feel the slow, steady drag of her breaths, a little ragged still but better than before. Her body was lighter against him now, the fever’s heavy weight easing just enough for him to let himself think she was asleep.
And then, so soft he almost thought he imagined it, she said, “Thank you.”
It was small. Weak. But it landed like a match in his chest. He smoothed his palm along her back, the low rumble in his voice coming out before he even thought about it.
“You know why I’m doing this, yeah?”
They hadn’t said it. Not out loud. Not the three words he’d never thought would get anywhere near his mouth without tasting wrong. I love you. Too heavy. Too soon. Too much. People didn’t say that shit a few months in unless they wanted to scare the other person off. And Cassandra? She’d bolt. Or laugh. Or both. He knew it. Hell, he’d been sitting on it for weeks now, holding it in his teeth like a blade because he wasn’t sure what would happen if he let it slip.
But then she whispered, “I love you too.”
It was barely there — but he heard it like she’d shouted it from the roof of the building. Every syllable carved straight through him, knocking the air out of his lungs.
For a second, he stopped breathing. His eyes widened. The pounding in his chest was so hard it almost hurt, his ribs feeling too tight to hold it.
God, I’m in too deep.
He’d been telling himself for weeks that it was just a phase. That he’d settle back into himself once the high of having her wore off. That she was just different enough to keep his attention longer than most, but not enough to make him… whatever this was. Except now he knew he’d been lying to himself the whole damn time. It wasn’t fading. It was growing — faster than he could get a handle on.
And fuck, she said it first. He’d been bracing for the day he’d have to grit his teeth and spit it out, maybe even choke on it, just so she’d know. But she’d handed it to him instead. Soft. Honest. Like it wasn’t a big deal. Like it didn’t just blow a hole in whatever guard he’d been clinging to.
This wasn’t him. The guy who’d never had a girlfriend, never wanted one, never stayed longer than a night because feelings were messy and pointless. That guy didn’t plan apartments around someone else’s life. Didn’t keep their shampoo stocked. Didn’t feel like his chest was splitting open over three quiet words.
Half a month since she’d whispered those words in the dark, and he was still turning them over in his head like some rare coin he didn’t quite believe was his. They’d slid into his bloodstream, taken root there, feeding into every look he gave her, every small, quiet thing he did without comment.
Right now, though?
Right now he was looking at her ass.
She was on her toes, arm stretched high to hang some glittery ornament near the top of their Christmas tree, red mini skirt riding up over the curve of her thighs. Little snowflakes patterned across the fabric, catching the glow of the string lights they’d just finished wrapping around the branches. Long red thigh-highs hugged her legs, and the cutesy blue top she’d pulled on this morning made her look like she’d stepped out of some winter postcard. The usual.
They’d spent the whole damn day Christmas shopping. Not because he gave a shit about perfect holiday décor — but because she’d started running her mouth about gingerbread cookies. He’d told her, flat-out, that he’d decorate them way better than her because, hello, artist.
She’d shot back that if he provoked her, she’d make gingerbread men on an autopsy table. He didn’t doubt it for a second.
So they’d hit the shops. Sprinkles. Frosting. A few more Christmas-themed ribbons for her hair because having a princess came with upkeep. Not that he didn't secretly love picking between pink number one and pink number two and acting like they were definitely a different pink.
“Are you just gonna stand there,” she called over her shoulder, “or are you gonna come help me?”
His idea of help… differed from hers.
In two strides, he was behind her, pressing himself flush to her ass, one hand sliding to the small of her back. He pushed gently, bending her over just enough to make her hiss.
She spun to face him, eyes sparking, and he met her glare with a slow, deliberate smirk. “You’re so pretty when you get pissed. What are you even pissed about now, mm? You look like a small cat.”
“I’ll show you small cat—”
“Oh yeah? Show me, then.”
And that’s how they ended up here.
Her skirt and socks still on, his hands gripping her hips as he drove into her slow. Not lazy — just deliberate, savoring the way her body opened up for him. He’d angled her toward the mirror in their bedroom, the one he’d bought for this exact reason, so she could see herself. See them.
His palm slid up her inked spine, fingers curling lightly around the back of her neck to hold her gaze forward. “Would you look at that…”
Whenever her eyes threatened to drop, he tightened his grip just enough to make his point. “Eyes on that doll in the mirror. Look at her. Such a cute little Barbie… Christmas edition.”
She choked out a moan, eyes glassy but locked on her reflection.
“Ah-ah—fuck—jerk!”
“Mhm… package comes with free snark,” he murmured against her ear, rolling his hips in deeper.
Her breath hitched. Then her gaze flicked down — not to her face, but to him. His chest, slick with sweat, ink shifting over his muscles with every thrust. The sharp lines on his arms, the dark patterns framing his ribs.
And then she broke.
He felt it — the way she clenched around him all at once, her cunt fluttering and pulling him deeper, wet heat spilling over his cock. Her moan cracked, her knees buckled, and she came hard, the sight in the mirror blurring for her as her head tipped back.
It was enough to tip him over. He groaned low, teeth grit, and spilled into her, his hands flexing on her hips as he kept her right where he wanted her. Filling her up until she’d have no doubt who she belonged to.
When the haze eased and he could catch his breath, he bent to press his mouth against the damp skin of her shoulder, words slipping out before he could even think to hold them back. “I love you, you walking headache of a woman.”
And god, it was true. Every maddening, sharp-tongued, ribbon-wearing inch of her.
And that, my friends, is how I spent my first winter with her. (consider the “boundaries and space" bullshit I mentioned in the beginning completely fucked out of her system by now.)
MASTERLIST FOR MORE SUKUNA X CASS
dividers by @leilakittya
