#saturated

[elliedearest]

love this shot

[sukunasun]

not everyone might like this, but i just thought about a what if scenario where mma!sukuna and y/n have a kid—

sukuna is getting older as time passes, so he’s settling down with his family while still working in this business as a trainer.

their kid maybe picking up an interest in his work, and sukuna is terrified lmao 😭 sukuna is begging you to help him convince yalls kid to pick another interest because he’s worried for their safety and doesn’t want his kid to end up in scars like he did.

i’m rambling too much— have a great day!!

im so sorry for getting to this so late !! thank you for being patient and waiting for a reply <3 and don't worry about rambling, i love long asks and this is so sweet!

i always wondered if having children was in their future. sukuna strikes me as the kind of man who cherishes his wife above all else, so he'd only ever agree if you were fully, wholeheartedly on board. even then, his first instinct wouldn't be excitement but worry. pregnancy to him isn't just a milestone, but something that asks too much of you. the strain, the pain, the unpredictability of it all. but he knows it's not something he can shield you from entirely, that he has to support you when your hormones tip the world sideways and you need his reassurance more than ever, when you need him in gentler ways than ever before.

i feel he'd be good at that. he's lived a disciplined and routine-driven life, always in control, thus he channels that into caring for you. keeps track of every appointment without needing reminders, memorises the little changes in your body before you even voice them. he notices the way your breath catches when you shift, the slight crease in your brows when something aches. his hands always warm when they find you, pressing gently into sore spots, lips brushing against your temple, your forehead, lingering like he's trying to soothe more than just the surface.

you tell him it's the perfect time. he's retired, your workload is manageable, you're financially secure, the house is big enough, the city kind enough. there are big parks and top schools and quiet streets, all these small assurances stacked neatly into a future that makes sense. the two of you raising a child together, shaping something good out of love and patience, watching them grow into all these possibilities. you can see it so clearly, the good and the bad, the laughter and the sleepless nights. but sukuna only sees you. the way your eyes light up, the way your lip pulls between your teeth when you're hopeful. and he can't lie to you, not about this, admitting with heavy heart and weightier honesty, "i'm not ready."

not just about being a father. well, part of it is, yes, but deeper than that lies a fear. the kind that sits heavy in his chest and refuses to be reasoned with. the thought of losing you eclipses everything else, the thought ubearable even. sukuna won't entertain the idea any further. no mama means no baby, and he won't trade you for a child, no matter how precious.

he knows himself well enough to admit it, that he doesn't know how to love anyone more than he loves you. raising a child would demand something from him he's never had to give before. a kind of selflessness that requires letting go, it's all in or nothing and he's learned to share a life with you...how is he supposed to stretch that space further without causing some damage? without hurting you?

so you both table that conversation for another time, agreeing for now that "it's a big decision to make." and "we'll come back to it." as if it were so easy to simply pick up and set down and carry on. life resumes its usual rhythm almost too easily. sukuna goes back to training rookies, recording his podcast, slipping back into the role of being the best husband ever. and you...you soothe the baby fever by ignoring it, quieting that ache in your chest the only way you can. you stop yourself from lingering on baby names, avoid the parenting aisle at bookstores, not daring to peek at onesies and booties on sale in matching colours, folded neatly in shop windows. you pretend it doesn't tug at you, that it doesn't sit there rotting into something worse, persistent and festering, just beneath the surface.

he's been bulking up lately too, now that his diet is less strict and cutting the weight doesn't have to be as severe a process anymore. there's a fullness to him now, his frame broader, heavier in a way that feels more lived-in than sharp. fills up around his arms and torso, his muscles haven't softened, just settled. less angular, more solid. "think i should try a different weight class?" he asks offhandedly, like it's nothing. but after one glance at your unimpressed and distant expression, he lets it drop without a fight.

"do you really wish to compete again?" it comes out sharper than you intended, dangerously close to accusation, sounding more like a demand. you thought that chapter of his life was closed, so why does he speak like it's still within reach? like there's a version of the future where he's still chasing something that doesn’t include you the way you want it to. a future only made for himself, more fighting, more weight, more everything that doesn't matter, shouldn't matter.

the thought hits hard, guilt following just as quickly from questioning him. who are you to make him choose? he wasn't even serious, it's just your mind spiralling again, feeding off unresolved dilemmas and setting them aside waiting for a confirmation, waiting for something you undoubtedly want but can't have. and would a child fix anything if you're not standing on the same ground to begin with? would they flourish being raised by parents who aren't on the same page?

months pass, and neither of you bring it up again, no more mentions of the future, but the silence isn't empty, the thought never leaves. pressing in and slowly carving out space between you, forming that wedge of distance that only grows. you keep busy, fill your time with work, with chores, with anything that keeps your mind from wandering. you stay on your side of the bed, putting sex on a pause indefinitely and letting intimacy fall away without ever addressing it. "are we good?" he asks, despite knowing the answer, and you nod, not turning his way and tucking yourself deeper under the covers. eventually, the idea dulls, hidden away beneath the weight of everything else life throws at you, you're so close to forgetting about it altogether.

until sukuna steps through your front door with a surprise.

it's small, curled up in his hand. a sleeping pitbull, all soft breaths and warm weight. "he was at the gym this morning," he says simply, like that explains everything. but you see the eagerness in his eyes, almost boyish, with the urge to hold it close. the dog stirs at the sound of his voice, nudging closer, tongue flicking out to lap at his cheek, and sukuna, of all people, leans into it.

there's an urge to pry further, why did he suddenly take pity on a stray animal and decided to bring it home? why does he make decisions so rashly, did he consider your thoughts? "we can't," you start, already thinking of the time, the effort, the responsibility, "we're both busy and...it's a dog." that should be enough reason. but sukuna's not listening, at least not right now when he's lying there on the floor watching the lump of grey, like it's the most fascinating thing he's ever seen. his head tilts slightly when it whimpers, his expression soft in a way you've rarely witnessed.

and it's easy to fall for the pup, but not as completely as sukuna does. the man spends all his time with him, going on walks, prepping his meals—these incredible slow-feeder bowls filled with meat, vitamins, fruit, and grains, a dog never had better—fully embracing the pet parent life, he watches over him with the same attentiveness he once reserved just for you, maybe still does, just…shared now.

"his coat is so shiny," he says one evening, swiping through pictures on his phone, pride slipping into his voice like it belongs there. you don't say it out loud, but your chest twists at the sight, at the ease of it. how naturally he slips into care, the sight of it that looks so close to what you once imagined for the two of you. he wakes up earlier now, well, earlier than he's used to, just to take the dog out, the two of them jogging side by side. keeps a towel by the door to wipe his paws clean, muttering under his breath when he wriggles too much, "oi, you're gonna leave tracks and daddy doesn't wanna clean it up." you catch him once, half-asleep on the couch with the pup sprawled across his chest, one large hand resting protectively over its small body like it might disappear if he lets go.

it's not the same, you remind yourself. this is simpler, something he can manage, something that won't take you away from him. but when you watch him kneel on the floor coaxing the dog to eat, voice low and patient, you wonder if this is what he meant when he said he wasn't ready. not incapable, not unwilling, just afraid of loving something that might ask him to survive losing you.

"he needs a name," you say one night, standing in the kitchen while sukuna measures out food with surprising precision. he pauses, glances up at you, and there's something tentative in his expression, like he's waiting for you to take this from him or shut it down entirely.

"thought we could pick one together," he replies, voice lower than usual. together. the word settles between you, fragile, unfamiliar in the way it hasn't been for months.

you hum, pretending to think it over longer than you need to. "as long as it's not dumb," you warn lightly, though there's no real bite behind it. sukuna scoffs, like the idea offends him, but there's a small shift in his posture. shoulders loosening, muscles easing. later, the two of you sit side by side on the couch, tossing names back and forth, some serious, some not, while the dog stumbles between you, clumsy and curious, pressing into whichever hand is closest.

it's not a fix. you know that. whatever sits unresolved hasn't disappeared, but this feels like a step, even if it's a small one. a moment shared again, a hurt tended to together instead of avoided. sukuna leans back against the couch, watching you as you scratch behind the dog's ears, your laughter softer than it's been in a while. his gaze lingers, steady, like he's memorising it. and when the dog finally settles, curled up between the both of you, sukuna's hand finds yours without much thought. his fingers slotting into the spaces between yours, curling in firm, reminding himself you're still here and it's enough. you're enough.

it happens unexpectedly, a year later, there in the privacy of your home on what had been a seemingly ordinary day. you pace the length of the bathroom, bare feet cold against tile, waiting for the results on three separate pregnancy test sticks lined up on the counter. different brands, different promises of accuracy, but all meant to tell you the same thing—hopefully. you can't afford to be uncertain at this point. not now, not when your heart is suspended by a single, fraying fiber, ready to give way at any moment. every second stretches, thick and suffocating, your hands hovering uselessly at your sides like you're afraid to touch anything, to disturb the outcome before it's ready.

you won't say it was the heavy rain that night that drove you to seek him out, that it flooded the streets and turned the city cold, gave you an excuse to stay in, stay close. or the fact that it had been awhile because distance had settled between you in ways neither of you fully knew how to undo. but you remember the way he looked at you, really looked, like he hadn't in months. the way his hand cupped your face, slower this time, more deliberate, like he was relearning you, the woman he refused to lose. thumbs brushing your cheeks, your lips, feeling nothing but skin and softness. there was no rush to it, no careless urgency. just the warmth of choosing each other again.

the two of you come to realize, sometime in the middle of it all—in the way your bodies find each other again, like they remember what your minds tried to forget. in the press of his lips against yours, in the broken sounds he exhales into your neck, in the way your name slips from him like it's something he's been holding back for far too long—that you missed each other. deeply, achingly so. there's no talk of babies, no careful conversations about the future, but the way his hand drifts to your lower belly, resting there with a tenderness that feels almost reverent, says more than either of you dare to.

slow and sensuous he moves, wanting to commit it to memory, like he intended to make it special. like this was the moment that changed everything. it's not just about want, but meaning. about making something out of the space that had grown between you. there's a devotion in the way he touches you, his hands roam without rush, lingering on the parts he knows so well, your waist, your hips, the curve of your stomach, grasping, holding, like he needs to remind himself that you're still his, still here.

and you feel it too, the passing of time written all over his body. the ink of his tattoos slightly faded, like sun-worn memories stretched across his skin. the weight of him different now. heavier, heftier in a way that makes you feel held in the most secure of ways, you relish in being buried under. the small things haven't gone unnoticed, the way he's changed, you don't mind any of it, not when it's him. you press yourself into him without hesitation, breathing him in like something familiar and long missed, like something you never stopped needing.

and you love the feel. it's always nice when he finishes inside you, so hot and copious, each pump of his hips fucking you through the comedown. but this time, he works each load into you with purpose and you milk his cock for every drop, squeezing down and lifting your hips closer for more. sukuna doesn't stop, doesn't pull out, not even after the second, third time he's released inside you, after the point where most would slow, catch their breath, and let the moment settle. instead, he grips you tighter, pulls you in closer, thrusting and thrusting like he's got all the time in the world and yet, too much wasted on not giving you exactly this. almost urgent, desperate even, to make up for it. sukuna has been denied for too long and refuses to let it end just yet.

there's only so much of you, so much you can take, and despite the years and familiarity that has grown, the countless times you've fucked and done...this together, taking your time, setting the pace, where kisses and touches take precedence, where he doesn't say the dirty things, only the things he truly means "let's make a baby," he whispers, voice rough but the words are edged with the certainty you've been waiting to hear. his hand finds yours, pressing it against his heart, as if he needs you to feel that he's finally ready to start a family with you.

"why now?" you ask, needing to hear it, needing an answer that's steadier than your doubts and the way your heart is about to implode, not from joy, but that this was everything you wanted come true but you'd wish he'd want it too.

sukuna's hand comes up, rough thumb brushing against your cheek, slower than usual, like he's choosing his next words with care, bearing his true feelings to you, "i don't want to be afraid anymore," he says voice low, intimate in a way that makes your eyes brim with tears, a sudden wave of love for him sprouting from deep within you chest. there's a pause, his gaze softening as it lingers on you, "if it's with you, i'm ready for whatever comes after."

you nod wordlessly as the tears begin to run down your cheek. sukuna who might be in a loving mood, still indulges in a bit of filth, choosing to lean in and lick your tears. you chuckle at that, then smile as you feel his heartbeat thumping loud, hard, beating fast in his chest. wondering if you'll ever get used to the way he loves you, all-consuming, all-encompassing. too much and yet never enough at the same time.

it had been so different after too, just two people relishing the silence. "a baby..." he murmurs, arm heavy around you, your cheek pressed to his chest, a little fuzzy now that he's stopped shaving it, the steady rise and fall beneath you grounding in a way you hadn’t realised you needed, "i hope they're just like you." his fingers traced absent patterns along your spine, fingertips lingering like he needed that bit of contact still, like he needed the reassurance of you there beneath his hands. you remember thinking, faintly, that even if nothing changed, even if the future stayed uncertain, this was worth holding onto.

but now, your mind slips toward the worst thoughts. what if you can't do this, what if the answer waiting for you isn't the one you've been quietly hoping for, what if...he changes his mind? the questions come too fast, too sharp, until they blur together into something overwhelming.

and when you finally force yourself to look, to step closer, your eyes focus on the thin lines that will decide everything. heart pounding so loudly it drowns out every other thought, every doubt, every fear you've buried over the past year. and beneath it all, there's a fragile, blooming hope you're almost too afraid to pay attention to. for a moment, you hesitate, caught between wanting to know and wanting to stay exactly here, in this fragile space where anything is still possible.

the world doesn't end, doesn't shatter or split open the way you thought it might, but it shifts, all in a second. your breath leaves you in a shaky exhale, vision blurring before you even realise you're crying, fresh tears streaming down without resistance. your hand comes up instinctively to cover your mouth, like you can hold the moment in, like you might break it if you breathe too hard. it's there, repeated three times over and giving you no doubt to what it means. pregnant, it reads, undeniable.

your hand drifts instinctively to your stomach, pressing lightly, as if you might feel something already, as if the change has already begun. and maybe it does, maybe it always would have, because standing here, heart racing and aching all at once, you realise this isn't fear anymore when it feels a lot like the beginning.

the baby arrives soon, and when they do, it still feels like a miracle you weren't quite prepared to hold. loved instantly, fiercely, in that way that leaves you breathless. how is it possible that your baby knows their kicks before kanji, before they know anything else, before words, before meaning. before even the shape of the world, waddling unsteadily toward sukuna with determined little steps, tiny fists raised like they've already decided he's something to conquer. it must be genetics, you think, because they'd been just as restless before they were even here—soft, muffled thumps against his open palm resting over your warm, stretched belly—like they were reaching for him long before they ever saw him.

and sukuna, who once said he wasn't ready, meets every clumsy swing with the same steady patience, crouched low, letting those tiny hands collide harmlessly against his own. when he pretends to lose, letting himself fall back with a quiet huff just to hear that bright, delighted laugh, then getting piled on by both tiny child and large dog, he watches them like he used to watch you, attentively memorising every small thing before it can slip away. still, his gaze always drifts back to you, his wife, an unspoken understanding passing between you of what it took to get here. the hesitation, the fear. now you watch him lean down as your child reaches for him again, small fingers curling into his shirt and realise it was worth it. the waiting, the doubt, even the moments you thought might break you. this life, this love, this family you built piece by careful piece, everything he'd thought he'd never have, and everything he chose anyway.

[sukunasun]

sunnnny pls save usss tht ushi fic killed meee 😭

that's just how relationships are, especially when you're in high school and your crush turns into your partner turns into your first love before you even realise what's happening. everything feels new, exciting, easy to fall into. you don't name it while you're in it, no one does. it only becomes love after the fact—after it's gone and your life shifts completely that you can't pretend it didn't matter. like there's a threshold you have to cross to understand it. a pain that doesn't occur til you've met the criteria. some tears, some regret, words you wish you could take back—heartbreak, after all, is a phenomenon, not a circumstance.

ushijima's not difficult to read, just look a little closer, there are obvious signs of his...sadness? misery? anguish maybe, or rather let's just call it what it is. a complete and utter wreckage. the type that can't be cleared or claimed by anyone else but you, always at the centre of it. he thinks you should take responsibility. scour this collapsion and make sense of it, pick up the pieces, put me back together, just—

"do something about it!" he shouts, so loud it echoes. a whole classroom looking on in stunned silence. ushijima clenches his fists and demands the world of you, that you'd turn it back upright on its axis and stay there, exactly where you're meant to be. who else is he to revolve and rebuild his life around.

"i can't do anything," you snap, rolling your eyes at his petulance and not bothering to hide it anymore, "the gym's been booked for weeks, the volleyball team has to share." as if he owns the place. like he has any right to command it. you're only meant to make arrangements, not shift things around to his liking. maybe once, you would've phrased it differently, made space for him the way you always did. but not when he's standing here, taking his anger out on you like he didn't set himself up for it. still, ushijima realizes his mistake with raising his voice, like something in him has been cut clean through, and he doesn't quite know how to respond to the absence.

it's quiet too beyond the classroom and not the kind of quiet that settles gently, but the kind that presses in, noticeable in every space you used to share. conversations that used to come easily now stall before they begin. you pass each other in the hallways like strangers. telling yourself this is normal, people break up, they move on, and so should you. except moving on feels nothing like you expected.

the worse thing is thinking of him still, all the time. in the most habitual ways. when you see something he would've pointed out, when you catch yourself about to say something he would've given no reaction to. you miss him, but not in a way that makes you turn back. just enough to ache, to remind. enough to know that whatever you had doesn't fit anymore.

and it only seems to get worse.

dealing with heartbreak is easier when you have extra snacks. the way you start eating without thinking, filling time, filling space. it's simpler to avoid everything when your mouth is occupied, when there's a distraction to focus on other than the dull, persistent ache sitting in your chest. taking shape as a packet of biscuits tucked into your bag. another in your drawer. maybe a milk tea after lunch, then something else just because.

you tell yourself it doesn't matter, until it does, until it's time alone and away form the rest of the world and you're sitting on the steps outside the gym. lunchbox open on your lap, half-finished, fingers dusted with crumbs as you reach for another biscuit you don't even want. but it's been a rough day, time ticks slowly and nothing seems to be going your way. it tastes sweet at first, then strangely flat, the aftertaste lingering longer than it should. texture dry and completely stale.

then there's a sound, and you don't look up when the doors open, but you hear him. ushijima steps out of the gym, sneakers hitting the ground in a measured gait with bag slung over his shoulder, posture the same as always, straight and unchanged. beside him...a girl.

you recognize her vaguely. swimmer, you think. tall and lean. she speaks in soft tones, with words carefully chosen. no animated expressions or exaggerated quips. everything about her streamlined and effortless in a way that makes your heart fall to your stomach. she says something to him, smiling, and he listens, head tilted slightly in that familiar way that means he's paying attention.

it shouldn't mean anything. it doesn't mean anything. 'you're overthinking again,' you hear him scolding you as you shove another biscuit into your mouth, chewing too quickly, the sweetness turning thick and cloying on your tongue. don't think about it. your throat tightens up and a heat starts to rise upwards. don't think about it. your vision turns blurry, tears already brimming. don't think about it. you chew. and chew. and chew. you don't want to be here, you don't want him to see you like this, he can't see you like this. sitting alone, crumbs on your fingers, halfway through something you didn't even want to eat. you stand up too fast, panic flaring sharp and sudden. thunk—

your lunchbox slips from your lap, hitting the ground with a dull, hollow clatter.

you freeze. the girl turns first and you see it in your peripheral vision, the shift, the movement, but you don't look at her. you can't. not when you already know what you'll see. your mind already filling in the details for you, sharpening, exaggerating them until she's everything you're not. and him—

you force yourself to glance up and ushijima is already looking at you. a still, unreadable expression on his face. eyes sharp, and lips pulled into a thin line. it's harsher than you remember—what happened to muscle memory, to the way his eyes used to lift and brighten when spotting you, lips already giving you a smile, already prepped to press against yours. as if the ushijima everyone knew melted away into something reserved just for you. there's no gentleness or subtlety here, nothing familiar to spot and say yes that's him, that's my man—just a flat, distant look that makes your chest tighten, because for a split second, just a second, you think he looks...disgusted.

the humiliation hits before you can stop it, making you feel exposed. you look away immediately, crouching down to gather your things, hands moving too quickly, clumsy in a way that makes everything worse. you don't bother closing the lunchbox properly and you don't wipe the crumbs from your fingers, or your face. merely shoving everything together like if you move fast enough, you could undo the moment, undo all of this.

"sorry," you mumble, though no one asked for it, but it's the only thing you can say. sorry i exist. sorry i intruded. sorry i made a mess and i'm still a mess. you keep your head down and you don't wait for a reply, leaving and hoping to never return.

all while ushijima improves, he plays harder, trains longer, wins more. there's no visible crack, nothing that suggests anything has changed. tendou for one still makes it a point to bring it up. won't stop asking questions, making jokes, setting him up with a new girl every week. "you're not even trying!" he whines, smacking ushijima by the shoulders as if gassing him up and trying to jumpstart his heart into beating again, to be functional at the very least.

"i am," ushijima replies, because he shows up. out of obligation more than interest. a few meetups. polite conversation. short replies that taper off into nothing. that small circle of girls from a different school tendou edges him closer to, "just say hi!" he urges, and ushijima comes up with a million other things he'd rather do.

like watching you get ready in the morning, or walking you home, or asking if you've eaten, asking if you're drinking enough water, did you leave your stuff behind again, maybe he could look around, find a familiar looking item that isn't just embedded in memory, but in front of him here. it would give him a chance to see you, tell you off. maybe you'd be reminded of his good points, wasn't that why you liked him? because he...cared about you? it was just a reaction, he'd say, explaining why he yelled, making up for his anger, his avoidance, would she even want that? he thinks, how do i go back, how do i make it right again, i'd do anything.

"i'm trying to get you outta this slump!" tendou makes too much noise for ushijima to really explain, not that he needs to when the results speak for themselves. it never goes further, nothing feels right. they don't look like you, don't sound like you. all these faces a blur when nothing comes close to round cheeks and the brightest smile he's ever seen. would they stir that urge in him to impress, to take care of everything as he should. would they make him feel like he was capable, that he could solve their problems with chastising, with teasing, that he's the only person who took lead in their life. would they stand on their tiptoes, asking for a kiss with puckered lips and glittery eyes, would they plead with him, for him, in that sulking way, in a breathy voice, whispering his name or calling out for him in need, lingering just there on the tip of their tongue, "ushi..." you said, called, begged. all so full of something irreplicable.

there was a time before all of this, when things were simple and there was no need for anyone else. the moments that used to belong to—"just the two of us..." you sing, voice carrying the tune imperfectly, coming up with lyrics of your own "we could make it if we tried..." ushijima stifles a snort, hides a smile behind your plush eagle. he insists on correcting you, itching to hear you tell him 'who cares! it's still the same thing!' but the days feel like they could go on forever and there was no rush. no need for specifics and right answers.

you lying beside him, freshly painted nails held out for inspection. "ta-da!" you exclaimed. wiggling your fingers showing off pinks and blues, gem and cat eye patterns galore, a different swirl on each finger. "i did them myself!" they weren't perfect, slightly uneven, in colours you weren't sure suited you. but for all the imperfections, it was a perfect first attempt. earnest and raw. as it should be.

he took your hand without hesitation, turning it slightly, examining it with that same quiet focus he gave everything else. "i like this," he said. and the way he said it, with certainty, so sure and confident, made something warm and giddy bloom in your chest.

"you do?" you stare at your nails now with a new perspective, no longer chaotic and messy but something to be proud of. you turn your hand slightly, watching how the light catches on the colour, and for once, you don't think about what could be better. you don't wonder how he would've seen it, what he would've said, if it would've been enough. forgoing the need to fuss or fix, to hide where the lines aren't perfect, shaking off the fact that the colour bleeds at the edges if you look closely. it doesn't feel like a flaw anymore, just proof that these hands of yours are exactly what he likes.

small and plump, your grip a little clumsy, hands you once thought weren't made for anything special—unlike his that are built for great things—you'd tucked them away more times than you could count, unsure of what they were worth. but ushijima takes them anyway, thumb brushing lightly across your knuckles before he lowers his head, pressing a gentle kiss there. your skin meets the smooth, warm touch of his lips, less to comfort and more to assure.

he notices how you perk up immediately and swears to you as a knight would making an oath, "i do," he says, unwavering. because ushijima's always noticed. fully, without hesitation, all the details you thought might go overlooked. maybe he's failed with others, trampled on their egos, hurting feelings without meaning to, but you took up space in his life in a way nothing else did, constant and unignorable, until paying attention to you wasn't a choice, but something that simply…happened.

he can see you limping, your shoes scraping slightly against the ground like you're trying to hide how much it hurts. walking a little slower with each step as the pavement seems to stretch on forever, damp from an earlier drizzle and hard under the soles of your feet.

he stops you without a word, hand closing gently around your wrist, pulling you in before you can brush it off. "i'm sorry," you huff, already tired and half-defensive, like you're expecting him to tell you to keep up.

but ushijima crouches in front of you on his knees, hands reaching out, "give me your shoes."

you blink, "what?"

"you're in pain," he says simply because it's reason enough, "i'll carry you."

even as you hesitate for a second, more out of habit than anything, you give in, toeing them off. ushijima hooks them easily between his fingers before he lifts you without effort, one arm under your legs with the other securing your back. the movement is seamless and natural, as if he's done this before, even though he hasn't. but it makes sense, this position, being the one who carries, who supports, who takes the weight without question. it makes him feel…right. reliable. like this is what he's meant to do. lead, protect, provide in the ways that matter.

you're different from him. softer where he is firm, uncertain where he is sure, but he doesn't mind. he's never minded. if anything, he finds it…endearing. the way your arms loop around his neck instinctively as you settle against him with a quiet sigh. your head rests against his shoulder, warm and trusting that he'd get you home safe. maybe it's the relief from your aching feet, or that you're surprised he doesn't make a big deal out of it, but the way he offers his service so plainly, always wanting to help, to make things better, makes you want to cry a little. you wonder if you could do the same, if there was a way to stop relying on him so much, because despite all the quiet assurances, you feel too heavy, too much of a burden wrapped in his arms. the sight you make must be so telling to others. one whos so spoilt and the other who could do better than carry his chubby girlfriend home.

the rain starts again, sudden and heavy, soaking through his shirt in seconds. it clings to him, tracing the lines of his body, dripping from his hair in steady streams, but he barely reacts. just shifting slightly, angling himself so you're shielded, shrugging his jacket up over you as best as he can. you barely notice the rain like this, only the sturdiness of his chest, the lingering scent on his neck, deodorant and soap lingering there. clean and familiar from after-practice showers. you think, distantly, how important those showers are. how careful he is about routine and preparation. what a shame that the rain is already undoing it, washing it away bit by bit.

it's so easy to feel ridiculous, but ushijima doesn't seem to feel the same. so you nuzzle your way a little closer, breathing it in while you still can. holding on to this fleeting moment and what remains before it's gone. "i love you," you murmur, half-asleep, the words slipping out like they've been eager to for awhile.

he stills. it's not a phrase he's practiced or prepared for. he understands what it means, logically, but saying it, returning it...feels like it demands more than he can give in that moment. the right timing, the right words. a conviction he doesn't have at the moment. a certainty he hasn't fully grasped yet.

when he looks down, you're already asleep against him, breath slow and even, he doesn't say it back. the rain pours, streetlights leading the way, he doesn't say it back. he sets you down upon your bed, dries the sheen of sweat and mist off your face, he doesn't say it back. he takes your socks off, keeps you warm, makes you tea, and still...he does what he's ought to, what he knows is right, all with a throbbing in his chest he can't put a name to, akin to the hurt of being incapable, of trying and still being on the losing end. he clenches his fist not in anger but frustration, wishing, wanting for something he just can't feel.

he realises it too late, when he's already lost you.

it's unfortunate that it happens after the relationship, not while everything was still possible. instead, it occurs later, in the silent, vacant locker room, when he has nothing to divert his attention from it. no drills to run, no voices to cut through the quiet, no version of you nearby to respond to. just the echo of water dripping from the showers, the faint hum of lights overhead, and the stillness pressing in on all sides. it comes to him there, without warning and without effort, settling into place with a clarity that feels almost undeserved. not a truth he arrives at, not a realization he works through. heartbreak, like love, just…is. and when it settles, it does so completely.

he sits, he sighs. with a towel resting loosely over his neck, feeling like there's nothing he can do about it. only left with the knowledge that he let something important slip past him without recognising it for what it was.

there were signs, even before. the way his gaze would sharpen when others looked at you a little too long. a subtle narrowing of his eyes, a warning not said but noticed. a sudden shift in focus that only ever happened for you. in hindsight, it wasn't done just out of caution but a deliberate choice to threaten. not with words. but in how he positioned himself closer, how his presence cut in without announcement, how his voice would get deep, stripping their pride away when necessary.

oikawa had been the worst of it. all easy charm, easy smiles, the kind of attention that came naturally. "she's cute," he said once. casually testing and watching for a reaction. as if he was asking for a fight, or hoping to mock. ushijima isn't stupid. he might not be the best at reading the room or the hidden meaning behind people's words, but he knows how some intend to provoke, to push at the edges of him just to see if it holds. which is why ushijima didn't hesitate.

"she's taken," he said, voice lower than usual. but even as he said it, he knows it wasn't entirely accurate. taken implies something claimed, and you hadn't been pursued. you had burst into his life, confident and convinced, placing the choice in front of him like it was obvious. and he had simply accepted. chosen what made sense.

he isn't sure oikawa would understand that, because the way oikawa looks at you, with light curiousity, like you were someone he could entertain, someone to entertain him, it lacks the weight of finality, of knowing that if it came down to it, if oikawa wanted the same thing he did—not just your attention, but you, entirely—then he wouldn't hesitate to take without asking, to charm and flirt his way into your heart and call it harmless.

ushijima's fist tightens slightly at his side, he wouldn't do that. he made a choice, yes, but more than that, he gave you one as well.

oikawa raised a brow, "didn't realise you were that serious about it." because he knows what they think of ushijima. that a relationship couldn't possibly be of interest to him, let alone sustaining one. so he doesn't bother with elaboration, leaving no room for misinterpretation. he claims it wasn't possessive, he could've done way worse, in the way others might've been, with fists and a sharp tongue, but it was firm. like he'd already decided where you belonged.

he grits his teeth at the thought of them now. classmates, friends, faces he can't even place properly anymore, just the memory of their attention lingering where it shouldn't have. you were always so passionate, so damn sweet. with praise and compliments for anyone, with the way your eyes lit up over the smallest things, something cute, something funny, with a warmth that spilt over into everything you touched, adding beauty to the most mundane of things. all the world before you, and you took every opportunity you had to admire it. so...irresistible and infectious. his popularity be damned, none of that ever mattered. men don't stop for anything, shouldn't stop, not when they want something. not when it comes to you. and yet, he had.

and how could he have refused you? ushijima never let his sights wander, always fixed on a dream he was already halfway to achieving, each step leading somewhere defined. you were nothing like that. you lingered in the small moments he would've otherwise passed by. the way sunlight hit a window just right, the quiet joy of a sweet treat shared between classes, the long stretches of time that didn't need to be optimised. and somehow, without force or insistence, you pulled him into those spaces with a firm grasp, guiding him to a place unfamiliar. places without goals or outcomes. places that didn't make sense to him at first, but felt important anyway, simply because you were there. why did he draw the line at claiming you in moments, but not in meaning. why did he ever think that was enough.

years pass and you see him everywhere. on billboards, on posters, across your feed. interviews, matches, headlines. his name carries weight now, his presence larger than anything that used to exist between the two of you. sometimes there are memories that return when you stumble into the familiar, a picture of him with tendou, both of them mid-laugh, capturing a rare bond, fleeting youth caught in the frame. and another more recent one of ushijima standing beside the swimmer you remember, both of them holding up gold medals at the olympics, the weight of it heavy and unmistakable in their expressions. you swipe, and there's a second image. this time not on a podium, but at a quiet table, a selfie of the two of them dressed in laidback, stylish clothes, leaning slightly toward each other in the frame. it has the kind of ease that says 'we're on a date,' or maybe just 'we've shared something significant and understand each other because of it.'

there's an ease between them, a sense that they're like two pieces of a puzzle fitting together, like they were meant to be. something you recognise but can't relate to despite how much you want to. it makes you pause, but just for a second. telling yourself that you wouldn't want that anymore, not if it means you'd put yourself down, after all, a new relationship doesn't make the one you had with him any less meaningful.

still, he looks the same. older, but still him. taller in a way that feels more defined now, broad shoulders filling out his frame, posture as straight and unyielding as ever. his features have sharpened with time, jaw more set, gaze steadier, carrying that same unwavering focus that once made it impossible to look away. there's more to him now, worn in at the edges, so masculine, like experience and age has settled into his bones, making him all the more handsome and still too much for you to ever have kept to yourself.

you think, this is better. this is what he was always meant for. whatever you had with him belongs somewhere you could never traverse again. in a classroom, in your old bedroom, in the backseat of his car. all the places the two of you have left behind, the places that don't quite fit into the life he has now.

so you keep scrolling.

but ushijima doesn't. and he knows better than to make it obvious, but he's finally alone. no teammates, no press, no fans around. he tells himself he'll be careful, he never likes posts, he doesn't comment, he doesn't leave any trace that he's been where he shouldn't. but he sees them.

here in the dim light of his hotel room, he can't help himself. ushijima fiddles with the waistband of his shorts, fingers hooking into his underwear too and letting them slide down. his cock already hard and throbbing, leaking pre at the tip, he hisses when the cool air stings just a little. with shaky hands, he strips off and reaches for his phone, giving into an urge he's been struggling to tamper. he taps and types and dives headfirst into your profile, already looking for a new post.

like the one where you're on vacation, a tropical place with open sky, white sand and sunlight catching on your skin, wearing a swimsuit that hugs you in ways that feel more confident now. no more pastel pinks and bunny rabbit patterns, no more frills or ribbons, no more loose clothing to hide and cover the parts you found unflattering. he's watched you get ready for school countless times, but he'd always look away, steeling himself to resist.

but here, his gaze doesn't pull away. observing and fixated. you're still you. still plush and full, but different too. grown into yourself in a way that makes something tighten in his chest. "you're still so pretty..." he groans under his breath, voice low, rougher than he expects, speaking more to himself than anything, like he's trying to ground the thought before it runs too far. because looking at you like this, so distant, so unaware, feels dangerously close to wanting something he no longer has any right to. he's tilting his head back and moaning from how much it hurts, how much he wants. it's not revealing or provocative in theory, you're just lying in the sand, hair mussed by salt and sweat, eyes half-lidded against the sun, lips curling by the corners as if you know he's watching, caught in a moment that feels like you're encouraging him.

it should be nothing more than a simple photo, but he stares at it like it holds more meaning, all while stroking himself while his precum does enough to get him slick, oozing clear and down his shaft as he thrusts up into his fists. zooming in and noticing drops of seawater clinging to your skin, at the curve of your neck, trailing lower and catching in the hollow just above your chest. that spot where your swimsuit dips and holds your breasts up, he imagines what it'd be like to cup them in his palms, his hands are big enough, now more than ever.

he tries to stop, to make himself last, he can't be a grown man finishing in the first few seconds, that would be embarrassing, wrong even. he's always told himself he'd make you come first, that his pleasure shouldn't be above yours. but even as his eyes move lower, just to peek at something else, to move farther from the edge of his climax, there's nothing there to save him from it. the curve of your waist, the way the fabric hugs without apology, a belly that's pudgy and sitting right atop the waistband, that soft flesh he's always wanted to bite down on. detail after detail that pulls him right back in.

it isn't posed or edited, it seems like you're not even trying, and that's what makes it worse. he swipes, careful to keep his thumb away from double tapping, from closing the app entirely, from letting go and moving on. your lips are parted slightly, like you've just exhaled, hair damp and tousled, sticking faintly to your cheek. there's a glow to your skin, like you've been oiled, so smooth, so healthy. maybe it's just that you're happy, alive, and your expression, so unguarded and unaware, so content, feels too intimate for something meant to be seen by everyone.

he shouldn't be looking at you like this—"i miss you," he grits out, stroking fast as he drops his phone to the side, choosing to let his imagination take over, choosing to picture you in his mind's eye. you on your back with legs perched on his shoulder, folding you in half and leaning in so close, he wants to watch your face, wants to see you teary eyed and loving every second of him fucking into you, letting him kiss and suck on your tongue as he fucks you through it. he's not one to talk, but sex requires communication, and maybe in this respect, he fails too, unable to tell you how he really feels, how badly he wants you just as you are, he should've told you, he should've proven it to you then, but the pleasure should say all it needs to, he could show you still, please ask for it, please beg for me, please take me back, please don't make me wallow in regret—but he does.

because even like this, where you're untouchable and entirely out of his reach, you still feel like something that was once his to hold. that you weren't just a memory or a loss, that you're not gone forever. it's present. immediate. the thought of you, the shape of you, the way you'd felt under his hands. he feels his balls tightening up, feels his stomach coil tight. here, on the precipice of coming all over his left hand and washing himself with cum and consolation, he wants to hope, he wants, more than anything, to try again.

"please!" he whines, sounding so pathetic to his ears, so desperate, but there's no one to listen or interrupt it. no one to pull him out of it, and he groans so loud the walls could shake. he comes and it sets him on fire, blazing hot and burning with passion, with renewed vigor, cum shooting out across his abdomen and landing across his chest in ropes. "holy shit," he breathes out, it's so hot, too much of a hassle for him to clean up, why does he always do this. his chest heaves, his eyes water, hair sweaty and damp, sticking to his forehead, but he keeps at it. stroking til he's too sensitive to go on, tip bobbing and spurting that last few pumps of cum, he wonders, just how good it would feel to press it against your tongue, watching it spill into your mouth on the comedown.

and afterward, when he's done with the guilt—not of jerking off but having relied solely on that, for putting himself in this position, for resorting to it—he exhales and reaches for his phone, just to check the time. but the screen lights up, and it's still there.

your picture, and the small, unmistakable mark beneath it.

he liked it. one red heart added to the count. for a second, he just stares, something sharp and immediate cutting through the quiet he'd just settled into. it's so fucking careless, so unlike him. fuck, he doesn't remember deciding to do it. doesn't remember pressing anything at all.

his thumb hovers over the screen. it would be simple to undo it, act like nothing happened, like it were a mistake. too quick for you to have noticed. everything undone in a second.

but he doesn’t press it. instead, the screen dims in his hand, the image fading to black, everything remains, still attached to your name. awaiting your notice as ushijima awaits your reach.

[maytwentythird]

rainbows in the dead of winter

they/them

nsfw blogs do NOT interact

[daviros]

Landscape photography at extreme conditions || Adrian Rohnfelder

[daviros]

Landscape photography at extreme conditions || Adrian Rohnfelder

[daviros]

Landscape photography at extreme conditions || Adrian Rohnfelder