You were confident, hard working, gorgeous, and everything he wanted
It was terrible, he knew you were so far out of his reach
He needed to just see you as a co-worker and move on, right?
But he couldn’t..
He couldn’t get you out of his mind, you filled every empty spot left
But he knew you would never choose him
So why cant he just move on.
He would lay awake at night imagining him making you laugh just to hear your voice, or training with you and impressing you with a new move he had learned
He would imagine simple things like sitting at lunch getting to talk casually with you as you do with riyo and the others, or going on walks with you around the city, hands intertwined like they were always meant to be that way
He imagined saving you from a trash beast dramatically and once you were both safe confessing his feelings to you, the perfect moment all laid out in his mind
He imagined if he actually was with you how he would hold you, kiss you, treat you to the finer things in life as much as he could
All the things teenager in love would think about
But in reality there was nothing there
Of course there was nothing
You would never look his way, why would you?
He would never be good enough for you…
No matter what he did
He had only ever spoken to you in passing or for jobs
Yet still
He was hopelessly head over heels in love with you
He didn’t know what to do, his feelings were so exhausting to handle. They were crushing him
But, all hope was not lost
Because he was so focused on condemning his own feelings for you he completely missed the way you acted the same way.
The same wanting, frustration, love, the whole lot of it
Everyone and their mother seemed to know that you liked each other, so why couldn’t either of you see that?
Maybe all it would take for you two is a push in the right direction <3
Summary: Ron is hopelessly smitten but can’t confess, so he enlists his brothers to write letters on his behalf. Little does he know, your heart was stolen from the start by the real author — Fred. Slow-burn tension, playful letters, and teasing turns into a warm, heartfelt romance… and Ron’s heart stays perfectly safe.
The Gryffindor common room hummed with the soft warmth of the dying fire. Most students had retreated to their dormitories, leaving only the three Weasley brothers huddled around a cluttered table, littered with abandoned homework.
Ron sat by the window, staring out at the dark grounds below, his quill tapping nervously against the table. Fred glanced up from a piece of parchment. “Alright, spit it out,” he said. “I can see something’s gnawing at you.”
Ron groaned. “I…” He hesitated, turning red. “There’s this girl.”
George’s eyebrows rose immediately. “Ah. There it is.”
Fred leaned back in his chair, grin spreading. “A girl, you say? Well, well, our dear Ronald is growing up.”
“Shut up,” Ron muttered, ducking his head. “She’s just… she’s brilliant, alright? And funny.”
Fred arched a brow, intrigued despite himself. “And does this brilliant girl know you exist?”
“Not really,” Ron admitted, slumping lower. “Every time I try to talk to her, I sound like a troll trying to recite poetry. So no, she doesn’t.”
George chuckled. “Then do what people do when they can’t talk? Write to her.”
Ron frowned. “Write? What, like a letter?”
“Exactly,” Fred said, sliding into the seat beside him and snatching a piece of parchment from the table. “Girls love letters. It’s old-fashioned, mysterious. And if you do it right…” He grinned, dipping his quill into the ink. “You’ll have her completely undone by sunrise.”
Ron stared, wide-eyed. “Fred, no! You can’t just—”
Fred didn’t listen. His quill was already moving, a wicked glint in his eyes. “Right then, tell me about her. What’s she like?”
Ron hesitated, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck. “She’s… kind.”
“Boring,” George cut in, smirking. “Come on, Ron, that’s not what makes a girl’s heart race. What else?”
Ron hesitated. “Well… she’s nice and pretty.”
Fred groaned. “Merlin’s beard, Ronald. Leave the ‘nice and pretty’ to the Hufflepuffs. You want her to remember you?”
Ron looked horrified. “No weird stuff!”
Fred only winked. “Trust me. No weird stuff. Just the truth — dressed up nicely.”
He dipped his quill into the ink and began to write, words flowing with ease:
Dearest,
I hope this note finds you well, and that it does not startle you too much to receive words from a secret admirer. I have watched you from afar, and I cannot help but be captivated by the way you move through the world — so bright, so full of life, and yet somehow… untouchably elegant.
Every smile you give, every laugh that escapes you, lingers in my thoughts far longer than I would like to admit. I find myself wishing for moments when our paths might cross, when I could say words that make you blush.
Might you allow me the honor of seeing you smile tomorrow, or perhaps the day after, knowing that someone, unknown for now, holds you in the highest regard?
Yours, in quiet admiration,
– A Friend
“Here,” Fred said, tossing it across the table to Ron. “Deliver that and thank me later.”
Ron blinked down at the parchment, mouth half open. “It’s… actually good,” he admitted quietly. “Not like you wrote it.”
Fred pressed a hand to his chest. “I’m hurt.”
Ron pocketed the letter, cheeks red but eyes bright with hope. “Maybe I’ll leave it in her bag. Something she’ll find later.”
“Perfect,” Fred said with a lazy grin. “Anonymous, romantic, mysterious — every girl’s weakness.”
The next day, the common room was filled with the soft rustle of books and parchment. You and a few of your friends had claimed a corner by the tall windows, settling into the cozy chairs with your Divination books spread across your laps. The sunlight slanted in, casting a warm glow over the scattered charts of stars and planets.
You giggled as your friends whispered to each other about the absurd predictions “Someone’s going to break their leg while trying to ride a broomstick this week?”
Another snorted. “Honestly, if I were the stars, I’d be embarrassed to be associated with that level of nonsense!”
You laughed along, shaking your head, as you reached into your bag to pull out your quill, your fingers brushed against something unexpected. Curious, you drew it out — a cream-colored envelope, the handwriting delicate and unfamiliar.
Your friends leaned in immediately. “What’s that?”
“I… I don’t know,” you admitted softly, your fingers tracing the edge of the paper.
“Open it!” one urged.
You did, slowly, glancing down at the first few lines. A heat spread across your cheeks almost instantly. Your lips curved in a quiet, shy smile. The words on the page were bold, teasing, almost electrifying in their subtle charm.
“Is it… a love letter?” another whispered, eyes wide.
You pressed a hand to your mouth, shaking your head slightly. “I think… maybe. But I don’t know from whom.”
One friend gasped. “Oh my Merlin, maybe it’s from that Diggory!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” another shot back. “They barely even talk to each other!”
You blushed, holding the letter closer. One of your friends sighed dreamily and said, “I’d love to get a letter like that from Cedric Diggory,” which made the others exchange knowing glances.
You reread the lines, quietly, savoring each phrase, letting a small laugh escape you at some of the playful teasing. You read it again, slower this time, letting the words settle like a secret warmth in your chest.
Across the room, not far from the common room’s glowing fire, Ron was leaning back slightly, pretending to study a Quidditch manual, but the sly tilt of his head and the way he was watching you gave him away.
Fred and George noticed too, nudging each other. “Well?” Fred whispered, nudging George, “did it work?”
Ron’s eyes flicked toward you, a triumphant grin tugging at his lips. “It did,” he muttered, nodding subtly.
Fred leaned back, surveying the room with a critical eye. His gaze landed on you — the letter still in your hands, the faint pink flush on your cheeks, the delicate way you traced the edge of the envelope. For a moment, he froze.
“Oh Merlin,” he murmured under his breath. “Why didn’t I notice her before? She… she is…”
George leaned in, following his brother’s line of sight. “Who is that, then?” he asked, teasingly.
Ron pointed subtly in your direction. “Her.”
Fred’s pulse quickened. He couldn’t look away. A wild, impulsive thought hit him. I want to write another one. One she can’t resist. One that’s mine, just mine.
With a slight smirk, he whispered to George, “Think it’ll work if we… let’s say… make the next one even bolder?”
George grinned, catching the spark in Fred’s eyes. “Oh, it’ll work. Look at her.”
Fred’s mind raced, already drafting words, already imagining the next envelope tucked into your bag, the teasing thrill of seeing your reaction once more.
The Great Hall hummed with the usual lunchtime chaos. The chatter of classmates, the clatter of plates, and the occasional clink of cutlery provided a lively background as you sat with a few friends, sharing a table for lunch.
You bent down to pick up a fork that had slipped under the table, and in that split second, something slid into your bag.
“Hey…” one of your friends leaned in, voice low, eyes wide. “I think I just saw something. Wasn’t that Weasley… Ginny’s brother? He just… slipped something into your bag!”
“What? Are you sure?”
She nodded, practically bouncing. “Go check! Quick!”
You hesitated for a moment, glancing around. The hall was full of students, heads bent over plates. Carefully, you reached into your bag and felt the folded parchment. Your fingers brushed against it, lingering just a second longer than necessary, before you drew it out.
A thrill ran through you as you recognized the playful, slightly wicked handwriting. You opened it carefully, holding it behind your cup so no one could see, and began to read.
The words were bolder this time — teasing, daring, laced with subtle flattery that made your chest tighten. Heat crept over your cheeks, and you bit your lip to keep from smiling aloud. Your friends leaned closer, curiosity sparkling in their eyes.
Your friend leaned in, whispering. “Well? What does it say?”
Your gaze drifted toward where Ron had just walked past, gesturing animatedly to a pair of taller boys as if nothing had happened. You didn’t meet his eyes.
Instead, a familiar glint caught your attention — Fred. He was standing slightly apart, leaning casually, watching you with a sly, assessing look. Your stomach gave an involuntary flutter. You lifted your hand, waving almost shyly.
Fred’s smirk deepened. He tilted his head slightly, just enough to make it clear he’d seen you.
Your friend’s voice nudged you, quiet but insistent. “Wait… which one of them wrote this?”
Blushing, you whispered, almost to yourself, “I… I think it’s Fred. But he… he asked Ron to deliver it.”
Lunch wound down, and the three Weasley brothers walked past your table. Fred’s fingers brushed your arm lightly as he passed — deliberate, teasing, and it made a small shiver run up your spine. You caught his eye again, and he offered a fleeting, knowing smile before disappearing into the crowd.
You clutched the letter a little tighter, hiding it in your lap. Your mind raced. That brief contact, the glint in his eyes — it wasn’t just the words on the page that had made your cheeks burn. It was the way he had watched you, studied you, as if the world had narrowed down to just the two of you for that instant.
Later, you decided to reply.
After lunch, your thoughts kept drifting back to the letter. You had spent the entire meal mulling over every word, every little playful twist, imagining how it might make him feel. Finally, after some careful writing and a final flourish of your quill, you folded the parchment neatly and slid it into a delicate, decorated envelope. You wanted him to have it today, not wait another moment.
You lingered near the charms classroom, pretending to glance at your notes, waiting for Ron to finish his lesson. The moment he appeared, you felt a small thrill of anticipation. He stepped out, eyes scanning the corridor, and then—he looked at you.
For a split second, it was like he’d been struck. His usual red flush deepened, and he seemed to freeze, almost as if he’d forgotten how to move.
“Hi, Ron,” you said, smiling, trying not to let your excitement show too much.
He blinked at you, mouth opening slightly, then closing again. He managed only a low, hesitant, “H-hi.”
Suppressing a giggle, you held up the envelope. “I have something for you,” you said, tilting your head playfully. “It’s my reply to… letter. I’m sure you’ll know what to do with it.”
Before he could respond, you gave a small, mischievous wink and turned away, walking down the corridor with a light, fluttering step, leaving him frozen in place, the envelope suddenly heavy in his hand.
Ron didn’t wait. Without a second thought, he started jogging, then running, down the hall, ignoring Harry calling after him. His heart was hammering in his chest. Every step carried him faster toward the common room, then the dormitory stairwell, and finally toward the door where he could safely read your words.
But as he burst into the Gryffindor common room, a pair of familiar, mischievous eyes caught him immediately. George and Fred were lounging near the fire, and their heads turned sharply as he skidded to a stop.
“What’s the hurry, Ron?” George asked, brow arched.
Fred’s eyes, however, were sharper. He noticed the way Ron’s fingers clutched the letter, the slight flush on his cheeks, and the barely suppressed excitement in his stride. “Wait a minute…” Fred muttered under his breath, leaning closer to George. “What’s that in your hand?”
“…It’s… uh… nothing, really,” he stammered, though his voice betrayed him, slightly high-pitched with nerves.
He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, studying Ron like a hawk. “Nothing, huh? That doesn’t look like nothing,” he said slowly.
“It’s…” Ron muttered, voice tight. “Private.”
George leaned in too, a playful grin spreading across his face. “Come on, Ron, you’re not trying to keep secrets from us, are you? We helped you with the letters!”
Ron’s eyes darted nervously between the two of them. “It’s… it’s from her,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “She… she gave it to me.”
Fred’s ears practically twitched. “From her?” His grin shifted into something sharper, more alive. He shot George a glance—half mischief, half astonishment—then back at Ron. “Show me,” he said, leaning closer, eyes glittering. “We helped you, mate. We deserve to see how clever she’s been with your… uh, correspondence.”
Ron hesitated, fingers tightening on the envelope. “It’s… too personal,” he murmured.
“Too personal?” Fred echoed, incredulous, standing and stepping closer. “Ron, you asked for our help! And if she’s written back, I need to see it!”
George snorted, nudging Fred. “Yeah, mate, don’t leave us hanging. We practically wrote the first one for you, remember?”
Ron groaned, exhaling shakily, then slowly extended the envelope toward them. Fred snatched it with a grin, carefully peeling it open. His eyes skimmed the words, and a low whistle escaped him.
“Oh… oh wow,” Fred murmured, leaning back, a grin tugging at his lips. “She… she really knows what she’s doing, doesn’t she?”
George chuckled, crossing his arms. “Looks like our plan is working better than expected.”
Fred’s eyes lingered on the envelope, then he looked at Ron, shaking his head slowly. “Alright, mate… now it’s time for the next move.”
“What next move?” Ron asked, voice tight, wary.
Fred’s grin turned wicked. “Time for another letter. But this one? This one’s going to be… bold. And playful. And I think she’ll love it.”
George raised an eyebrow, already sensing the storm of mischief brewing. “Uh oh. You’ve got that look in your eyes, Fred. You’re up to something.”
The days that followed blurred into a pattern of parchment and ink.
What had begun as a single mischievous prank turned into something far more—though no one could quite say when the game had shifted.
Every few days, a new letter appeared in your bag, tucked neatly between books.
Each one was clever, teasing, and full of that same unmistakable charm. You couldn’t help but smile every time you saw the handwriting—bold, confident, and oddly elegant for someone who clearly enjoyed chaos.
And, of course, you wrote back.
Witty remarks, small confessions, questions written in looping script that begged for answers. You began looking forward to the next note, the next spark.
Ron, blissfully unaware of the tangled web he’d spun, had somehow become your messenger. He passed the letters along without question—sometimes flushed, sometimes grinning, always convinced he was doing something good.
Weeks slipped by.
You caught Fred’s gaze more and more often—across the Great Hall, in corridors, between classes. A raised brow here, a smirk there. Sometimes his hand would brush yours as he passed by, the touch light but charged.
He never said a word about the letters, not directly. But the look in his eyes told you he didn’t need to.
Once, while you sat in the common room, absorbed in writing your latest reply, you felt that unmistakable warmth of someone’s stare. You looked up—and there he was, across the room, pretending to be in deep conversation with George, though his eyes never left you.
George, of course, noticed.
It was nearing the end of the month when the first cracks began to show.
Ron had just returned to the common room, clutching yet another letter—your reply, carefully sealed. He looked oddly proud as he dropped it into Fred’s hands.
“Here,” Ron said, grinning. “She really likes these, you know. You’ve got a way with words.”
Fred froze for half a second before catching himself, smirking. “Do I now?”
George tilted his head, studying his brother. “Funny,” he said slowly. “I thought you were the one writing them, Ron.”
Ron blinked, thrown off. “Well—yeah, but—you help me with them, remember?”
Fred leaned back in his chair, twirling the parchment between his fingers. His expression softened just slightly. “Right. I just… polish the edges.”
But when George glanced between them, he saw it—the way Fred’s thumb lingered over the edge of the envelope, the flicker of something unguarded in his face.
And that’s when he knew.
Fred Weasley—master prankster, expert in mischief, hopeless flirt—wasn’t just playing anymore.
Ron watched him carefully. The way Fred’s expression softened for a moment, his lips parting as if he were thinking about something — or someone.
“Fred?” Ron asked, his voice uncertain.
He dipped his quill and began to write. The scratching sound filled the silence between them. This letter was different. It wasn’t about “A Friend” anymore. It was warmer, sharper, and far too personal. There were little details — things only Fred would notice.
And Ron saw it.
“Wait,” Ron said quietly. “You’re not writing that for me anymore, are you?”
Fred froze for a second, his hand tightening around the quill. “What? Of course I am.”
But even as he said it, he couldn’t hold Ron’s gaze.
George looked between them, his smirk fading. “Fred…”
Ron swallowed hard. “You don’t have to lie. I can tell.”
Fred set the quill down slowly, exhaling through his nose. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like that,” he said softly. “I just… I saw her reaction, and—” He broke off, rubbing the back of his neck. “Merlin, I didn’t mean to—”
Ron laughed once — short, quiet, but not angry. “You didn’t mean to fall for her, right?”
The words hit harder than either of them expected. Fred looked at him then — really looked — and what he saw wasn’t fury. It was disappointment. A faint, tired sort of hurt.
“I liked her,” Ron said simply. “Not the way you do, maybe. But I liked her.”
George cleared his throat, standing from the chair. “Alright,” he said gently. “Let’s stop pretending this is about who gets the girl.”
Both brothers looked at him.
“She’s not a prize, and you two aren’t at war,” George continued. “Fred — you need to decide whether this is real, or just another game. And Ron — if it is real… maybe you need to let it be what it is.”
The silence that followed was heavy, but honest.
Fred finally nodded, voice quiet. “I’ll talk to her. Properly. No more letters through someone else.”
Ron’s jaw tightened, but he nodded too, eyes down. “Yeah. You should.” He stood, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Just… don’t make a joke out of it, Fred.”
George clapped a hand on Ron’s shoulder, breaking the tension. “Oi. You’ll live, won’t you?”
Ron gave a half-smile. “Yeah. I’ll live.” He glanced at Fred one last time before heading upstairs.
Fred watched him go, guilt flickering across his face. When the door clicked shut, he exhaled deeply.
George sank back into his chair with a low whistle. “You’re in it deep, brother.”
Fred ran a hand through his hair, a faint smile ghosting his lips. “Yeah,” he murmured. “But for once, I don’t want to charm my way out.”
The Gryffindor common room was quiet that evening. The fire had burned low, its golden light flickering lazily across the walls. A few students lingered, murmuring softly or finishing last bits of homework, but the energy had settled into a comfortable hush.
You sat near the fire, a half-read book resting in your lap, though your mind wasn’t really on the page. You kept thinking about the letters — both of them. The first, so unexpectedly sweet. The second, so teasing it had left you smiling like an idiot for the rest of the day.
You hadn’t seen Ron since you’d given him your reply, but every time Fred crossed your mind, there was that small, traitorous flutter somewhere in your chest.
The portrait hole opened with a creak. You looked up — and there he was.
Fred Weasley stepped inside, his expression lighter than usual, though his eyes immediately found you. For a second, he seemed almost surprised that you were still there. Then, with an easy grin, he crossed the room and leaned casually against the armchair across from yours.
“Burning the midnight oil?” he asked, voice low and teasing.
You smiled faintly. “Couldn’t sleep.”
He nodded, pretending to study the fire. “Yeah… me neither.”
You tilted your head slightly, amused. “That doesn’t sound like the Fred Weasley I’ve heard about.”
“Oh? And what have you heard?” His eyes glinted.
“That you and your brother are usually up to something by this hour,” you said, closing your book. “Explosions. Chaos. General mayhem.”
He gave a soft laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Normally, yes. But tonight I’m a little… distracted.”
That caught your attention. You raised an eyebrow. “Distracted? By what?”
He hesitated for a moment — then met your gaze. “You, actually.”
The words landed softly, but they hung between you with surprising weight. Your breath hitched, though he quickly added, “Not in the way you might think — I mean— well, maybe a bit like that.” He gave a crooked grin, suddenly sheepish. “But mostly because of what you wrote.”
You blinked. “So… you did read my letter.”
“Guilty,” he admitted, hands raised in mock surrender.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The fire crackled quietly between you, throwing gold over his freckles. His tone shifted then, gentler, sincere.
“Your letter,” he said slowly, “it wasn’t just clever. It was… different. Sharp, funny, but real. It felt like you were daring whoever read it to really see you.” He paused, his gaze steady. “And I guess I wanted to take that dare.”
You felt your pulse quicken. “So what are you saying, exactly?”
Fred gave a small shrug, but his eyes stayed on yours. “That I don’t know you yet — not really. But I’d like to. Without the letters this time.”
Your lips curved, warmth spreading through your chest. “No ink-stained secrets? No mysterious envelopes?”
He grinned. “Tempting as it is to keep the game going… no. Just me. Talking to you.”
You laughed softly, leaning back in your chair. “That’s surprisingly honest.”
He smirked. “Don’t tell anyone. I’ve got a reputation to protect.”
A comfortable silence followed — not awkward, but charged, curious. You could tell he was holding himself back from another joke, another teasing comment, just… listening. It was strange and sweet all at once.
Finally, you said quietly, “Alright then, Fred Weasley. I suppose we could start there.”
His grin widened, that spark of mischief back in his eyes. “Careful — I’m told I’m hard to get rid of once you start talking to me.”
You smiled, tilting your head. “I think I’ll take that risk.”
Fred stood, offering a mock bow before holding out his hand. “Then let’s make it official. No letters, no riddles — just two people getting to know each other.”
You hesitated for a heartbeat before placing your hand in his. His grip was warm, steady — confident without being cocky. As you stood together in the glow of the fire, there was something unspoken between you: not love, not yet, but the beginning of something that might become it.
A Year Later
Spring had returned to Hogwarts.
Warm light spilled through the Great Hall windows, glinting off golden plates and fluttering owl wings. The air buzzed with laughter — the kind of bright, unhurried sound that made the castle feel alive again.
Ron sat beside Harry at the end of the Gryffindor table, lazily stirring his tea. His gaze wandered across the room — and then he saw them.
Fred and you sat close together, shoulders touching, sharing a quiet joke that sent both of you into laughter. Fred brushed a crumb from your sleeve; you rolled your eyes and nudged him, but your smile didn’t fade. His grin, wide and unguarded, looked like home.
Harry followed Ron’s line of sight and grinned.
“Still weird seeing them together?”
Ron hesitated, then shook his head slowly. “Nah,” he said softly. “Not anymore.” He nodded toward you both, warmth flickering behind his words. “But look at them.”
Fred leaned close to whisper something in your ear, and you laughed — that same laugh Ron remembered from the very first letter, though now it belonged to someone else entirely.
“Honestly,” Ron said, smirking faintly, “at least it’s someone who can keep up with him.”
Harry chuckled. “Guess she picked the right Weasley.”
Ron’s smile lingered, calm and real. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I think she did.” Then, almost to himself, he added with a quiet laugh, “Maybe it’s my turn to write another letter.”
Harry nudged him with an elbow. “Just—don’t ask Fred for help this time.”
Ron laughed, reaching for his quill. “Deal.”
And as the morning light spilled across the Great Hall, the world felt lighter again — like the end of a story that had found its way home.
Dear reader, sometimes love doesn’t arrive with fireworks, but with a few words on a page — and a heart brave enough to read them.
The request: Could I please request a grumpy x sunshine but make it grandpa flavored with [Ratchet] x reader please? I was thinking along the lines of an ADHD reader (who thereby struggles with effective emotional regulation and so feelings and the resulting EMP waves are like MASSIVE) who basically thinks Ratchet is the coolest thing since sliced bread and as such, is DEDICATED to try to become his friend. Their EMP basically yelling “OMGIOSH LOVE THIS MECH AO MUCH IM GONNA EXPLODE” the entire time they interact with Ratchet. And poor Ratchet has to do deal with the sudden obvious attachment and affection of a human who is insatiably curious about all things Ratchet and Cybertron 😆
First commission piece is written! I haven't written for Ratchet before but I absolutely adore his character, and had a blast exploring his personality and inner dialogue here.
Thank you so much to @theanonymousninja247 for requesting this one. <3
Astonishingly enough, this is all Optimus’s fault.
Far be it from Ratchet to lay any semblance of blame at his leader’s pedes, even on his worst days, but there’s just something about this predicament he’s found himself in now that has Prime’s gentle meddling written all over it.
For the third time in as many minutes, Ratchet ex-vents a long-suffering sigh, sinking on all four of his tyres as he spares another, impatient glare at his chronometer.
The numbers blink back at him innocuously. ’17:37’
You’re seven minutes late.
There are far more pressing, productive uses of his time that you’re so carelessly wasting, and yet here he is; the only surviving Chief Medical Officer to the Autobots, idling on the curb, reduced to a mere taxi service for your convenience.
If he lets his chassis droop any further, he’ll hit the asphalt underneath him.
Optimus had made these little ‘excursions’ sound positively pleasant when he’d discuss them with Ratchet. He said it would do the medic some ‘good’ to take his place for a change, to put some wear in his tyres and get out of the base for a while… All a pretence.
Of course, it’s mere coincidence that you just so happen to need a ride from your place of work this evening, and wouldn’t it be a fine idea for Ratchet to take some interest in their charges’ lives every now and again?
Oh? Bulkhead, Arcee and Bumblebee are all busy on their own scouting missions? Not unheard of, but terribly convenient all the same.
Optimus himself has a meeting with Agent Fowler that’s likely to extend well into the evening, leaving him no time to pick you up as he typically would?
Pah!
He doesn’t rightly know which is more insulting; that Optimus thinks he’d fall for such a badly concealed ruse, or that he can read Ratchet well enough to know he’d need an excuse to save-face anyway.
He had to come and get you. Nobody else was available.
It’s only when the seven-minute mark ticks dutifully over to eight that Ratchet is forced to consider the possibility that he might, by some, microscopic sliver of a chance, have missed your departure.
He scoffs the notion away as soon as it occurs.
Setting aside the fact that he’s perfectly observant - despite what Miko might say - you are not the type of human who’s… easily overlooked.
In all the weeks he’s known you, Ratchet has never once seen you display anything less than the highest degree of exuberance.
Then again, perhaps your behaviour is all the more significant to him because you seem inclined to adhere yourself to his side at any given opportunity. And in truth, for all his ingenuity and extraordinary acumen, Ratchet has yet to fathom why in Primus’s name you seem to light up like a fragging solar flare every time you lay eyes on him.
So no, he decides, glaring heatedly at the glass doors of the building opposite, he can’t have missed your exit.
Which is why it comes as such a shock when he almost does.
Nine minutes after Optimus assured him that you’d be finishing for the day, one last human trickles sluggishly out through the swinging doors, head bent low on a slumping neck, face downcast to the pavement underfoot.
Ratchet’s optics are only drawn to the figure due to the similarities between you, and that’s when it hits him. The human isn’t just similar to you.
That is you.
And yet, you couldn’t look any less like yourself, or at least, less like the human he’s so accustomed to seeing around the base.
Out here in the cold light of day, with your shoulders bowed like the load heaped upon them is getting heavier with each, weary step, Ratchet sees an entirely different human.
His plates start itching at the thought that he’s a witness to something he was never supposed to see, like you’ve dropped your mask and he wasn’t polite enough to look away while you slipped it back on.
It wouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone observing that the CMO’s first suspicion is… ‘Are you hurt?’
Sleepily, a line of ancient code rears its head to grumble at some imperceptible threat.
You don’t seem to have spotted him here on the curb, watching you raptly from the other side of the road.
The foremost jarring change that he immediately zeroes in on is the curve of your mouth. On any typical day, it’s always open, letting a torrent of admiration spew forth and sweep him up in its tide like you’ve opened the proverbial floodgates.
And you're always smiling – predominantly at him.
But here, in the few steps you take from the shadow of the building, Ratchet can’t even catch a glimpse of that familiar, ridiculously cheerful grin that lights up your malleable features.
It occurs to him quite abruptly that this is the first time he hasn’t seen you smile.
It’s all so astounding in fact, that he barely even registers the sudden growl his engine kicks out as he slips seamlessly into his role as the team’s medic, performing a cursory scan of you from his post across the street.
You must have heard him though or felt his optics on you at the very least, because in the next second, your head shoots up and you instantly catch sight him, stopping in your tracks.
For several, terse seconds, you do nothing but stare, your face as blank as an empty data-pad. After a few beats of his spark, he realises why; This is the first time you’ve seen him in his vehicle mode… That, and you were likely expecting Optimus, not the crotchety old ambulance parked in his stead.
Ratchet is on the cusp of telling you he’s sorry to disappoint, when it happens.
You take one last look at him, squinting to make out the Autobot insignia on his grill… and then you simply come alive.
The change is immediate. He pinpoints the second your heartbeat bucks into a higher gear as you straighten your back, raising your head in delighted surprise, and your lips stretch out to their absolute limits, pushing at the apples of your cheeks as you send the old Autobot a blinding grin.
“Ratchet! Hi!” you cheer before bounding heedlessly into the street.
The spark in his chamber gives an almighty lurch as he scrambles to throw out a check for any oncoming vehicles.
By some miracle, the street seems relatively deserted for the time being, thank Primus…
He’d never hear the end of it if anything happened to you on his watch.
The agitated hiss of plating begins to settle down once you reach him, quieted by the return to normalcy.
Nothing’s wrong, you’re as chipper as always, and he would sooner tear out his own glossa than admit he’d come anywhere close to concerned.
His engine grumbles as you skid to a stop at his bumper, your fragile limbs quivering with unrestrained excitement.
“Oh my God! What a lovely surprise,” you laugh, sincerity packed into every word whilst your eyes dart over his vehicle mode, drinking in the side of him you’ve never seen before, until he finds himself shifting under your scrutiny. “What are you doing here? You never leave the base!”
For very good reason, he grouses to himself.
Aloud, he simply huffs, swinging open the passenger door for you and heaving out an aggrieved sigh. “Nobody else was available to pick you up. So, the burden fell to yours truly.” And then, with the exuberance of a dead fly… “Surprise.”
He shouldn’t ask…
He really shouldn’t – oh, Primus forsake him.
“If I may,” he grinds out through gritted dentae, rolling on his tyres to bring his open door closer to your side as he shoots a glare at the building behind you, “You didn’t seem… entirely yourself, when you left your work premises…”
You don’t reply for a moment, so he swallows his pride and gruffly adds, “Anything I should know about?”
He isn’t expecting the sudden warmth of a tiny body to drape itself so ardently against his bonnet, nor to feel the press of your cheek squashing into him with a ferocity that might have hurt if he were human. In response, the medic goes rigid on his struts, exhaust sputtering incredulously.
“Just had a bad day,” you assure him with a squeeze, “But not to worry. You’re the perfect cure.”
Ugh. He just knows that was deliberate, likely intended to plant yourself under his plating like a stubborn little parasite who refuses to be detached, no matter how hard he tries to root you out and hold you at arm’s length.
“Seriously. After the day I’ve had, you are the best person who could have turned up to save it,” you gush into the metal beneath you, “Literally, my hero.”
Now, there’s an aspect to your character that he has yet to wrap his processor around.
No matter what he says, however scathing or dismissive he tries to be, somehow, you’re never put off by it, never deterred by his outward aversion to your company and certainly never shy in the face of his cantankerous disposition.
It’s… quite infuriating.
“Look on the bright side,” Arcee had teased him once as she sauntered past his med-bay whilst you sang his praises to a highly amused Optimus from the gantry, “At least you’re someone’s favourite.”
He’d scoffed at her then like he’d scoff at her now.
He was perfectly happy being the humans’ least favourite Autobot. The unfriendly one. The cynical grouch. Gruff and unpalatable and not worth getting to know.
They don’t get attached, and he can pretend he isn’t scared half to death that every trip through the Ground Bridge will be their last.
It was fine. It was working.
But then, you came along, as dogged in your pursuit of his company as he was in avoiding yours.
Unstoppable force, meet Immoveable object.
Ratchet is suddenly wrenched from his stupor when an old truck rattles past along the sun-warmed road, reminding him that not only is he suffering the indignity of a hug, but he’s also suffering it in public.
“Wh-! Will you get inside this instant!” he hisses venomously, only losing the tightness in his vocaliser after you peel yourself off his bonnet and skip to the open door, swinging yourself into his sterile interior with a jaunty little ‘hup!’
The medic has to throw several firewalls around the circuits in his optics to prevent them from rolling up towards the darkening sky overhead. How can one tiny body possibly hold so much bounce?
He stubbornly ignores the warmth still seeping into one particular spot on his metal frame.
Your hands are eager on the seatbelt, too preoccupied with inspecting the rest of his interior to pay much attention to what you’re doing, and you end up missing the socket several times until Ratchet gives a brisk tut and manoeuvres the catch in himself.
Primus… He can feel you buzzing against his frame, every ounce of your alien biology thrumming like a youngling’s unfettered EM field.
… This is sure to be a long and arduous ride…
“So~” you sing-song, clasping your hands between your knees to keep them still as he pulls away from the curb, drifting smoothly onto the road out of Jasper, “How’s my favourite Autobot?”
Ha. Favourite…
It doesn’t matter how many times he hears you say it, the words will always sound incongruous to everything he knows about himself, like an arachnophobe saying spiders are their favourite animal. So, he does what he always does when presented with your incessant onslaught of fondness.
He tries to ignore it.
“Optimus?” he hedges coolly, “In a meeting with Agent Fowler… He apologises for missing your usual rendezvous.”
A boisterous laugh erupts from your chest, loud and high, thrilled at the banter. It’s something else he realises he’s slowly become accustomed to, no longer inclined to wince at the discordance of it.
“Much as I love the big guy,” you tell him, planting a hand over your chest in a crude rendition of solemnity, “He doesn’t take top spot. That’s a V-I-P position reserved for you alone, I’m afraid.”
Ratchet is immensely glad you can’t see his expression at the moment, so you miss the look of consternation crushing his brow plates together and twisting his dermas into a bewildered scowl.
Why in Primus’s good name would he be your-?
Before the CMO can ponder on it any longer though, you’re shifting forwards in your seat and shooting a sunny grin at his rearview, heedless of the suburbs blurring lazily past outside his window.
“While I’ve got you… Will you tell me more about Cybertron?” you blurt, though the way your fingers clasp tightly to the edge of the leather under your thighs tells him that you’re ready to beg if he declines, “You never finished that story about how Optimus used to sneak into the Hall of Records.”
“You-…” Trailing off, Ratchet angles his mirror down to capture you centrally within the glass, his vocaliser turning uncharacteristically soft with surprise before he can smother it. “… You remember that?”
He’d begun that tale weeks ago, long enough for a young human to have absorbed and promptly expunged any information they’d been given. He hadn’t finished it because Miko had grown so disinterested, she flopped back onto the sofa cushions and pretended – in her usual flair – that she was ‘literally dying of boredom!’
Ratchet refused to say another word to any humans all day.
“What’re you kidding me?” you laugh, trying and failing to suppress a grin by biting down on your lower lip before it slips free with your next words, “I remember everything you tell me!”
That’s…
Oh.
Admittedly, at the time, he hadn’t been paying enough attention to tell if you were paying any attention.
More fool him, he supposes.
“Well, I… Mm… Ahem.” Clearing some static out of his voice box, he cautiously ventures, “What exactly would you like to know?”
As it turns out, ‘everything,’ was not a mere over-exaggeration of your curiosity, intended more for embellishment than to be taken literally.
When you said ‘everything,’ you meant everything. Hardly a quantity he could ever hope to cover in the half-hour’s drive from Jasper to the silo.
Still… he relented, finding that the words come easier when he’s been prompted to talk about his home.
By the time he rolls slowly into the base, your eyes are sparkling with wonder for a world you’ll likely never see, and Ratchet is…
… He’s at a loss.
You weren’t just listening to him indulge in his own grief by blethering on about Cybertron, about the ‘good old days’ before the war. You threw yourself into the conversation right alongside him, hungry for any scrap of information he’d give you.
Loathe as he is to admit it, it… made a refreshing change, having a human speak to him without their eyes glazing over or their jaws splitting apart in an obnoxious yawn.
Chugging to a stop near the gantry stairs, Ratchet opens his door with a heavy clunk, half expecting you to come flying out to tell Jack, Miko and Rafael all about your unexpected lift from the world’s surliest conversationalist.
Such is his lot.
All he can hope is that you don’t tell them about the laugh that leapt off his glossa without warning when you said he reminds you of perseverance personified, or the way his engine nearly stalled on the highway after something else you said whilst your fingers tapped a happy rhythm against his seat.
“I wish I could have seen Cybertron. It sounds incredible!”
He’d only murmured his response. “… It was…”
“Of course it was,” you agreed, aiming a hearty smile up at his rearview, “You were there.”
… Why do you have to be so damnably genuine?
It makes maintaining his cold indifference a lot more complicated.
Bewildered, he watches you, still bursting with life as you slide out through his open door and move yourself to the foot of the stairs, granting him the space to transform to his full, stocky height.
“Wow,” you breathe, gazing up at him awestruck when he rolls his sturdy shoulder panels and blinks down at you, that all-too natural scowl thudding resolutely back into place.
“What?” he snips, bristling out of habit rather than offence at being stared at.
Offering him an innocent shrug, you simply beam up at him, neck craned all the way back to meet his cerulean optics. “Nothing,” you tell him amicably, “Just wanted to say thanks for the lift. You’re the best.”
He only grunts in response at the wrongness of your statement, using a servo to loosely shoo you away. But you don’t leave as he expects you to, not yet.
“Hey, um, can I just…” you start, casting a quick, backwards glance over your shoulder up the stairway. Somewhere high above, you can hear Jack and Miko bickering over the TV remote, interrupted by Raf’s softer voice as the boy attempts to mediate.
Absently picking at the nail on your thumb, you let out a hard breath, trying to expel some of the lingering energy that still burns through your body as you return your attention to Ratchet and stammer, “I-I just-! It means a lot that you came to pick me up.”
“Optimus’s orders,” he reiterates as bluntly as he can, turning on a heel to stalk across the silo towards his screens, seeking an immediate escape from your suffocating friendliness and trying to ignore the ‘trit-trot’ of tiny shoes padding along in his wake.
He’s careful then, treading with lighter pede-falls as he reaches his station.
The softest touch to his ankle guard has him going stiff with alarm before his systems ease coolant through his racing circuitry.
Schooling his expression into something fierce, he whips his helm down to glare at you, though it falters pitifully when he sees you standing by his pede, your diminutive figure almost lost on the vast expanse of the silo’s floor. One of your arms is held aloft, and you have your palm pressed flat to the metal just above his tyre.
And your face - unfathomably open, and bright like a carbon star - grins up at him so starkly he forgets that it was less than one Earth hour ago when he saw you without a smile.
His sensors pick up the astonishingly tenacious beat of your pulse against his frame, fragile but persistent. Just like you. It’s the proof of your fondness for him. You can’t hide it any more than he can ignore it. The human pulse is an intrinsic part of your biology – the part that he checks over and over again to make sure it’s still beating away below your epidermis – the part that always, always gathers momentum and runs at a gallop when you’re near him.
Scientifically, it’s a response to the release of dopamine, and while he’s no expert on humans, he’s absorbed enough to know that the chemical is usually associated with feeling happy.
So, therein lies his irrefutable evidence.
Ratchet, the most curmudgeonly mech to ever set foot on planet Earth, makes you happy. And there isn’t a Pit-forsaken thing he can do to refute the fact because the proof is staring him in the face every day.
Checkmate.
… If this is the Universe’s idea of a joke, there’d better be a damn good punchline.
“Seriously,” you beam, ignorant of his inner-turmoil, “Thank you, Ratchet.”
And a sharp crack lances down the wall of his unassailable resolve.
Don’t do that… Don’t make his spark rumble appreciatively from something so trite as a simple ‘thank you.’
just think and laugh at the image of a hulking,six foot three inch military man averting his eyes whenever his precious love rips him a new one after repeating the same thing three times. you’d told him that your concert was very important and that you wanted him there. in fact, he missed three concerts— not consecutively, but three in the span of four months. it would be accurate to say that you were more than a little irked at the fact that you didn’t have your good luck charm in the audience, ready to take you to dinner and then eat you after your performance.
frank didn’t take it personally, no, but he did make sure to never make you yell at him over an issue twice. it was difficult being an… ‘antihero’ (or whatever Matt had told him), but Frank sometimes didn’t realize how little time he was spending in his own life with the woman he intended to marry. but hot damn did he like seeing you yell. yelling at him, though? even better!
the first time you full on finger-pointed, red faced, steely-eyed yelled at him was a boner more painful than frank had ever experienced. when you had come back after cooling off for an hour or two, you were going to apologize to frank, actually consider going to therapy like you’d been meaning to, and see how upset he was about your outburst. imagine your shock when Frank’s large hands grabbed your hips and pulled you right smack dab onto the bulge in his jeans with a shade of urgency you weren’t used to. “Frank?” You asked into his mouth as he kissed you like he would genuinely die without your touch. He only grunted in response, lifting you up. “Frank, I’m sorry,” you murmured, engaging with his kisses now. “Fer what?” He asked, opening the bedroom door. “Screaming. At you,” you said, pulling away from his lips to see him.
And boy was Frank a sight to see. Pupils blown wider than the goddamn rings of Saturn: wide, alert, aroused, following you. His mouth was parted slightly, your mixed saliva making his lips glossy and kissable. Frank’s chest heaved lightly— no doubt ragged from the intensity in which he was moulding his mouth to yours— under his tight black shirt. “‘S fine, baby, I’m not mad,” he said lowly.
You leaned back just before his lips met yours again. “Frankie I want to do therapy.”
frank just nodded. “Alright. We’ll get you a brain picker after I’m done with you, hot head,” he said, dropping you on the bed. Maybe, you thought as Frank ate you out, men like to be yelled at more than they let on.
Synopsis:After all the years working for the DSO and battling monsters, is no wonder Leon has nightmares. Luckily, you, his wife, are there for him, through better or worse.
Contains: Leon being vulnerable, fluff, mild angst, mentions of death and injury, possible spoilers for Requiem(not really, but just in case)
~Credits to the rightful owners of the photos~
!Feel free to leave requests!
WC:1530
The steady rhythm of Leon's heart beat under your ear, lulling you to sleep, a content smile on your lips knowing he was back home, safe and sound. A few hours ago he returned from his mission, exhausted and covered in ash, dust and blood, yet one thing was missing. He looked... Livelier. Healthier. It was to your relief that you realized his infection had gone away. He found a cure! In that moment, you jumped into his arms and, after having been worried sick for him ever since the black blotches started to appear on his arm and neck, begun to cry.
After he calmed you down, he showered quickly and then came to bed, not caring about eating or looking through the reports the DSO sent him. The only thing he wanted was to hold you close, kiss you and talk to you. So after talking for hours on end, telling you about the mission and you telling him about your work drama, he finally managed to fall asleep.
You knew your husband had trouble sleeping. He has been like that since you first met him, 22 years ago. But you were always there for him, ready to listen to his traumas, ready to calm him down and comfort him. He wasn't the type of man that liked being seen as vulnerable, but with you, he felt safe, seen.
For a few years now, you noticed with relief that he stopped having nightmares. Some nights, of course, he still would thrash in his sleep or wake abruptly, but it was never as bad as it was before. Not until tonight.
The sound of raindrops falling on the window and Leon's calm breathing was the only thing that could be heard in the room. Your eyes were closed and your breath evened out, your mind being in that state between being awake and asleep. Just as you were about to drift into Dreamland, your husband's heartbeat quickened, thumping loudly, almost erratically, against your ear. You thought it was a dream at first, until Leon's breathing quickened, coming out in gasps.
You lifted your head and looked down at him, only to notice he was covered in sweat, his naked chest glistening in the moonlight. His hair stuck to his damp forehead, his brows pulled in a frown, mouth moving without any sound coming out. His hands trembled, his abs constricting as his breathing turned more erratic.
You immediately acted, your hand coming to remove the damp hairs stuck to his forehead, caressing his cheek softly. "Leon, wake up." You whispered, yet it didn't seem to help. He begun to move now, his head thrashing from side to side, his hands gripping the duvet tightly, almost ripping it. "Love, please, wake up. Whatever it is, it's just a dream. Come back to me, please." You said softly, your hands caressing his shoulders comfortingly.
Over the years, you learned there wasn't much you could do to get him out of his nightmares. He always snapped out of them by himself, but you noticed that talking to him gently and caressing his face often helped. Not by much, but it was better than doing nothing.
His hands left the duvet and begun to claw at his neck, his nails leaving red scratches on his skin."Leon, wake up!" You said, this time a bit louder, although it wasn't harsh or cruel, but worried. He never did that before. Trying to hurt himself in his sleep...
Leon stood up abruptly, almost bumping heads with you in the process, looking around with wide eyes, a desperate look in them. When he spotted you sitting next to him, alive and well, his tense shoulders relaxed, his rapid breathing calmed down. He looked at you with so much fear, so much pain in his eyes, it made you want to cry. A tear fell down on his cheek as your arms wrapped around him, bringing him back into present.
"You're here." He whispered relieved into your hair, kissing your forehead, his arms hugging you hard, afraid if he didn't hold you hard enough, you would disappear. Your hands moved up and down his back, your lips kissing his shoulder.
"Of course I am, love. I would never leave you, you know that." You said and felt him trembled slightly. "You are not getting rid of me any time soon, Mr Kennedy." You added jokingly, trying to help him calm down.
You glanced up at him and he forced a smile, his lip quivering slightly. You knew he was trying to hold back, as he always did, trying to look unaffected and strong in front of you. He bit his bottom lip slightly, and your heart broke.
"Oh, Leon." You brought his head to your chest, caressing his head, hands brushing his hair softly as he held you tighter, breathing in your scent to ground himself. You gave him time, letting him bury his head into your shirt, letting his arms wrap tightly around your figure, no matter the fact that he almost crushed your ribs in the process.
"I thought I lost you." He said hoarsely, shuddering at the thought. "God, I thought I had you killed." He backed away from the hug and looked at you, carefully checking for any visible injuries. "You're ok. You're fine." He assured himself and met your eyes. So many emotions were hiding in them: fear, horror, despair, grief. You don't ever remember his dreams being this bad.
"Of course I am fine, darling. The greatest DSO agent, Leon Scott Kennedy, is my husband. How could I ever be not ok?" You asked softly. He cupped your cheeks, cradling them in your hands as if you were the most fragile treasure this world has seen.
"I thought I had you killed." He repeated one more time, still not believing that you were alive and well. "I came from the mission and the front door was opened. When I entered, you sang your usual songs from the kitchen, but when I got there to greet you, you were..." He paused and swallowed, the image of your mutilated body still fresh in his mind. "Transformed. Infected. You were so unrecognizable. It looked so real, love. So real." His voice cracked in the last part and you took his hand in yours, pressing it to your lips.
"I'm here, Leon. Alive and uninjured and as beautiful as ever." You said jokingly, hoping to enlighten the gloomy atmosphere. You kissed the other hand that rested on your cheek, then his forehead, his nose, cheek and finally his lips. He opened his mouth, letting you in, and you straddled his lap, your hands holding the back of his neck, playing with his hair, while his went to your back, pressing you against his chest. His fingers moved along your spine weightlessly while your lips devoured his. At some point, the two of you even forgot how to breathe. Neither of you wanted to stop, too engulfed in each other's lips and touches, yet the need for air fired you to pause.
"I would never forgive myself if something happened to you, my love." He confessed, his forehead pressing to yours, your noses touching.
"And neither will I, Leon. But I want you to know that I love you. So much so that I'm never going to leave your side, no matter the hardships you face." You took his chin into your hand, making him look into your eyes. "You won't have to face anything alone, as long as I am here, you hear me?* He nodded. "Any worries you have, I'm here to listen and calm you down. As for your nightmare, I wont let any virus infect me." He chuckled and you pecked his lips again. "Dreams are the reflection of our fears. Just know that you don't have why to worry about me. I haven't caught a cold in years." You boasted proudly, holding your arm out and showing off your muscles.
Leon kissed your bicep, moving with soft pecks up your shoulder blade, neck and lips. In doing so, his hands went to your back, turning you around and laying you on bed, supporting himself with one arm while the other squeezed your boob, never breaking your lips apart. When he finally backed away, he lay his head on your chest, hips between your legs, arms on your torso. You played with his hair, as you always did, as you knew he loved it. He kissed you in between your breasts, then looked up at you, the moonlight catching the tiredness in his blue eyes. You smiled and touched his nose with your finger, chuckling when he bit it softly.
"Such a tease, aren't you now?" You whispered and he kissed your cleavage in response, then rested his head back, eyes closing at the feeling of your fingers running through his soft hair. His fingers drew circles on the sides of your ribcage slowly, but in no time, he stopped and you realized he must have been asleep. Kissing his head once more, you closed your eyes and drifted to sleep too.
Synopsis: Clubs had never been your scene. Always too loud, everything was sticky, the drinks were never anything spectacular; just not how you would choose to spend your Friday night. But, you'd only been in the city for barely under six months now, and Esumi had insisted you join the group tonight. Everything had been going well, until the one person from the office you'd been trying to avoid decided he was tired of taking 'no' for an answer...
That was when the terrifying stranger you'd seen earlier in the night, came to your rescue.
Tags: Non-sorcerer AU, Sukuna x Plus-size F!Reader, alcohol consumption, body insecurity, body image issues, size difference, size kink, smut (oral, m recieving), edging, genital piercings, sexual harassment (not Kuna), mild hurt/comfort (kinda), mild angst, Sukuna's a dick but not to reader, kinda ooc Kuna, no use of y/n, if I missed any let me know
MDNI - 18+
W/C: 8,259
A/N: Hi! This is my first time writing for Sukuna but I had a ton of fun with it. Plus it feels good to FINALLY get something finished after months of writers block and mental health struggles. I'm thinking about turning this into a series of oneshots and I'd love to know if people are interested because I have lot of ideas and finally have the motivation to write again! Thanks for reading!
A/N 2: Also a HUGE shout-out and thank you to @sunwornink for both of your plus-size reader JJK series! You inspired me to write one of my own! ❤️❤️
Clubs had never been your scene. Always too loud, everything was sticky, the drinks were never anything spectacular; just not how you would choose to spend your Friday night. But you'd only been in the city for less than six months now, and Esumi had insisted you join the group tonight. Apparently, it was Akemi from accounting's birthday or something, and they had invited, what seemed like half the company, out to celebrate.
So instead of staying home, curled up on the couch with a glass of wine and a cat in your lap; you'd squeezed yourself into a pair of high-waisted dark jeans you hadn't worn in a while, and a cute loose graphic crop top that perfectly hid the things you wanted it to. Your favorite faux leather jacket was tucked into the booth with a couple of other coworkers while you went to get drinks for yourself and Esumi.
The pulse of the bass throbbed loud enough to feel like it rattled your bones. Maybe if it hadn't felt like you'd been forced to come, it would have been more bearable. But for the most part, you avoided places like this. Crowds made you uncomfortable and all too conscious of how much space you took up. You'd always been a bigger girl, hyperaware of the fact that you'd never look like the people you saw on billboards and tv. But that was something you'd come to accept a long time ago (or tried too anyway).
You weren't anyone's ideal 'type,' at least not physically. However, that just gave you more space to work on the parts of yourself you did like. You knew you were smart, you'd always loved learning, and you had a mind for strategy. So, when you went to university, you devoted yourself to your studies, graduated with honors, and had multiple job offers waiting. That was a few years ago, and your sharp that mind was one of the biggest reasons you'd managed to land your current position. 'Assistant' didn't sound particularly elegant or exciting on its own, but when you pair it with the fact that you were the executive assistant to the President/CEO of Kamo Industries, suddenly everyone looked at you differently.
Ice clinked against the glass when the bartender set your drinks down. You passed over a handful of bills, and scooped up the overpriced liquor to make your way back to the safety of your booth. Roughly halfway there, a prickling sensation on the back of your neck flared to life again. You'd felt it when you first walked in too, the unmistakable feeling of being watched.
Taking a half-step to the side, you pressed your back against a nearby pillar to avoid a possible collision as other bodies surged back and forth between the bar and dance floor.
Whiskey burned as it raced down your throat, warming you from the inside, and easing some of the anxiety that coiled tight in your belly. You scanned the room as you took another sip, and ignored the way goosebumps made the hair on your arms stand on end.
You'd almost finished your sweep of the area, almost convinced yourself you'd imagined it, when you saw him.
In a dark corner of the VIP section, he was sprawled on a couch like a king on his throne. His black dress shirt had been unbuttoned just far enough to hint at the powerful build hidden beneath. The taut muscle of his forearms flexed visibly thanks to the sleeves rolled to just below his elbows; heavy inked bands wrapped around his wrists like shackles, and gleamed faintly when the pulsing light kissed his skin. Sharp tattoos accentuated the dangerous line of his jaw, and only made the predatory look on his face that much more devastating.
You could have ignored him, could have reminded yourself that men like that don't notice girls like you; had you not caught the way his eyes tracked the movement of your glass when you brought it back to your lips.
The overwhelming noise of the club fell away, as butterflies erupted in your stomach under the weight of his attention. Your heart felt like it was trying to leap from your chest and run the other way, when his gaze lifted to lock with yours.
Heat bloomed low in your belly with the intensity in his eyes. Light flashed over him again, catching on the soft salmon of his hair — a color that shouldn't work so well on someone as obviously dangerous as him.
You probably would have stood there all night, frozen under the sheer magnitude of his attention, had Esumi not appeared out of nowhere. Her arm looped through yours, pulling you back toward your booth and a few other people you recognized.
"Oh my god! What took so long?! Did you get lost or something?" She leaned in close to speak against your ear, the warmth of her laughter helped to slow your racing heart. But even as she dragged you away, it was a monumental effort not to turn back to see if he was still watching.
With a huffed chuckle, you extended the entirely too sweet cocktail you'd bought for her, "You could say that."
You sounded breathless, even to your own ears. Thankfully, short of giving you a curious look she didn't push further. Already you could feel the start of a headache coming on.
"Oooo, thank you!"
Her slim fingers wrapped around the fizzy pink drink. In a matter of seconds, you were back at the table. As you sat down, a couple of people gave you polite smiles before returning to their previous conversations. Their attention felt frigid after the heat of the stranger’s stare — a cold splash of reality to remind you not to let your imagination get the best of you.
There was a faint, barely perceptible tremble in the tips of your fingers from the emotional whiplash of the last few minutes; between the strangers heated gaze, Esumi's bubbling enthusiasm, and the cold indifference of your other coworkers, your brain was working on overdrive trying to process it all. Another sip of the amber liquid had a flush rise to your cheeks from the alcohol, and left a pleasant faint vanilla after-taste.
The combination of the overcrowded heat in the club and the warmth of the liquor, made you thankful you'd worn a comfortable loose top. Even with it, you felt like you were on the verge of overheating… or maybe it was your own anxieties getting the better of you.
The booth creaked and dipped as someone sat down beside you.
"Hey! I didn't think I'd see you here tonight!"
Dread filled your stomach immediately, and you tried to subtly put a bit more space between the two of you. Of course, the one person you'd hoped to avoid managed to find you.
"Hey, Kishimoto," despite your best effort, a hint of irritation bled through in your tone. Fortunately, he didn't seem to notice, or maybe he didn't care.
"Aww, none of that! I told you to call me Akihiro," he paused, a quiet chuckle leaving his lips before he spoke again. "You could even call me Aki, if you wanted to."
This had been happening almost since the day you started. Kishimoto was one of the senior management members for Kamo Industries. Although young in comparison to many of the other senior managers, he'd already proven himself when he snagged a client out from under the Gojo Corporation — a slight that had not been forgotten based on the emails and phone calls you'd been fielding ever since.
It wasn't even that he was unattractive either — his dark hair was always nicely styled, warm brown eyes shone beneath heavy brows. He took care of himself, that much was apparent. The problem was that he was that very stereotypical 'nice guy', who thought that just because he treated you like a human, he deserved an award.
"And I told you, Kishimoto works just fine for me."
Movement from the corner of your eye drew your attention to where Esumi and your other friend, Tatsuki, were dancing. Bright smiles lit their faces as they moved to the beat, Esumi’s neon pink cocktail glowed under the clubs shifting lights. Tatsuki grabbed her free hand and twirled her, the move drawing a laugh out of both of them as they continued to dance and weave through the crowd, until they disappeared from your sight.
A little twist of envy curled in your chest with how carefree they seemed to be. Meanwhile, you could never seem to get out of your own head long enough to fully live in the moment.
Almost unconsciously, your gaze slid back to the dangerous figure from before. He was still there, still gazed out at the crowd with a unique mix of boredom and predatory awareness that missed nothing. His attention moved slowly over the mass of people writhing to the music, like he was surveying his territory...
Or hunting.
The thought sent a shiver down your spine. Beside you, Kishimoto continued to drone on, every so often you'd hum or nod so that he felt like you were listening, even when you weren't. You let his voice fade to the background as you took another sip and watched the crowd shift and move like a wave. Men, women, and everyone in between swarmed the dance floor, the lights shifted from blue, to pink, to purple, and back again. Occasionally the DJ's voice would interrupt to catch the crowd’s attention and spark new life in the people who'd left the chaos to find drinks and air.
It was almost meditative, the pulse of the bass like a stuttered heartbeat that directed each movement. The faint tingle of alcohol in the back of your mind made it easier to tolerate, and even enjoy the chaos, at least from afar. Sometimes you'd catch Esumi's excited grin and return it with a small one of your own. The handsome stranger hadn't looked in your direction again, not that you'd admit you'd been sneaking looks of your own — you tried to push aside the way your chest felt a little too tight when you acknowledged that he'd captured your attention far more than you had his.
Eventually, your glass was empty, and the man beside you was still talking when you stood.
"I'm gonna go get a refill."
"Oh! I'll come with you! Let me buy your next round!"
The air felt heavy as you took a deep breath in an attempt to smother your irritation. Your mother would tell you to be grateful for a man's attention, your father would tell you to be thankful he's willing to put up with your attitude. But there's a difference between respectful attention and greedy entitlement.
Halfway to the bar, you cast a furtive look in the direction of the pink-haired stranger. Except this time when the lights pulsed bright, your vision found an empty couch.
Kishimoto's hand rested at the small of your back as he guided you through the crowd in front of the bar. Your jaw ached with how hard you had to bite back your scathing annoyance. With every step you could feel the way his touch shifted until his fingers no longer rested respectfully against the fabric of your shirt; instead, they'd found their way beneath its hem to ghost his fingertips over the skin of your back.
Revulsion coursed through you as you stepped away, bumping a couple of people in your effort to put some space between you.
"Don't do that."
Your voice was flat, devoid of the barely-there courtesy you'd maintained for the last 20 minutes while he talked at you.
His head tipped to one side, almost like a confused puppy when he asked, "Do what?"
Anger flared in your chest at his blatant attempt to act oblivious.
"Keep your hands to yourself, Kishimoto."
His eyes widened, "I'm so sorry! I just didn't want you to get lost in the crowd."
False innocence coated every word as he smirked.
A biting retort danced on the tip of your tongue, but before you could unleash it, the bartender appeared in front of you.
"What can I getcha?" Dark hair that had once been carefully styled, now hung in casual disarray thanks to the madness of the evening. Bright blue eyes almost glowed thanks to the backlit bar behind him. He was cute in a way that made you feel like he might actually be someone you'd approach outside of a place like this.
You opened your mouth to order, only for Kishimoto to speak first.
"Pomegranate chu-hai, for the lady," he grinned at you. "And a gin and tonic for myself."
A slight frown pulled the corner of your mouth. It wasn't that you wouldn't drink it, a free drink is a free drink. But that cocktail was far sweeter than your usual whiskey on the rocks; plus, there was so little alcohol in it that you'd have to drink several to even feel a buzz. Already your annoyance with the man had started to ruin the light tingle your first drink left behind.
The crowd shifted and forced someone to take a step back. You stumbled slightly as they knocked into you, and forced you against Kishimoto, whose eyes lit up the moment you stepped into his space. His hand immediately settled on your lower back again, and thanks to the mass of bodies, you no longer had room to get away from him.
"Kishimoto," he looked down at you with wide, innocent eyes. "Move your hand."
He grinned, the usual playfulness dropped just enough to show something else that made your stomach turn.
"Sure thing, babe."
Distantly, you were aware of another shift in the throng that surrounded the bar. The air suddenly felt thick almost like the club itself held its breath to see what would happen next. His hand drifted below the hem of your shirt again; two fingers hooked through a belt loop on your jeans and tugged you closer.
From your peripherals, the bartender looked up from where he'd been pouring something into a shaker. A low voice spoke; his words lost to the throbbing music and pounding of your heart.
"Kishimoto," you tried again. "Hands off."
There was only so much you could do in a crowded club. Plus, you didn't want to risk causing a scene and get reported to your boss. You'd moved across the country for this job; you couldn't afford to lose it. Kishimoto slid a few bills onto the counter when the bartender dropped off your drinks, his eyes never leaving you.
His grip on your belt loop loosened, and you almost let out a sigh of relief, until you felt his pinky replace the other two as the rest of his hand rested against the bare skin of your back. His touch felt like needles on your sensitive skin, and made your stomach turn violently.
"C'mon, you've been flirting with me since the day you started. I've seen the way you look at me. Don't play hard to get now."
Your head ached from months of holding your tongue. Fuck the job, you didn't need it badly enough to deal with this kind of entitlement.
Before you could move, before you even had a chance to get past that thought, heat seeped through the fabric of your shirt as a truly massive presence appeared behind you. A heavy arm wrapped around your middle and pulled you free from your coworker’s grip. Your back hit what felt like a solid wall of muscle — for the first time in what seemed like hours, you took a full, ragged breath.
From over your shoulder, another hand reached forward to grasp the fizzy pomegranate drink that still sat where the bartender left it.
"I believe she said 'hands off.'"
The voice was so deep it vibrated through his chest, and into your own as it rumbled above your head. The brunette never got the chance to respond.
A massive hand held your drink above Kishimoto's head… and tipped.
Pink shifted to blue into purple and back again. The energy of the club continued to thrum in the background, people laughed and drank and danced. Yet, here, in this frozen heartbeat, time stopped. Liquor turned neon under the light as ice bounced against dark hair and scattered across the floor.
"What the fuck?!"
You watched in stunned silence as the sticky pink cocktail soaked through his shirt and dripped from his hair. The arm around your middle pulled you another half-step back as the alcohol spread across the floor and threatened to touch your boots. Unlike Kishimoto's touch, your savior kept his grip respectful, if not a little possessive.
"Who the hell do you think you are?" Kishimoto reached for a handful of napkins to wipe away the alcohol that stung his eyes. "The fuck gives you the right to get involved in other people's business, huh?!"
Your savior lifted you off the ground like you weighed nothing and carefully set you down beside him.
When he released his grip, a barely-there shiver rushed through you at the sudden loss of contact.
Immediately, you looked up to see who'd saved you, and were hit with a fresh wave of astonishment. Distinctive dark bands of ink wrapped around his wrists and forearm, the color stark against the warm golden tan of his skin. A traitorous flip of your stomach betrayed the thrill that raced down your spine.
Up close, he was devastatingly attractive. It was as if the mass of him never stopped as your eyes followed the lines of tattoos and scars that littered what skin you could see. He had to be at least 6'5", if not taller. Every ounce of his being screamed 'predator,' and you were stuck somewhere between wanting to run and wishing he'd hold you again.
It was only once the heat of him fully dissipated that you felt a familiar jolt of delayed self-conscious embarrassment. Normally, you avoided letting people touch your stomach as much as possible, it was one of the parts of yourself you'd always hated the most.
Rather than respond to the soaked Kishimoto, the stranger directed his attention to you. Deep crimson eyes burned with an intensity that made your knees weak and sent heat straight to your core.
"You good?" A muscle ticked in his jaw when he spoke.
You tried to swallow, your mouth suddenly dry under the full force of his attention. His eyes dropped to track the movement before they lifted to meet yours again.
"Yeah, I'm f-"
"Of fucking course she's fine!" Kishimoto interrupted, puffing his chest out as he looked up at the man who stood a full head or more above than him. "You can't just go around interrupting people's conversations. This is none of your business!"
He reached for you again. His refusal to accept your continued rejections was enough to shake you from your shocked stupor. You let the full depth of your frustration show in the seething glare you shot him and sidestepped his grasp.
Your savior chuckled darkly, the sound closer to a growl than actual amusement. He straightened to his full height and faced the brunette in front of him. Broad shoulders rolled beneath his dark shirt as he nodded to the bartender, who you now saw had kept an eye on the altercation.
"You made it my business when you decided to pull that shit in my club."
His club?! Fuck.
"Now," the rough timbre of his voice cut through the din as if even the bass bowed to his presence. "You have two options, and I certainly hope you pick the right one."
Kishimoto's gaze dropped to where you stood next the enormous stranger. He frowned, something like hurt in his eyes.
"Leave now, or…" The crimson eyed man broke into a wicked grin, light caught on the faint points of his canines, making him look even more like a predator. "I'll escort you out myself."
The way the muscles in his forearms flexed and shifted as he clenched his fists told you which option he hoped Kishimoto would pick.
Your coworker shot you one more furtive look before he turned on his heel and pushed his way through the crowd to the exit. You were still watching where he'd disappeared when another rough chuckle broke through the whirlwind of your thoughts.
One arm was braced against the bar as he leaned against it, a somewhat sadistic smirk on his lips as he cast a slow appraising look over your figure. A cross between fear and desire fanned the simmering heat in your core. When he met your eyes again, they burned with something you couldn't place, but it sent a shiver down your spine (that you would forever insist was thanks to the adrenaline coursing through your system).
Just as you opened your mouth to thank him, the bartender returned with two glasses he set in front of the pink-haired man.
They were identical, save for one of the short glasses of amber liquid also housed a singular large ice cube. The sight reminded you that you had far too little alcohol in your system to deal with all the shit Kishimoto had sparked, even if he wasn't around to keep harassing you.
Your approach to the bar was interrupted when the stranger lifted the glass with ice in your direction. Once again you found yourself short-circuiting thanks to another unexpectedly kind gesture from someone you'd never met before.
How did he know your order?
It wasn't until he raised a brow, a barely-there smirk on his lips, and the glass still extended, that you realized you'd frozen. Embarrassment flared hot up the back of your neck and into your cheeks when you cleared your throat and reached for the drink.
The glass was cold as you took it, a stark contrast to the heat of his touch when your fingers brushed his.
"Thanks."
He nodded, his eyes never leaving your face.
"And," you swallowed hard. "Thank you for... that."
You waved your hand dismissively in the direction Kishimoto disappeared. A muscle in his jaw ticked as the smirk fell away.
"You know 'im?"
For the first time that night, you let every bit of your anger show.
"Unfortunately."
You took a sip, expecting the usual burn from your go-to, relatively cheap, whiskey. Instead, your tongue was met with the smooth, smoky flavor of something far too expensive for your budget.
"He's a… coworker. Technically," you mumble the last word with distaste.
He huffed, the sound forcing you to meet his eyes. They're still intense, but there's something dangerous, and considering there too. It's enough to raise fresh goosebumps across your skin the longer you looked.
He'd felt it the moment you'd stepped into the club, it was like something in the atmosphere changed. Fridays were one of the few nights Sukuna allowed himself the time to one of the many clubs under his purview — purely for himself, rather than work. Usually, he'd have a couple drinks, scope out the crowd, and let the few people brave or stupid enough to approach, try. Sometimes they succeeded, most of the time they failed.
It was easy, surface level, no commitment, the kind of night he could ‘work out’ the frustrations of the week from his system and start fresh. Women saw a 'pretty face,' felt the danger of his presence, and thought they could handle it. They wanted the thrill, and he was all too willing to provide.
Then you'd walked in looking like you'd rather be anywhere else.
And once he'd noticed you, it was like his eyes were drawn to you with a magnet. He'd catch himself staring, pull his gaze away, only to find it had drifted back moments later. You were beautiful. The jeans you wore hugged your curves just right, that cropped t-shirt would occasionally shift just enough to expose a little peak of skin that had him craving more. Plus, your clear disdain for crowds and the pounding music only added to the allure. He found himself wondering why you'd come — the question bounced around in his head for far longer than he'd ever admit.
Idle curiosity warped to sharp focus when you froze part way back to the table where you'd left your jacket earlier. He tracked the way your eyes moved carefully through the room, watched appreciatively as you took a sip and didn't flinch at the bite of whiskey when it touched your tongue.
A smug smirk threatened to break his casual façade when you finally caught sight of him. He watched your eyes widened in surprise, and he couldn't help but wonder what was going through your head when your gaze locked with his.
Emotion flashed across your face so fast it was impossible for him to read it all. But when it finally settled, he saw hesitation at war with the hunger in your eyes. He debated going to you then, considered dragging you back to the privacy of his section just to be able to enjoy the shocked look on your face again.
But then your friend appeared and pulled you away.
He continued to watch you, subtly; especially when he clocked the way you moved away from the guy who sat down beside you. Even from this distance he could see the annoyance on your face, and he wondered how the other people around you didn't pick up on it. Sukuna wasn't a good man, he'd never claimed to be. But even he had lines he wouldn't cross.
At some point, one of the many people who worked for him appeared to ask a quiet question. His attention strayed for only a moment, but when he returned his focus to where you'd been, you weren't there. Neither was the man who'd been looking at you with far too much entitlement in his eyes.
Anger sparked in his chest, and the feeling made him stop. He didn't know you, had never even seen you before. He had no real reason to interfere or to justify this strange, almost territorial pull. Still, he didn't question himself further as he rose and pushed his way through the throng.
For most of his life, his considerable height had been a distinct advantage in any endeavor he pursued — this was no different. Sukuna towered over most of the other patrons; his sharp gaze quickly scanned the undulating wave of patrons as he searched. Until, finally, a flash of light hit your shirt and made the fabric glow.
It wasn't often that he got to play hero, but the look of relief and gratitude on your face when that prick finally left was enough to make his chest warm in a way that was almost unpleasant. Though the satisfaction every time he thought back to the way that fizzy pink cocktail dripped down the bastard's face was enough to overpower it.
He'd brought you back to his private booth, one long arm stretched over the back of the couch behind you, his own half-empty glass dangled loosely from his fingertips. You sat beside him, back rigid with a few inches of respectful distance between them. He hated it, he wanted nothing more than to wrap his arm around your waist and pull you firmly against his side — to feel the soft give of your flesh beneath his fingers again. But he wouldn't risk scaring you off just yet.
You leaned forward to set your now empty glass on the table. His eyes immediately dropped to where the hem of your top slid up your back just enough to reveal a tantalizing little strip of skin. He swallowed past the desire that made him wonder what you'd taste like, when you leaned back. You still hadn’t relaxed, nervously fidgeting with the fabric of your top like you regretted wearing it.
"This is your club, then?"
He pulled his eyes away from where they'd been watching the deft movements of your fingers to find your attention directed at him now.
"Technically, no." He smirked with a dry chuckle, "Might as well be though."
A frown formed a crease between your brows as you looked at him — really looked. His expression dropped to something closer to wicked satisfaction, because it was true. Technically, he didn't own the club, but the owners did owe its success to he and his family.
"What does that even mean?"
Your flippant tone pulled a low chuckle out of him.
"Means they owe this," he gestured vaguely through the air. "To the people who make sure their doors stay open."
A little hum of acknowledgement settled in your chest and he let his gaze wander over your figure again — the way those jeans clung to your thick thighs made his mouth water.
Cloying sweetness bloomed around them. Sukuna let out a long, drawn-out breath as irritation clawed at the back of his throat. The server — fuck, what was her name? Miki? Sachi? Runa? — shot him a sultry smile as she bent over to deposit fresh refills on the low table in front of them. He choked back a scoff when she somehow managed to squish her tits together in yet another attempt to get him back in her bed.
"Can I get you anything else?" Kaho? Tama? Chiyu? Whatever her name was, batted over-long lashes as she asked.
From his periphery he noticed your, not-so-subtle eye roll, and he couldn't help the huff of amusement that escaped him. Your eyes widened when they darted up to meet his, a faint smile curled at the corners of your mouth, and fuck if he wasn't curious if your lips were as soft as they looked.
"No, thank you," your attention never left him as you answered the server’s question.
A smirk touched his lips when you finally let the tension bleed from your shoulders and leaned back into the couch. His hand moved just enough to let his thumb rest on your shoulder the second you were close enough.
The server cleared her throat in another attempt to get his attention. But his focus remained solely on you. The way the pulsing lights danced in your eyes, the soft spread of your legs when, at last, you decided to trust him — at least a little. He moved as if on autopilot, the heavy muscle of his leg spread to press against your own.
You tensed as soon as his thigh touched yours.
"Don't worry, princess. I don't bite… unless you ask."
A full smug grin broke across his face when you nearly choked, and he caught a jealous huff from the server as she walked away. For the first time that night, your mouth spread in a small, genuine smile as you laughed softly.
"You're bold," your voice was smooth as you called him out.
The slow path of your eyes trailed across his chest with an open appreciation that made his stomach flutter in a way he hadn't felt in a long time. Ice clinked softly within your fresh drink as you took a sip, your eyes locked with his as you did. He tracked the movement of your throat when you swallowed, desire bloomed low in his belly as he imagined how pretty you'd look wrapped around his cock.
"Only when I see somethin' I want."
He watched with delight as your cheeks darkened. But rather than getting shy like he expected, you shifted closer, fanning the fire that burned in his core.
"Oh?"
A flicker of something flashed through your eyes before they settled on the same hunger he was sure was reflected in his. For a moment, he thought you were about to walk away. Instead, you adjusted enough to tuck one leg underneath you and fully face him. You rested your hand on his leg, the tips of your fingers on the inside of his thigh made it clear the placement wasn't an accident.
"Careful, princess," he purred. "Don't start somethin' you can't finish."
The corners of your mouth twitched up with the hint of a smirk. Determination sharpened the already heady expression on your face when you gave his leg a soft squeeze. Sukuna swallowed down a groan, and he was the bold one?
The heavy weight of his hand landed at the nape of your neck, his thumb rubbed gentled against the soft skin beneath it. If you wanted to tease, then so could he. You shuddered under his touch and he had to consciously restrain himself from guiding your hand to where his cock throbbed painfully within the confines of his slacks.
Your tongue darted out to wet your bottom lip.
"Who said I can't finish it?"
Sukuna all but growled when your mouth met his with a burning need. You tasted like whiskey and the remnants of whatever subtle gloss you'd applied earlier. A groan rumbled deep in his chest when you met him with the same fervor. The softness of your lips contrasted with the heat of your breath as you moaned softly. He bit your bottom lip, and took the opportunity to sweep his tongue into your mouth when you gasped in surprise.
You slid your hand further up his thigh, tightening your fingers the higher you went. His cock pulsed with need, even as he savored the taste of you on his tongue. Every soft sound that escaped, he eagerly swallowed down, until eventually you were forced to break away just to catch your breath.
That didn't deter him though, his mouth dropped to press hot, open-mouthed kisses along the line of your jaw and down your throat. Your skin tasted faintly of something sweet and clean when he dragged his tongue across the open expanse of your neck. A soft whimper slipped passed your lips and made him grin.
He would have continued to devour you, had you not, at last, reached his aching member. Sukuna tucked his face into your neck as he let out a sharp hiss of pleasure from the pressure of your palm, it made his trapped length throb hard enough to feel through the fabric.
Sukuna couldn't stand it anymore, his control snapped as he pulled away and stood. That same flicker he couldn't identify earlier flared to life in your eyes before he extended his hand.
"C'mon, princess. Not doin’ this with an audience."
You could barely hear the music over the sound of your heart pounding in your ears. His hand completely engulfed yours as he dragged you through the crowded mass of the club. Want burned low in your belly when the dark hall to a few private rooms came into view. Logically, you knew you should be afraid, or even worried. But the only feeling that rolled through you was an overwhelming desire, mixed with a little undercurrent of anxiety. Not because you thought he'd hurt you, but because of your own insecurities.
The heavy metal door swung open on near silent hinges as he pulled you in behind him. In the same heartbeat that the door clicked shut, he had you pinned against it, both meaty hands on either side of your head. The crimson of his eyes glowed in the low light of the room from where he looked down on you, a stark reminder of the true mass of him.
When his lips claimed yours this time there was no hesitation. He kissed you like a man starved, your mouths locked in a tangle of teeth and tongues and gasped breaths. One of his big hands fell to grasp your waist, his grip tight enough to bruise, but not quite hurt. He growled, actually growled when you bit his lower lip, the soft flesh a delightful contrast to the firm strength of the rest of him.
The fabric of his shirt slid smoothly beneath your hands when you clutched it to pull him closer. Almost unconsciously, he rolled his hips to grind into you, the feel of his hard member drew a soft moan out of you that he eagerly swallowed.
He broke the kiss to press his forehead to yours, a dangerous hunger flickered in his eyes, "Fuck. You're killin' me, princess."
Confidence flared in your chest just long enough for you to loosen your grip and push him back. His eyes widened in surprise while you took in the faint flush on his cheeks and kiss swollen lips.
"Wanna taste you."
The surprise on his face melted into a Cheshire grin, the soft light of the room caught just faintly on the points of his canines.
He chuckled, "Whatever you want, princess."
You weren't sure where 'princess' had come from, but you weren't going to argue. It might be the nicest thing anyone had called you during sex before.
The sound of his long stride was barely audible as he stopped in front of one of the long couches pressed against the wall. Now that you weren't completely enveloped with him, you could just make out the faint lingering scent of a citrus cleaner and vanilla in the air.
Your eyes drank him in greedily, the way the light danced across his tattoos, the obvious strain of his broad chest within the confines of his shirt. The bulging muscles of his biceps flexed and rolled when he lifted his arms to cup your face. You swallowed hard when your eyes met the rich crimson of his and saw it had nearly been eclipsed by his blown pupils.
"You sure?"
The cautious sincerity of his voice sent a fresh tingle of hunger through you, the tone so at odds with the monster of a man he appeared to be.
You nodded, "Very sure."
His grin turned predatory.
"Do your worst, princess."
Oh. You did love a challenge.
His strong grip pulled your mouth back to his. You let him take the lead, let him feel like he was in control until you registered the taut muscle beneath your hands relaxing. Once you felt him settle into the lazy control he'd been wielding all night, you let your fingers skim across the strong expanse of his chest. There was no give to the strength beneath as your touch mapped every dip and curve the further down they trailed, until you hooked your fingers beneath the leather of his belt.
You smiled against his lips when you felt the breath catch. With one more soft press of your mouth to his, you pulled away.
There was an almost desperate gleam in his eyes, the fingers still holding your face twitched against your skin — as if resisting the urge to pull you back. Heat flared hot within you and pooled low in your belly thanks to the pure hunger in his gaze. The way he looked at you like he actually wanted you, and not just as some kind of curiosity to explore in the bedroom.
The soft click of his belt felt too loud in the otherwise quiet room, accompanied only by both of your ragged breaths and the distant pulse of the bass. Through each movement, you kept your eyes locked with his. The very idea that you seemed to be able to dismantle him so easily already, and you hadn't even done anything, made your mouth water.
With deft fingers his pants dropped far enough to reveal the throbbing length trapped beneath his boxer briefs. He groaned when you pressed your hand to his trapped cock, his lips parted ever so slightly as he stared you with ravenous eyes.
Finally, you hooked your fingers around the elastic and slowly pulled it down.
You'd love to say he 'sprang' free, but that wouldn't be the right description. No. His cock was heavy, thick enough that even hard, it was weighed down by its own mass. The tip was flushed a pretty shade of red and already leaking precum when your knees hit the carpet and his hands fell to the side.
You finally broke eye contact to appreciate the view in front of you, and your cunt throbbed with need. He sucked in a breath that pulled your attention away from his aching member and up to the expression of pure, unadulterated need that had overtaken his face.
Saliva gathered on your tongue when you wrapped your hand around the base, his shaft so thick your fingers didn't quite meet. To your surprise, you also felt what appeared to be the first bar of a ladder that ran up the length of him. Your eyes flicked up to see a smirk on his lips, which you returned with one of your own just before you dragged your tongue from base to tip along the underside of his cock.
The groan he let out sent another pulse of desire straight to your core.
One heavy hand found the back of your head. His fingers threaded through your hair, not to push or even guide — it was almost like he needed an anchor.
You allowed yourself a small, proud smile before you dragged your tongue up him once again, pausing to lightly tease each pierced bar as you went. This time you paid special attention to the piercing just below the sensitive head, flicking your tongue against the smooth metal before you wrapped your lips around the tip and sucked.
Another low moan rumbled through his chest as you swirled your tongue around the head, licking at the slit to taste the precum gathered there.
His grip on your hair tightened enough to force you to look up at him. The way the light hit his blown-out pupils made it seem like they were lit from within, desire burned so intense that you could feel your panties dampen with want.
You kept your gaze on him when you finally took him deeper. His eyes fluttered shut as his cock disappeared into your mouth, until eventually, his head fell back with a shattered moan. You sucked him in until you felt the tip hit the back of your throat. And when you pulled back, you took special care to run your tongue against every single bar that pierced him.
"Fuck. That's it."
That was all you needed to hear to make your own stubborn determination flare to life. You would take all of him by the end of this.
Your cheeks hollowed as you sucked, dropping your head back down his cock in a steady rhythm. What you couldn't yet fit, you worked with the hand still wrapped around his base, your other hand braced on the firm muscle of his thigh. Drool began to drip slowly from the corners of your mouth the longer this went on, though you couldn't find it in yourself to care.
Occasionally, the hand at the back of your head would twitch, like he was resisting the urge to direct your movements himself. Still, his grip never reached the point of pain, even with as lost as he was in the feel of your mouth.
Every soft moan spurred you on, each groan that rumbled through him told you exactly which spots to tease. Until finally, your nose met the carefully maintained bush at the base of his cock.
You swallowed around him, feeling the smooth balls at the ends of each piercing with the flat of your tongue. Surprise sent a shiver down your spine when he whimpered. This man, this enormous, terrifying man, whimpered as you worked his length.
"Sh-shit," his fingers tightened in your hair, not allowing you to pull back as he held you there for a moment longer. "Damn, princess."
You coughed briefly when he relaxed his grip enough for you to pull off, and ignored the way your eyes watered slightly from the way he stretched your throat. Without a second of hesitation, you took his heavy cock back into you waiting mouth, dropping all the way to the base again. Another groan rumbled through him; the sound drew a moan of your own.
The sensation forced an involuntary roll of his hips that forced him even deeper. You gagged a little when he did, tears sprang to your eyes, but you didn't stop. Instead, you renewed your pace, pushing yourself harder with every groan and roll of his hips.
"Gonna cum if you keep doin' that," his voice was wrecked when he spoke.
You hummed in response, taking him deep enough that the tip hit the back of your throat. This time you were ready, and kept yourself from gagging, even when his hips bucked again.
"Fuuuck."
Pride swelled alongside the burning desire in your chest. You might not be anyone's ideal type, but at least you knew how to ruin a man with just your mouth… and the fact that you were ruining this man? Well, you'd have to tell Esumi all about it later.
Every time you noticed him shift and thrust a little harder as he got closer to cumming, you'd slow — working his cock with the same confident sweeps of your tongue and teases to his sensitive tip and piercings. Once he'd calmed back down and the twitching of his cock lessened, you'd return to the pace you'd learned he liked best. Each time bringing him just a little closer to the edge before you’d back off.
The growl of frustration he let out every time you denied his released was thrilling, and you would have kept going had your jaw not begun to ache. Even with the carpet, your knees were sore from kneeling for so long — so, this time, when you felt his cock swell and twitch under your ministrations, you kept going.
His grip tightened again when he realized you weren't slowing down this time, "Gonna cum. Shit! Hah- just like that."
You let him pull you down the fat length of his cock, the tip colliding with the back of your throat as he let out a long, drawn-out groan.
His cock pulsed in your mouth; hot spurts of his release ran down your throat and into your mouth. Despite your best efforts, there was too much for you to keep up with and by the time his fingers finally loosened, a little dribble of cum had escaped your lips.
"Fucking hell…" He let out another low moan of overstimulation as you slowly pulled back — your tongue slid around the length of him until you finally pulled off with a soft pop.
Almost as if your mouth is what had kept him standing, the moment your lips left his spent member, he collapsed backward onto the couch behind him. The furniture creaked as his weight settled, his head fell back against the cushion as he tried to catch his breath, the broad expanse of his chest heaving with the effort.
Another bloom of pride warmed your chest as you stood, your legs a little shaky after kneeling for so long. Your panties were sticky with need, and you wanted nothing more than to let this man have his way with you. But, the little voice in your head that whispered all the hurtful things was loud.
So instead, you huffed a soft chuckle at the sight before you.
He looked utterly wrecked, like you'd pulled the soul from his body at the same time as his cum. A faint touch of pink still highlighted his cheeks as one crimson eye peeked open to look at you.
When he did, you intentionally dragged your thumb up your chin to catch the line of his release that had escaped your lips. He groaned again, as you licked the digit clean before doing the same to your lips. You bit back a laugh when his eyes fell closed with an exhausted moan.
“Tryin’ to kill me…”
As quietly as you could, you went about adjusting your clothes so they would lay right again. You used the camera on your phone to straighten the mess he'd made of your hair, and attempted to fix the makeup that had run and smeared down your cheeks… it was the best you could do, all things considered.
It wasn't until you'd taken a couple steps toward the door that he opened his eyes again, "Where're you goin'?"
His voice was rough, tired, and edged with something like surprise.
"It's late, I need to get home."
"Really? Gonna gimme the best head of my fuckin' life and then just bounce?"
For a moment you debated what to do next, but eventually decided fuck it. You were never going to see him again anyway. So, you walked back to where he was still sprawled against the couch, the mountain of his frame completely relaxed and beginning to melt into the leather.
You pressed one, lingering kiss to his lips.
Just as you began to step away, he caught your wrist, "C'mon princess. At least let me return the favor."
A touch of affection bloomed in your chest at the offer.
"Thanks for the rescue."
You smiled and carefully pulled your arm from his grip; he only hesitated for a heartbeat before letting go.
"And thanks for this. I had fun."
You didn't give him another chance to speak before you slipped out the door.
It wasn't until you got home that you realized, you hadn't even learned his name.
If you liked this and want to see some other ideas I have in mind for reader and Sukuna let me know!
**Please do not copy, modify, translate, steal, feed to AI, etc. Feel free to like, comment, and reblog!
Hihi!! Can I request what it would be like to have amprhouews men as brothers? (Separate) like things they would do with their sibling, if their sibling ever got in harms way, they get in trouble, what would happen if they had a fight. (Gn!reader)
Siblings of Strife and Starlight
Tags: Mydei x Reader, Anaxa x Reader, Phainon x Reader, Platonic Relationships, Sibling Bond, Protective Brothers, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Angst, Fluff, Platonic Love, Found Family.
Warnings: Mentions of violence and war, Emotional conflict, Past death mentions, Heavy themes (guilt, sacrifice), Trauma-informed behavior, Intense protective behavior, Mild language, Philosophical introspection.
You never quite got used to how quiet Mydei could be. Not cold, not distant—just... ever watchful. Like the moment you stepped into a room, he was already cataloging the exits, the threats, the ways he could shield you if something went wrong.
He wasn’t always like that. When you were younger, back in Kremnos before everything fell apart, he was loud. Competitive. Teased you mercilessly about your height or how slow you swung a wooden sword. But after the Sea of Souls, after those nine winters...
He came back different. Stronger. Wiser. And fiercely protective.
You still remember the time you got caught sneaking into the Okhema market alone—some merchant thought you were a thief and raised an alarm. You never got to explain yourself. Mydei appeared like a shadow forged of gold and fire, his presence so overwhelming that even the guards backed off.
“Touch them again,” he said, voice low, too calm, “and I’ll drag your regrets through the coreflame itself.”
No one dared argue.
When you fight, it’s intense. Mydei isn’t one for shouting—but you are. And sometimes, when you accuse him of treating you like a child, he just goes... silent. That hurts more than yelling ever could.
Later, he’ll show up at your tent. Not with apologies, but with your favorite drink in hand.
“You're strong,” he’ll say, “but you’re still my sibling. That means I fight for you, even when we disagree. Especially then.”
And the tension fades.
Anaxa was the worst. Too smart, too smug, always five steps ahead and never letting you forget it.
“Ah, sibling of mine,” he’d sigh, head tilted dramatically as he leaned over his alchemical journals, “I weep for the limits of your brain—but rejoice in the vast potential of your heart.”
Translation: You made a mistake and he’s mocking you for it.
Still... he was always there when it mattered.
Like the time you got caught sneaking into the Grove’s archives. You just wanted to see what he was always hiding in those restricted scrolls. But instead of turning you in, Anaxa wove an entire illusion to trick the faculty into believing it was part of his “experiential thesis.”
“Honestly, I should let them exile you,” he muttered afterward, ruffling your hair with a scowl. “But then who would I argue with? The books? They’re too agreeable.”
When you’re in danger, Anaxa becomes someone else entirely.
You saw it once—ambushed during a Titan breach, your leg broken beneath rubble. He moved faster than thought, drawing his sidearm before the dust even settled. One hand held your head steady, the other unloaded precise, deafening shots into the darkness. No hesitation. No flourish. Just cold, practiced fury.
“Touch them again, and I’ll show you what it means to be erased,” he snarled at the monsters.
You never saw him that angry again.
Fights between you two are... chaotic. Words fly like knives. He’ll mock your logic, you’ll call him a soulless know-it-all. Doors slam. Pages get burned.
But hours later, there’s always a note slipped under your door:
“The world is foolish. Let us be wiser together. – A”
And a small, mended trinket from your childhood. He always keeps them.
Phainon is the best brother, and that’s a problem. He’s too kind. Too perfect. He helps everyone—everyone—and sometimes you wish he’d be more selfish.
“I don’t mind carrying a little more,” he always says, adjusting the sword on his back and your heavy pack on his shoulder. “You’ve got enough weight in your heart.”
You hate how right he is.
Still, he never talks down to you. When you spar, he doesn’t hold back—but he makes sure you never walk away defeated.
“You almost had me,” he says, sweat glistening on his brow. “Next time, I’ll be the one falling.”
He makes you believe it.
Once, you got kidnapped. Not by enemies, but by a desperate rebel faction who thought they could ransom you to make Phainon surrender the city’s coreflame.
He didn’t negotiate.
He stormed their camp alone.
When you came to, he was carrying you in his arms, bleeding from a dozen places.
“I’m sorry I was late,” he whispered, voice shaking. “Never again.”
You clung to him. Not because you were scared, but because you knew—he was.
Fighting with Phainon hurts. Not because he yells, but because he doesn’t. He listens. He says things like, “You have every right to be angry,” and “I never meant to overshadow you.”
And it breaks you.
You always end up hugging. Always.
Then he makes you tea. Always a little too sweet.
“You’re not just my sibling,” he’ll say. “You’re the light I look for in every dawn.”
