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starmapz · 18 hours ago

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what you know - ch11: scars || r. sukuna

❦ ryomen sukuna x f!reader [college au] [ongoing series]

❝ you've heard his reputation and you've seen first-hand the way he's late to class if he even bothers to show up. paired with him for the most important project of the year, you choose to give him the benefit of the doubt- but maybe that's more than he deserves when your perfect grades depend on him, or maybe there's more to the aloof and irritable sukuna than meets the eye. ❞

❦ cw ; mdni, 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. use of cannabis. use of nicotine/cigarettes. angst. hurt/no comfort. hurt/comfort. implied injury. family trauma. smut. slow burn. anxiety. panic attacks. mentions of difficulty eating. vomit. tags will be updated as series continues.

❦ additional tags ; college parties and themes. sukuna ooc warning as this is a realistic take on modern sukuna. reader is fairly preppy and implied to be smaller than sukuna, but he's 6"11.

❦ words ; 15.3k.

❦ a/n ; please note the tags have been updated. see you at the bottom!

main masterlist || series masterlist || previous chapter || next chapter - coming soon

Your eyes flutter open to the silence of your empty apartment. Your blankets envelop you in a deep and heavy cocoon as sunlight filters through the blinds. It should be warm, but your limbs are chilled with the remnants of your grief following the argument with Sukuna the night before.

Right.

Sighing, you move languidly to rub at your eyes, blinking them a few times to rid them of the groggy feeling that plagues you. Your limbs feel as though they’re being dragged down by weights as each movement proves to be an effort. As your vision clears and you find yourself staring at the ceiling, it occurs to you it’s too well-lit for you to have woken up before your alarm.

Pushing yourself up on your elbow, you sigh as your muscles protest against every movement. Flipping your phone up to face you, you find yourself blinking at the time, unable to process just how exactly you managed to sleep through the blaring of your alarm.

By three hours.

Clearly that had caught Kento’s attention as well, as he’d left a voicemail, called twice, and sent a number of texts. Even with all the turmoil in your life lately, you haven’t missed a class, so clearly a few alarm bells had gone off for your friend.

Plopping back down into the plush of your pillows, you groan and rub your eyes again.

It’s hard to tell exactly how long you lay there before grabbing your phone to check your messages. You don’t even have the energy to listen to the voicemail, heading straight to your text thread with him.

Friday 8:33 AM - Kento || Hi. It’s unlike you to be late. Is everything alright?

Friday 9:31 AM - Kento || Do you need a hand with anything?

Friday 9:58 AM - Kento || I’m getting concerned. Please reply to something to let me know you’re alright.

Friday 10:04 AM - Kento || Please answer my calls. Send me a text. Something to let me know you’re okay.

Friday 10:13 AM - Kento || That’s it. I’m on my way.

Oh, fuck.

Your eyes flicker up to the time. 10:28 AM. If he’s walking from campus, chances are he’ll be at your door at any second. You would think that would be the push you need to get out of bed, but you can’t physically bring yourself to do so. Somehow, sitting and staring at the ceiling feels like the better option here.

Well, no. It doesn’t. But no amount of willpower will move your body from the blankets that envelop you in a warm hug. They’re the closest thing you have to comfort when your eyes burn and your throat’s dry from the amount of tears cried the previous night.

That’s not even beginning to mention the onset of the headache beginning to hammer at your brain.

Unfortunately, the comfort doesn’t last long when there’s a knock at your door in time with the pounding of your head. Kento’s muffled but familiar voice calls your name, but all you can do is stare at the ceiling.

You want to be alone. You don’t particularly feel like listening to Kento or Shoko’s ‘I told you so’ speech, or how either of them are going to teach Sukuna a lesson. It won’t ease your melancholy and it certainly won’t ease your guilt. That’s not to say you don’t appreciate the thought, but your bed is more appealing right now than being dragged to campus or out for a meal.

Another rap at the door. Another call of your name.

Still, you blankly stare at the ceiling, one arm draped over your middle clutching your phone. You feel bad, guilty, for ignoring Kento after he walked all this way in the cold, but you can pay him back later.

For now, you just need a day to yourself.

Unfortunately, Kento doesn’t seem to agree with you.

Your phone vibrates in your hand as it rings, Kento’s name flashing across the screen. You groan again, rolling onto your side as you hit the green button.

“Hello?” Your voice is raw, cracking at the end of the one word you manage to utter out.

“Hi. Did you receive my texts? I was worried when you didn’t reply, but you don’t sound well.”

Dragging your hands roughly across your features, you contemplate telling him you’re sick, but it doesn’t sit well in your gut to lie to your friend after ignoring him. “I did, sorry. I slept through my alarm.”

“I see.” You can vaguely hear his voice outside your door still, but you can’t bring yourself to move. “Are you sick?”

Yes. Yes. Yes. “No.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line before Kento seems to make up his mind. “Let me in. I know you’re inside.”

“It’s fine, I’ll get ready and-”

The tone he uses as he says your name has you throwing your head back against the pillow. It’s the kind of tone that mimics one your mother might have used on you as a child, and if this were anyone aside from Kento, you might have had more to say. Unfortunately, he’s a very convincing (and often relentless) man.

“Fine. One moment.”

Flipping onto your back again, you stare at the ceiling for a second longer, which turns into a minute longer, which turns into more knocks at the door and Kento’s muffled voice asking you to open the door. With a final forlorn sigh, you manage to push yourself to your feet, find a hoodie to throw on over your fuzzy kitty cat shorts and tank top, and drag yourself over to the door.

Kento is standing just outside your apartment in beige slacks and a big forest green coat. His eyes scan your face, flickering down to the baggy hoodie that adorns your top, before he grimaces. It feels painfully like the equivalent of hearing ‘I’m not mad, just disappointed’, without a word even being spoken.

Straightening, his expression goes neutral as he accepts your silent invitation to enter, immediately rooting around cupboards in your kitchen and pulling out two mugs. He continues his search, pulling out tea and setting your kettle to boil. When he’s satisfied with his work, he turns to lean his hip against the counter. The only hint you get of what’s going through his mind is a barely noticeable twitch of his brow as you’re glued in place to where he left you just inside the door.

“Um- you don’t have to do all that,” you make a meek attempt at stopping him, receiving only a raised brow in return.

“A little late for that, no?”

Your lips part as you evaluate the scene behind him, the kettle already beginning to boil, tea bags sitting in mugs. You chew on your lip, wincing at how raw it is under your teeth.

“So tell me,” he begins, arms crossed over his chest. “What has you sleeping through your alarm?”

The intonation behind his words briefly has you feeling like a child who’s been caught by their parents doing something bad. Sighing, you relent, languidly finding your way to the table shoved into the corner of the small apartment kitchen. Your face falls as you lean over the table, the photo definition of exhaustion.

“Sukuna and I got into a fight last night,” you admit.

Kento’s expression hardens, his jaw tightening as his sharp eyes narrow just enough to tell you he’s beyond mad. As the kettle whistles behind him, his movements are measured as he pours boiling water into each mug with a glance at his watch to allow them the perfect amount of time to steep.

“Milk and sugar?”

“Please,” you murmur, staring at the subtle shadow your fingers cast over the table as you tap them rhythmically across the wooden surface.

Kento moves evenly, his gaze drawn to the full mugs to ensure he doesn’t spill as he sets one in front of you, holding the other close to him as he pulls out a chair beside you for himself.

“I won’t force you to talk about the argument,” he begins in a measured tone, as though he needs a moment before addressing the subject to keep his frustrations at bay. “However, I would like to talk about how you’re feeling.” He swirls the small teaspoon in his mug, his eyes flickering up to meet yours.

The steam billowing from the mug in front of you draws your gaze, swirling and dissipating at your eye level.

“You’re too…” you search for a word, leaning on your hand, “perceptive,” you grumble, not particularly in the mood to talk about how you’re feeling either.

Kento’s lips twitch upwards just enough to let you know he heard you.

“I’m just tired, I think.”

Bringing his mug to his lips, Kento hums. He leaves the dialogue open for you to talk about what you want to, rather than pressing. He’s always been overly considerate in that way, even as kids.

Sliding your finger up the side of the mug and pulling it towards yourself, allowing the steam to soothe your pounding head, you sigh, finally relenting to Kento’s kindness.

“I’m just so frustrated. I put my all into our friendship, into helping him with everything and with the lawsuit, and he just-” you shake your head, waving a hand through the air. “He just turns everything into an argument, and he’s never willing to talk things through.” You drag a hand over your face, pressing your fingers hard into your temple in an attempt to will away your headache.

Despite the obvious tension riddling his muscles, Kento remains calm and steady. “No one can blame you for being frustrated with him,” he agrees, taking another sip of his tea in order to keep his less pleasant opinions on Sukuna to himself. “Not everyone grew up with my mother breathing down their neck, after all,” he chuckles mostly to himself, a memory popping into his mind of his psychiatrist of a mother scolding you for not telling Kento how you felt when he ate the last piece of your birthday cake one year.

Of course, you were both barely seven, and the argument was over cake, completely inconsequential. Yet, you’d still both learned a very valuable lesson. Not necessarily from the single incident, but his mother had a certain way of scolding both of you and Yu, that had the three of you growing up extremely in tune with your own emotions and your capability of discussing them.

“Your mom’s an angel,” you mumble with a small smile.

Humming in agreement, Kento nods. “She is. My perspective, however, is that Sukuna didn’t have the privilege of growing up with someone like her.” For someone so blatantly angry with Sukuna’s treatment of you, he’s shockingly reasonable as you discuss your frustrations. “I may not know much about him, but I would be willing to wager a guess that he finds it difficult to discuss how he’s feeling.”

“I could have told you that.”

Kento cocks a brow at your sassy reply. “My point,” he continues, “is that some people are not worth your time. It may be worth thinking about whether he is.”

There’s his anger.

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” you shrug, blowing on your tea.

“The argument was that serious?”

You drum your fingers over the side of the mug. “I told him he wasted his last chance with me.”

“I see,” he pauses, considering his words carefully. “I’m glad you stood up for yourself,” he speaks in a very genuine tone, “but you don’t seem happy about the outcome.”

You let the silence hang over you both for a moment, finally taking a sip of your tea. You would have put more milk, but it’s still nice.

You mull over Nanami’s words. No, you’re not happy. You’re not happy that you cried through the night, or that you’re upset over Sukuna’s cutting words. But worst of all, you’re not happy that he chose to waste his last chance with you.

He’d been so certain it wouldn’t happen again, yet things are never so simple with him, are they? There’s always a way he can dig himself further underground, to drown in his own sorrows.

So why are you harboring guilt so wholeheartedly alongside the hurt? Why are you allowing him the satisfaction of hurting you and feeling the culpability of your own actions when you tried to fix things on the spot?

Why do you still feel the urge to go back and check on him?

Why are you crying again?

Your eyes are hot with tears as you find yourself using the back of your hand to wipe your cheeks.

Kento offers a reassuring hand on your upper arm, giving it a gentle rub with his thumb. “You can lean on me, if you need.”

“I’m okay,” you manage, sniffling once as you force what may be the least convincing smile your blonde friend has ever seen.

“I’d beg to differ,” he frowns, giving your arm a light squeeze as he sighs. “It’s okay to be down,” he reminds you with a genuine look of sympathy as his anger towards Sukuna dissipating in place of his concern for you.

Your lip quirks up slightly at his words. You’d only just spoken that exact sentiment to Choso not that long ago, now it was being used against you like cruel irony. You suppose it makes sense the phrase would have come from Nanami, or more specifically his mom.

“You’re right, I know,” you relent, leaning forward on your palm with your elbow bent against the table. You can’t deny your own words, you know you should talk to Kento, even if it isn’t easy to do so. Your eyes flicker to the woven bracelets that slide down your wrist that you don’t have the heart to cut off as you contemplate what you want to say.

Your mouth opens and closes a number of times before you compose yourself, sitting upright and facing your friend. His aloof expression remains intact as you open and close your mouth a number of times before finally managing to spit something out.

“Can I tell you something?”

He nods.

“We kissed. Right before finals, last semester,” you begin, chewing on your raw lip with a subtle wince at the hot pain that shoots through it. Nanami nods in acknowledgement, refraining from passing judgement. “Then, at Satoru’s party, the one that you missed when you headed back home, he rejected me… I guess.” Saying it aloud feels somehow surreal, as though considering the kiss (if it could even be called just a kiss) nothing more than a passing craving is a criminal offence.

But at the end of the day, he called it a mistake. He backtracked and picked up the pieces and made it clear that he wants you in his life, but not like that.

Wanted you in his life.

Wanted.

Rubbing your hands harshly over your features in an effort to quell the tears that seem to relentlessly trail down the soft skin of your cheeks, you suck in a sharp breath and continue. “And that’s fine, I was okay with just being his friend,” you whisper, your voice betraying your anguish. “But even though he rejected me and I knew nothing would happen, I still fell in love with him.”

The floodgates absolutely shatter in that moment, a mess of salty tears and barely contained sobs falling from you. The admission carries so much weight, yet voicing it doesn’t lift the burden from your heart. Rather, the air around you seems heavy in comparison to only a moment ago.

Kento frowns, sliding his chair closer to you to allow him to draw you into his side. He’s always been particularly good at comfort, for someone so stoic. “I know,” he sighs, a gentle hand rubbing your shoulder. “I think everyone at our table knows apart from you and him.”

“Don’t tell me that,” you sniffle, “that just makes this all more embarrassing,” you mumble with a sad chuckle.

Kento hums, a tinge of humor surrounding the sound. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of. You can’t help who you fall for.” He pats your shoulder reassuringly, pulling back to sit in his own seat as he shoots you an earnest look. “Why don’t you spend the weekend relaxing? You can return to your studies on Monday,” he suggests, changing the subject as you wipe the remnants of tears from your eyes. “I can drop some dinner off after class, if you’d like the company.”

It sounds nice, it really does.

But thinking about Sukuna has you realizing that you have a test in a few hours that you can’t afford to miss.

Life stops for no one.

Not even the heartbroken girl who’s entirely too sweet for her own good.

“That’s alright,” you shoot him a wry smile, “I need to get to my afternoon class. I have an exam.”

“Less than ideal timing,” Kento scowls. His expression mirrors one you’ve seen on his mother’s face before, back when you were children.

“Stop assessing me,” you scold him. “You aren’t even in Psych.”

Kento chuckles quietly, caught. “Sorry,” he apologizes, checking the time. “In that case, why don’t we head to campus together? We can grab something to eat on the way.”

“Sure, that sounds nice. Will you be okay to wait while I get ready?” You query with a small tilt of your head.

“I’m sure I can find something to do,” he assures you.

Your chair slides across the floor as you get to your feet, beginning your morning routine a few hours later than usual.

By the time you’ve managed to pull yourself together as best as your motivation will allow, you find yourself staring at the mirror, letting out a long sigh. You’ve done your best to cover up the remnants of the many hours of tears that were cried, but foundation and concealer only goes so far, and you can’t bring yourself to do any more makeup. Your limbs are simply too heavy to be bothered. Your outfit isn’t exactly doing you any favors to hide your mental state either, a pair of sweatpants adorning your lower half while a pale pink oversized hoodie hangs loosely over your shoulders.

It’ll have to do.

It’s not until you arrive at the lunch hall that you realize that your appearance might seem a bit out of place to the rest of the table. Still, you assure them as many times as you can that you’re just tired. It’s true, but it’s hard to keep the facade up when even Toji is shooting you the occasional look as though ‘Sukuna broke my heart’ is tattooed across your forehead.

You even debate going to check at one point, but Kento assures you that everything is fine, offering to walk you to your class. He beckons Shoko along with him, who practically has an outburst as soon as you’re out in the chilly air on your way to the lecture hall.

“I’ll kick his ass. I’m gonna make him wish he never even met you. I’ll-”

“Stop! Stop. Please,” you plead with wide eyes. You appreciate her zealousness, but if you have to hear another threat to Sukuna’s balls from her, you think you may just need to rip your ears off. “Is it that obvious?” You pout, though the humor you try to lace into the expression gets lost along the way.

Shoko’s shoulders fall as she pulls you in for a hug. “I’m sorry,” she says softly, both as an apology for coming out the gates swinging and a show of sympathy. “Are you okay?”

“I’ll live,” you reply quietly with a tight-lipped smile, though she can’t see it as she holds you.

“Why don’t you stay at mine this weekend?”

“That’s okay, Sho,” you hum, pulling back with a heavy sigh. “I think I need some time.”

Shoko doesn’t seem convinced, shooting Nanami an uncertain look, but she nods regardless. “If you say so.” Her brow curls in thought as she pulls back from you. “Girls’ night tonight?” She resigns from the idea of the full weekend, still pushing for something, knowing you otherwise would likely waste away alone under the covers of your bed.

“I’m not really-”

“Actually, not up for discussion!” She decides, pointing a finger at you. “Meet me outside the research building, my lecture ends at three.” She then turns to Kento. “We’ll grab you from class once we’re both out.”

His brow raises. “For what?”

“Girls’ night.”

With a deep sigh, he presses his thumb to the crease between his brows. “I was under the impression that getting my nails done was a one-time thing.”

Shoko shoots him an innocent smile. “Nope. You’re in it for life now.”

“I’m thrilled,” he grimaces, though there’s a nearly imperceptible hint of warmth that swirls in his tawny irises. He turns his attention back towards you, motioning with his chin towards the building a few steps away. “Go ace your exam.”

“Thanks, Kento. Both of you,” you turn your attention to Shoko, hugging her again.

“Don’t thank me yet,” she smiles, “because this conversation isn’t over.” It comes across as a warning, but you’re grateful to have such supportive friends to fall back on.

Turning to your class, you’re relieved they can’t see the frown that pulls your lips down immediately as you’re faced with thoughts that Sukuna likely doesn’t have anyone to lean on. Maybe Uraume, but they didn’t seem to know what had happened as far as you could tell at lunch.

You can only hope the fallout of the argument isn’t as dire on him as it has been on you. Unfortunately, that hope fizzles out when you enter the lecture hall and find the seat beside yours empty.

As the professor passes the exam out to the students around the hall, slowly making her way up to your seat, you find dread settling in the pit of your stomach. Sukuna’s failed. He’s not here, and you know he’s not coming. No matter what happened between you and no matter the fact that you know you need to let go, you can’t help but worry.

It’s just who you are.

You swallow hard at the sympathetic look your professor gives you as she hands your test to her.

You want to tell her you tried.

Yet somehow, it all feels fruitless. There’s no point. It doesn’t matter anymore.

You need to focus on your test.

–

Fiddling with the colored twine wrapped around your wrist, you stare out into the crowd in front of you. Your vision blurs at the edges, the bright colors of different clothes all seeming to blend as you stare mindlessly out at the sweaty bodies making rounds of Satoru’s frat house.

The bass of whatever party playlist your friend’s thrown on surrounds you, and yet you can hardly hear it over the ringing in your ears.

How many times had you nodded when Satoru asked if you wanted another drink? Six? Seven? More?

Your attention turns down to the red cup in your hands as you find yourself staring at the vodka and sprite fizzing as you swirl it in the cup.

It may have been a couple of weeks, but between your less-than-ideal exam score in Literature History and the lingering heartbreak, drinking away the pain had seemed like the best course of action for the night. The key word being had. Now, looking out into the crowd with more than a buzz and your mind filled with static, you’re starting to regret that decision.

You thought you would forget. Forget and party, maybe kiss some hot frat boy and pretend everything with Sukuna had all been a bad dream, but that wasn’t the case at all.

Instead, you’d embarrassed yourself in front of Suguru by spilling every single detail about your kiss with Sukuna, leaving the poor man shocked and concerned for you, only to excuse yourself to get another drink. Now, plopped down on the couch with a heart that aches, you contemplate just grabbing a cab and going home. You’re not even sure how late it is, or how long you’ve been here, but sitting alone on the couch in front of the dancefloor feels… well, pathetic.

Throwing your head back on the cushion, you head to the kitchen and dump your drink down the sink. Satoru can afford it, and your mind and heart sure as hell can’t.

You turn your blurry vision back to the crowd, chewing on your lip as you search for Shoko, Satoru, Suguru… Even Toji, Uraume, or Atsuya, who you had spotted earlier.

Anything to distract you from the horribly lonely thoughts.

Of all the things that the heartbreak of leaving Sukuna’s apartment that night had caused, you never imagined that loneliness would tug at you so strongly. You spent every moment of spare time with Sukuna, Yuji and Choso, and now… your spare time feels empty. Movies, music, books, TV, it’s all little more than a distraction.

Still, the time away from the man in question had allowed you an opportunity to pick up pieces of yourself you hadn’t even realized were spilled across the floor like dried paint. Impossible to fully pick up, but mostly wiped away. You’d needed to fill the pieces in with new ones. They didn’t fit quite right, they weren’t… Well, there’s no need to think about him. Even if the pieces aren’t moulded quite correctly and leave behind cracks, you’re healing.

It’s what you told yourself anyway. That your new friendships with Toji, Atsuya and Uraume could fill the gaps eventually if you allowed yourself to nurture them.

But at the end of the day, it all connects back to him. If it were a normal day, you would have been satisfied with those new friendships.

But you’re drunk. And everyone looks like Sukuna if you squint too hard.

“My bad, are you alright?” a familiar voice rings out in the air around you as the fridge door accidentally knocks into your side, pulling you from your thoughts. You stumble forward, catching yourself on the kitchen counter.

“Hiromi,” you blink in surprise at the sight of the law student, his attire a complete one-eighty from the last time you came across him with-

Fuck.

Shaking your head, you shoot him a smile. “Don’t worry ‘bout it.” You swallow hard, crossing your arms over your chest to push down stray thoughts of a certain salmon-haired man.

“How’ve you been?” He queries, leaning back against the stainless steel fridge once it shuts and he’s got a drink in his hand.

“Not too bad,” you lie steadily, your hands suddenly feeling empty without the comfort of a drink.

Maybe you should have kept the cup.

“How’re you?” You bounce the question back at him, surprised when your words come out slurred. Are you really that drunk?

“Good, good. Getting as ready as I can for midterms,” he smiles, his sunken eyes crinkling at the corners as he exchanges niceties with you. You can see how he’s friends with Kento, they share a certain sense of warmth and openness that you’re sure makes it easy for them to get along with anyone.

“Me too,” you nod. “But S’toru loves to drag us out to parties,” you chuckle wryly.

Hiromi nods in acknowledgment. “Sounds right from what I know of the guy. How’s Sukuna? Everything going alright with the, uh, lawsuit?”

Based on the way Hiromi blinks in confusion, you must blanche. Or maybe it’s the way you go silent. Or the way your face falls.

What does it matter?

Regardless, Hiromi stands up straight, running a hand through his disheveled hair. A stray strand falls over his forehead as he takes a step towards you. “Shit, I didn’t mean to, uh-” he pauses, glancing around uncertainly. “I didn’t know it was a touchy subject, I’m sorry.”

You swallow down your emotions, forcing a brave face and a tight-lipped smile. At least you aren’t crying. “It’s fine, you didn’ know.”

His lips part, but he doesn’t seem too sure of what to say.

“It was good t’ see you,” you offer him an out, but to your shock he doesn’t take it. He would be like Nanami in that way.

“I’m, uh, heading to sit with Kento if you wanted to join me,” he dismisses your offer, tilting his chin in the direction of the front door. “He’s by the stairs.”

“He’s here?”

Hiromi’s shoulders relax as he nods.

“That’d be great.”

Squeezing through the crowd of sweaty bodies that reek of alcohol and weed- though you probably do too- you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding as the stairs come into sight. Sure enough, your blonde friend’s familiar face turns to you and Hiromi. He’s still in his usual button-down with pale beige slacks, but the sleeves are rolled up past his elbows and he seems at ease.

At the sight of an approaching person, Kento’s attention shifts, flickering between Hiromi and you.

“Look who I found,” Hiromi smiles, plopping down on the stairs.

Your name slips past Kento’s lips as a greeting.

“Hey, Kento,” you put your best effort into the smile, taking a seat beside him on the stairs. He’s sitting next to a woman you don’t recognize, though based on how Hiromi immediately launches into conversation with her, you assume they’re friends. “‘M surprised you’re here.”

The blonde motions to his formal outfit, too dressed up for a party. “As am I,” he concurs. “Yu dragged me here, then disappeared.”

Although this isn’t his scene, Kento usually shows up to Satoru’s parties regardless, and keeps mostly to himself and your group. He’s made it clear he isn’t a fan, and he’s not particularly close to Satoru as far as your group goes, finding his boisterous personality mildly irritating, however he’s happy to look out for his friends while they’re drinking.

“At least y’ found Hiromi,” you point out, to which Kento nods.

“I still would prefer to be studying,” he sighs, bringing a hand up to scratch his chin. His eyes are still sharp, hardly dulled by the meager amount of alcohol in his system. Beer and coolers aren’t exactly his forté, and he’s not about to bring whiskey to a frat party. In fact, you wouldn’t be shocked if all he’d had to this point was a sip.

“May as well enjoy it now th’t you’re here,” you offer a smile, shrugging. “Satoru n’ Suguru were playing beer pong last time I saw ‘em, and Shoko n’ Uraume are in the back corner talking to some o’ their classmates.”

Kento hums, staring blankly at the beige wall ahead of the stairs. “And you?”

“What ‘bout me?”

“Why aren’t you with either of them?” He asks, turning to face you.

You blink a couple of times, before absently shrugging. “Jus’ needed some space, I guess.”

Kento examines your expression for a moment too long, and even in your haze of drunkenness, it sends a shiver down your spine. He grimaces finally, his brows pulled together in concern.

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

He scowls harder.

“Drunk, and fine.”

Recognition of your half-lie flashes through his eyes.

Too drunk to remember you have makeup on, you rub at your eyes with your thumb and pointer finger, sighing. “I’m jus’ more drunk than I thought. But fine, really.”

Kento sighs, abandoning his drink with Hiromi as he pushes to his feet. “Come on,” he urges you, pulling you to your feet alongside him. The amount you rely on him to pull you up surprises even you as he keeps you steady while he searches for Shoko. He threads through the dancefloor, leading your unsteady gait past the beer pong tables as Suguru sinks a ball in your journalism classmate’s cup, met with the cheers of the surrounding crowd. In your haze, you barely notice the kitchen and living room all coming into sight, until Kento brings you to a halt behind the beer pong tables at the back of the living room.

With lidded eyes, you survey your surroundings. Discarded bottles of beer and coolers lay across the floor and the back of the couch, which Toji is lounging in. He yawns, taking another sip of his beer as his emerald eyes flicker up to you. His lips twitch up into a smirk as he catches your eye.

“You a lil’ tipsy?” He queries.

You only manage a nod before Kento is gently setting you down between Toji and Uraume. You can scarcely hear the blonde over the pumping bass of the pop music blaring through the speakers, but at the sound of your name, you tune in.

“I’m taking her out- would you like to join?”

Shoko shakes her head, her attention trained on a brunette with a scar over the side of her face.

“Shit, are you goin’ for food?”

Kento’s brow raises as he turns to Toji and nods. “That was my plan.”

“Fuck, count me in. Satoru’s got this place stocked like he’s never made a fuckin’ dime.”

“Ouch?” The man in question feigns a shot to the heart dramatically as he steps through the crowd, shooting Toji a look.

“Don’t act like a fuckin’ Snickers bar wasn’t your dinner,” Toji scoffs, the scar at the corner of his lip pulled taut.

“It was a good dinner,” he shrugs.

“This is why ya can’t handle your alcohol.”

Before you know it, the four of you are all piling into Kento’s tiny silver Honda Civic, possibly the strangest group of four all piled into a car. A business major, football player, frat boy, and literature major, two of whom you’re certain annoy Kento, but parties may just bother him more.

“Shouldn’t you be looking after your own party, Gojo?” Kento shoots him a glare through the rearview mirror as the white-haired man lets out a loud belch.

“Nah, the frat’s got it covered,” he dismisses his friend before grimacing in your direction. “And my bedroom door is locked, so there’s nothing to worry about.”

The meaning behind his words passes completely over your head as you stare out the window, ignoring the two men in the back.

“Where’re you takin’ us, anyway?” Toji asks, leaning so far into his chair that his knees continually hit the back of your seat.

“Denny’s.”

“Fuck yeah.”

Satoru and Toji make steady conversation in the back of the car until you pull into the parking lot of the nearest Denny’s. Kento makes his way around the car to help you, sighing as you brush him off and trail very slowly after him, staring up at the dimly-lit diner sign as though you’ve never seen it before.

Your group follows the waitress to a table, where you stare at the menu, but it’s all a blur. Your eyes are trained on a photo of a waffle covered in chocolate syrup and it’s at this point that you realize that it’s not just the menu, but most of the night that’s a blur.

In fact, you know you just got here, and you hardly remember a thing.

Shouldn’t you be happy? You’re a happy drunk.

Instead, it feels as though you’re wading through your own misery, hardly keeping afloat.

“Do you know what you want?” Kento nudges you as the waitress makes her way over to you.

You shake your head no, wobbling slightly.

His brow furrows as he examines you. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” you dismiss him again, but now even Toji and Satoru are staring your way.

“Lemme guess,” Toji starts, leaning forward over the table on his forearms. “Sukuna.”

You’d managed to keep the fight with Sukuna under wraps for the last couple of weeks, only by studying during lunch and excusing yourself before anyone could ask about him, but now it seemed there was no escaping it.

“Not the time, Toji,” Kento warns with a sharp glare, before asking the waitress for water for the table and a few more minutes to look at the menu.

“It’s fine,” you shrug. “Yeah, it’s Sukuna,” you tell the raven-haired football player.

“Shit, ‘course it is,” Toji snorts, though he’s not shocked. “I’ll kick his ass for you.”

“You really don’t-”

“I knew he’d pull some shit,” Satoru interrupts, waving a hand dramatically through the air. “Toji and I’ll-”

“No no nonono-” you wave your hands in front of the table to get their attention. “Just- leave ‘im be. We both made mistakes. I’ll be fine.”

“You’ve been saying that word a lot lately. Fine. Yet you don’t seem it,” Kento points out, and you’re surprised even he’s jumping on the train to kick Sukuna’s ass, in his own subtle way.

“Yeah, well-” you pause, watching as the waitress sets water before each of you. With a haphazard swirl of the glass in front of you, you shrug. “I thought the alcohol would help.”

“Alcohol is a depressant,” Kento points out in typical fashion, earning deadpan glares from not only you, but Toji, and Satoru as well.

“Lighten up, Nanamin, let the girl drink.” Satoru gives your glass a tap from across the table with a drunken grin, taking a sip as though it isn’t water. Kento grimaces at your side, but remains quiet. “You don’t need that asshole,” Satoru continues, swinging his hand through the air again as though he might just hit Sukuna. “You’ve got us, and we’re gonna haaaaaave-” He pauses, his finger skimming across the laminated menu in his hand. “Cinnamon roll pancakes à la carte.”

“Maybe you are,” Toji snorts, shaking his head. He opens his mouth to voice his order, but Satoru’s already pulling the menus from all of your hands as the waitress approaches again.

“Nah, listen. The secret to getting over some asshole issss-” He waits for the waitress to return, shooting her a kind smile. “Four cookies n’ cream milkshakes, and four stacks of cinnamon bun pancakes. À la carte. Please,” he grins, using that sultry sweet smile he’s perfected that has you giggling at the disdain on both Kento and Toji’s faces.

To your surprise, it turns out the cure to heartbreak is a stack of cinnamon bun pancakes tall enough to make you puke. Or maybe that feeling is from the alcohol you had entirely too much of. Either way, you find yourself forgetting about him and focusing on now. The people who show up when you’re down, even if Satoru and Toji are only here at the mention of food.

But as you find yourself laughing and really, truly, enjoying yourself, your heart feels warm and the cracks left behind by Sukuna begin to heal. They’ll leave behind jagged scars in the form of him and his little brothers, a point in your life that you’re still fond of, and you think you always will be. You don’t regret what you did for any of them, the proof of that still tied around your wrist, but you do wish you could at least have apologized properly for hurting him.

The worst part of all may be that you’re not sure if those scars will ever fade. The love you felt- feel- for him, is beyond what you’ve ever felt before. The way he showed his care may have been unconventional, but it worked for you. Maybe it was the knowledge that no one got to understand Sukuna quite like you, that he let himself be vulnerable around you and taught you about yourself, your kindness, and your mind like no one else could. It brought out a part of you that you’re proud to continue to nurture, even if that means the scars remain.

Still, even if only for a night, the hurt fades as you laugh along with what might be the strangest group of four you could make up out of your friends.

Maybe locking yourself up and watching sad movies had been a bigger mistake than you thought.

–

With wide, bright eyes, you make your way into the office on the first Tuesday of March. The office may as well be on fire given the state you find it in, paperwork scattered across every desk in sight and half of the staff seem to be running around like chickens with their heads cut off.

“What…?”

Before you have time to question the chaos of the office, the editor who you’d been shadowing stops at the sight of you. Her blonde hair nearly reaches her waist, her tall stance hunched and tired as though she’s been spread thin all day.

“Yuki, what’s going on?” You query, your brow pulled together.

“Ayana disappeared,” she explains with a sigh. You tilt your head, certain the company’s graphic designer is just sick, or- “And no one’s been able to get a hold of her for over a week now. We’ve got seven novels without covers all from one company, and if we can’t provide soon, we’ll lose our biggest client-”

“Why don’t we just outsource?” You shake your head, interrupting her rambling.

“Girl, I wish. I’ve suggested it like- seven times. I guess we ‘can’t’.” Her use of finger quotations around the word ‘can’t’ has you pursing your lips in confusion.

“And why ‘can’t’ we, exactly?” You mirror her actions.

She groans dramatically, throwing her head back. “It’s a company policy or some shit, I don’t know.”

“I mean, we have a design course at the university, I’m sure I could-”

“Oh my god, please. We need someone hired like yesterday, and the boss is seriously dragging her feet. If you could get someone here who can start right away, you’d be a life-saver.” She grabs you by the shoulders, giving you a small shake to get her point across.

“Yeah, I can try to pull some strings tomorrow,” you grin.

As it would turn out, two of the seven novels were ones you shadowed Yuki on, and one was the first novel you worked on by yourself. Which is to say, you would have nothing to show for your entire internship if things fell through with this client.

So basically, you had until Thursday to get someone in, because the client was getting impatient of the excuses being thrown their way.

You’d asked your friends at lunch if they knew anyone and even skipped class on Wednesday afternoon in an effort to talk to as many of the professors that even slightly suited the industry as you could, building up a small page of potential student and graduate contacts.

Three didn’t reply. Four were too busy to take on seven covers in the span of a couple of days. Nine couldn’t start for two weeks and even then, they would need to weigh their options.

There’s one other person who occurs to you, but that can’t be your last option, right?

Sitting and staring at your laptop, you dial Shoko’s number.

“Don’t kill me,” you start when she picks up, tapping your fingers on your desk as you put your phone on speaker.

“Should I want to?” She asks, and you can practically hear her raised brow.

“So, you know how our graphic designer left?”

“Yeah, the girl who cooks bacon in the break room,” her voice comes across the line filled with static, but you’re still able to make out her words.

“Yeah, that’s the one. So, I guess she disappeared last week and we’re behind on seven covers.”

“Right, so outsource.”

Ugh. “That’s what I said! I guess it’s against policy, we have a strict rule of everything being done locally.”

“Okayyyy… So outsource locally.”

You groan, leaning over your desk. The seconds tick by in silence before you finally raise your head again. “Did you happen to meet any artists in the last five hours?”

“Can’t say I did,” she laughs. “Sorry.”

The line goes silent as you contemplate telling her your thoughts, but she beats you to it.

“So, why am I killing you anyway?”

“I know an artist,” you tell her.

“Well shit, why didn’t you just start with them?”

You tap your fingers across your desk rhythmically. So loudly in fact, that you’re almost certain that she can hear the motion.

Her tone drops to a more serious one and you can see the warnings written across her face, even over the phone.

“No. Fuck, no. You just got over him.”

“Do I have a choice, Sho?” You lean on your elbow, continuing to tap mindlessly on the desk.

“What do you-? Yes, he doesn’t deserve the chance.”

“Maybe not, but what else am I supposed to do?”

“Shit, I don’t know, find someone on Fiverr?” She suggests.

You groan into the sleeve of your hoodie. “I tried.”

“You’re cooked if you already tried that,” she sighs. “Can’t you just let these covers fall through? What’s the big deal?”

You explain the situation, to which Shoko only manages a meager ‘oh’, and is forced to listen to you groaning over her phone’s speaker again.

“So, would you kill me?”

“No, but Kento will.”

“I knowww,” you grumble, but what choice are you left with? Unless someone else pulled through, you’re out of options. Silence hangs between you, although you know Shoko’s still there when you hear shuffling. “I don’t believe in fate, but if I did,” you hold up your pinky as though your best friend can see it. “Sukuna and I are tied together.”

“I don’t like that analogy,” she chuckles dryly. “It’s more like he’s a fly you can’t get to go away.”

“That’s just mean,” you grumble.

She chuckles dryly. “Don’t defend him.”

“It wasn’t just his fault this time,” you remind her.

“Maybe. But he had enough chances. This is just for work, yeah?” Though she’s inquiring, there’s an air of assurance to her words, as though she’s trying to get you to agree. Because that’s exactly what she’s doing.

“Just for work.”

Well, fuck.

Now you need to contact Sukuna.

–

There’s no emotion on Sukuna’s face as he watches his youngest brother take the most neon purple washable (hopefully) marker and color in between the tattoos he’s drawn on in black ink. He can’t blame the kid for getting bored, it’s too cold to play basketball and Sukuna’s hardly had time to draw something for him to color.

At least, that’s what he tells himself. It’s easier to admit than to say he’s spent too much time wallowing in self-pity to draw for his little brothers. He could only work a handful of times throughout the week, nearly full-time at the auto shop during school hours for his brothers, then evenings would be spent going over homework and projects, cooking, cleaning, entertaining the kids, getting them ready for bed… it’s an exhausting list, the more he thinks about it.

To think, you did it all without ever expecting anything in return. Just friendship. Those last words you spoke to him and the look on your teary-eyed face burned into the recesses of his brain.

It’s been so long since he’s seen you, and yet his days are so full that it feels like just yesterday.

Or maybe that’s just because the days seem to blend together for him. He can’t even recall the last time he was able to do something for himself. Art had taken a backburner, his diet bent to the will of two picky young kids, and his showers were scarcely as long as a commercial to cut back on water.

He supposes he’s been keeping up with his workout routine, but at this point he’s pretty sure if he stops, he’ll end up laid out on the bathroom floor again. His nightly workouts are the only thing keeping his sleep schedule in any semblance of working order, quite literally burning every last ounce of energy until he passes out.

You and Toji have gone radio-silent. Which makes sense, he didn’t expect anything less. Atsuya was never overly chatty with Sukuna one way or another and Uraume checks in and offers to watch his brothers, but like the grumpy brute that he is, he can’t bring himself to accept. He’s not sure whether that’s out of guilt or fear. Guilt towards how he treated you, and a fear that he may do the same to Uraume.

“Kunaaaaaa! You never listen!”

He blinks at the grating sound of Yuji practically in his ear, swatting at the boy with a grimace.

“Fuckin’ stop, I heard you,” he snarls, holding a hand over his ear at the close proximity of Yuji’s shrill cry.

“If you heard me, then what’d I say?”

Oh. So Sukuna didn’t hear him.

He lets out a long sigh. “Sorry, brat. What’d you say?”

“I said I’m not sleeping tonight.”

Sukuna’s brow raises. “What?”

“Becauuuuse the new Mario game comes out tonight!! At midnight!” Yuji happily proclaims.

Sukuna shoots a glance at Choso, who’s busy at the kitchen table typing away on Sukuna’s laptop for one of his classes. “So?” He asks as he turns his attention back to the endless supply of energy that is his brother. It’s not like they have any current gaming systems.

“So I need to stay up so I can watch it on YouTube!”

“Absolutely not,” Sukuna shuts down the idea, much to Yuji’s dismay as he whines, tugging on the burly man’s hoodie sleeve.

“PLEAAAAAAAASE!” Yuji pleads, tugging against Sukuna with as much of his body weight as the five-year-old can put into it. “Pleasepleasepleaseplease-”

“Enough!” Sukuna barks, shutting down Yuji’s pleas. “As soon as your brother finishes his homework, you’re both goin’ to bed.”

Yuji shoots Choso a pointed look, but the middle brother’s hardly paying attention, the act of working on his homework little more than mechanical. Sukuna knows that, because he thinks he fucked up.

Again.

His first meeting with the top lawyer Hiromi had recommended had taken place at the apartment the other day, at Sukuna’s request, for ease of looking after his brothers. Luckily she was sympathetic to his situation and agreed, discussing what would take place at the proceedings and what she needed from Sukuna aside from the documents he’d already provided. Sukuna had left out the portion where he’d gotten advice from a student, of course.

With the discussion, however, came the realization that Choso was hardly a room away during the discussion of the possibility of social workers conducting a house study. It wouldn’t be Sukuna’s first time having social workers in the house, but that’s exactly why he fears the way Choso’s personality has dulled again.

He’d gotten better. Sukuna isn’t sure exactly what you did, but life had flowed back into his brother’s world. It was gradual, just little moments of genuine happiness at first, before he caught Choso smiling at a bird on the walk home from school. Asking for help on assignments. Defending Yuji when Sukuna got a little too frustrated with the five-year-old.

And it all came crumbling down at once. He knew it had to do with the meeting with the lawyer, but it didn’t make it any easier. Yuji had noticed it too. Even now, as he stares at Choso, hoping the older Itadori will defend him, Choso hasn’t bothered to look up from his work. Whether he’s completely oblivious to his brothers watching him or simply can’t be bothered to care, Sukuna isn’t certain.

Most of the legal consultation would have flown over any kid’s head, even Choso’s, but social workers? That was a term Choso knew all too well. And if he had to pinpoint something that might have shut the dark-haired kid down, he figured that had to be it.

It didn’t matter how many years passed, Sukuna will never forget the way he failed Choso the day of their house study following the passing of their father. He relives it in his nightmares from time to time, serving as a constant reminder of his fuck-ups.

Sunlight filters through the frosted window behind the shower as Sukuna pushes his hair back from his forehead, slick with sweat. He holds himself up over the sink, washing his mouth out as best as he can and brushing his teeth.

The dark circles under his eyes may as well be shadows given how much weight he’d lost. He can’t keep food down long enough to gain any of his muscle mass back, he’d become little more than a shadow of his former self.

Balling his hand into a fist, he grits his teeth and pushes to his full height, staring at someone he doesn’t recognize. The man, barely more than a child himself, looking back at him wasn’t suited to look after kids. Yet he’d been forced to put in a petition to take guardianship when his father’s will had listed no one to look after the kids and their mother was absent.

Sukuna wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, swallowing hard and sucking in a deep breath. Yuji will wake up any second now. Choso will want breakfast. Sukuna will be forced to bend over backwards to satiate their needs, to take care of the two people who look the most like his late father and absent step-mother.

It’s a haunting feeling, to see those that are gone in people you care about.

It’s a feeling that Sukuna can’t escape, that grips him by the throat as he struggles to differentiate the people he loves from the people he’s lost.

Does that make him a sorry excuse for a guardian? Maybe. Does it make him a sorry excuse for a brother? Definitely.

He coughs into his elbow, wiping perspiration from his neck and washing his hands once more. It seems no matter how many times he washes them, he can’t escape the feeling that he’s a shitty brother. A shitty brother who can hardly bear to look at his brothers, as though everything that’s happened is their fault.

He resents himself for it, every minute of every day.

He’d give anything to bring their father back. He’d know what to do. He always did.

Sukuna lets out a breath as he pushes through the washroom door after throwing a plain black V-neck on over his head and a pair of beige joggers. He makes his way to the kitchen, pulling open the fridge door and staring blankly at the ingredients sitting within. Leftovers from- what? A week ago? Yogurt, eggs, a half-empty can of tuna that’s been there long enough that his nose is wrinkling just from opening the fridge and-

A bang from the other side of the house- a house filled with memories turned dreary, too big for the three current inhabitants- catches Sukuna’s attention. He shuts the fridge door with more force than intended, scowling as he languidly trudges across his father’s house. Pushing open the door, the Sukuna finds Choso in the kid’s bedroom, with the vacuum in pieces across the floor, the main compartment imploded in a cloud of dust that now litters the carpet.

It takes every ounce of self-control that Sukuna has left to keep his voice (mostly) even as he mutters “what’re you doing?”

Choso guiltily shuffles in place, avoiding Sukuna’s sharp crimson stare. “Trying to help,” he whispers, fiddling with his fingers.

Sukuna lets out a huff. “Well, don’t,” he grumbles, getting ready to turn away.

“But- the social workers-”

The- oh. Oh, fuck.

Clearing his throat, Sukuna turns back towards his little brother, a pained expression on his exhausted face. “Is that today?”

Choso nods.

Fuck. FUCK.

There’s no food in the house. The kitchen is a downright mess, Yuji could wake up in a mess of sobs that Sukuna hardly knows how to handle at any moment, the living room is piled high with laundry that Sukuna had the energy to wash but not fold, and now… Sukuna rubs his hands harshly down his face, peeking through his fingers only to stare at the dust.

What time are they coming? Did he even write it down? He can’t remember.

“When, uh-”

“Ten.”

Sukuna pulls his phone from his pocket. Nine.

Fuck.

“I cleaned Yuji and I’s rooms and shut dad’s-” Choso begins, getting down on his knees to start brushing up the dust from the collapsed vacuum as best as he can with his hands.

“Stop- stop,” Sukuna instructs, pulling his brother away from the pile of dust. “Go wash up.” He instructs, watching the little boy guiltily nod. How old is he? Nine? Sukuna doesn’t remember, but as the little boy jogs out of his room to wash his hands leaving Sukuna alone, another wave of nausea washes over him.

He could wretch at the mere mention of their father. He coughs, his throat raw and dry as he stares at the pile of dust.

His nine year old brother cleaned the damn house because Sukuna couldn’t. Sukuna couldn’t get his shit together enough to get the house in order for the social worker.

The pace that his chest rises and falls grows irregular as he stares at the dust, wasting time as the minutes pass by. He needs to do the laundry, the dishes-

He looks down at himself, at the V-neck that he’s pretty sure Yuji spit on. He doesn’t remember anymore. Did he wash this shirt? Was that another one that Yuji spit on? What’s the stain on his shoulder?

Stumbling out of Choso’s room, Sukuna heads to the kitchen in a manic blur, staring at all the dishes piling up in the sink and across the counter and table.

Maybe the laundry will be less daunting.

He makes his way to the living room, only to find that Choso has taken care of that too, everything is folded about as well as a nine-year-old can manage, an uneven stack of shirts sitting alongside Sukuna’s pants, though it looks like Choso and Yuji’s clothes have already been put away.

His chest tightens, like an anvil pressing its full weight on his ribs. He can’t breathe.

The door clicks as his brother leaves the washroom and Sukuna waits with shaking hands for his brother to leave. He can’t see Sukuna like this. Sukuna’s supposed to take care of him, why is it Choso that’s taking care of him? The kid’s hardly spoken a word to him since Jin’s passing, and yet he’s keeping track of the house study and making cereal for himself just so that Sukuna doesn’t have to.

A nine-year-old shouldn’t have to step up. Especially not one who's just lost both parents. Hell, he may as well have lost his brother too, because Sukuna’s not sure he’s still the same man. One could hardly call Sukuna’s routine as of late ‘living’. Sukuna’s heard the kid crying long into the night, sobs muffled by his pillow and two walls, but he doesn’t know what to do anymore.

They cried together so long in the hospital that the shock of Choso’s mom not replying hit Sukuna in a way he wasn’t prepared for.

Sukuna’s hand trembles as he tries to shut the washroom door without alerting Choso. He collapses in front of the toilet, keeling over the bowl weakly. His hair sticks to his forehead again as he leans over, but there’s nothing left in his stomach to throw up.

He heaves and coughs, groaning as his throat stings with the effort. Leaning back, he stares at the ceiling. What had he become? How had things gotten to this point?

Sukuna had goals, he had hopes and dreams, and now they’d been crushed in favor of keeping two kids alive.

Could he even hope to make them happy when he was struggling just to keep them fed?

Hell, he’s struggling to keep himself fed lately.

He was nearly out of money already after the cost of lawyers and the funeral, he needed to get a job. But how was he meant to do that if he couldn’t even put laundry away?

He pulls his phone out, his thumb swiping through apps as if on auto-pilot, clicking on contacts, swiping through letters until he reaches ‘J’. His thumb clicks on instinct and he holds it up to his ear. It rings once, twice, three times. On the fifth, he reaches an answering machine.

“Hey, it’s Jin! Thanks for giving me a call, I’m not around right now but please leave a message!” Followed shortly by a mechanical “this user’s mailbox is full”. The call cuts out and the salmon-haired man pauses for a moment before he leans forward on his knees.

How is he meant to do this? Was this really what his dad wanted for him? No, he can’t think like that. Sukuna grits his teeth, his cheeks hot with tears. He’d left so many messages that will forever go unanswered. With one hand gripping his phone with white knuckles and another buried in his sweat-laden hair, he sits there for longer than he can afford, waiting for his body to relax enough to catch his breath. That time never comes, his chest remaining tight, but he can’t afford to sit here any longer.

Nine thirty.

He pushes himself up off the floor, flipping his head back to keep his hair from his face, and pushes out of the washroom once more this morning. The door slams on its hinges as he rushes into the kitchen, shaky hands moving clean dishes from the dishwasher and into cabinets. Every movement is on instinct, nothing done deliberately as he struggles to keep himself in the right mind for a house study.

How the fuck is he supposed to pass?

“Kuna? I- I found a broom, I’m gonna-”

Choso jumps as Sukuna’s thrown off by his brother’s voice, a plate colliding with the counter and shattering across the ground.

“Fuck!” Sukuna barks, staring down at his hands. A shard of ceramic is embedded into the heel of his left palm, blood seeping out around it. He stares down at the mess at his feet, gripping the counter with his right hand to steady himself.

“Kuna? Are you okay?” Choso asks weakly, his voice hoarse from a lack of use.

“Yeah, uh-” Sukuna can’t bear to look at his brother, his gaze glued to the blood that pools in his palm. “The broom. Can you bring it here? Just- just stay away from the glass.”

The sound of light footsteps gradually fades and Sukuna carefully maneuvers around the mess to the sink, shakily dislodging the ceramic from his skin. Flipping the sink on, he watches the crimson pour into the sink as he runs his hand under warm water, reaching blindly to the drawer that should have bandages. He pulls them out, fumbling with the packaging and settling the bandage over his palm.

Carefully moving away from the glass, he slips on shoes and waits for his brother to drag the broom over. Choso watches as he sweeps up the remaining pieces of the plate, before the boy busies himself with moving the piles of clothing on the couch into Sukuna’s room now that he knows his brother is awake. Spotting movement out of the corner of his eye, Sukuna’s head whips around to Choso.

“Stop. I can handle it.”

Choso pauses, examining Sukuna silently. “I can help-”

“No!” Sukuna growls, dumping the dust pan of shards into the trash before flipping to face Choso. “I can handle it. It’s- It’s not your job.”

Choso’s lips purse as he evaluates Sukuna’s words. He doesn’t believe his older brother.

Is that really the world Sukuna lives in? That his younger brother feels the need to take care of him?

Is he that much of a mess?

Sukuna wipes perspiration from his forehead with the back of his arm, turning back to the dishes and moving quickly to feign being alright.

He just has to make it through the day.

Yuji’s cries blare very suddenly through the house, piercing Sukuna’s ears and he grits his teeth.

He just has to make it through the day.

Setting down a clean plate, he’s in Yuji’s nursery before he can even process what’s happening. He stares blankly for a moment at the crying baby, sharply inhaling. The spitting image of his father. Reaching out, he pulls the child carefully into his arms.

“Stop crying, Yu,” Sukuna mutters softly, staring blankly at the crib and patting the child’s back. It’s his best attempt at comfort in his current state. “Please stop crying,” he begs, feeling his eyes burn himself.

He probably needs food, right? Sukuna can manage that, he thinks. There’s still eggs. He knows Yuji likes scrambled eggs.

The child continues to cry even as Sukuna bounces a little more dramatically as he walks to try to soothe the child. He swallows down any semblance of uncertainty as he makes his way back to the kitchen.

Even as Yuji cries, Sukuna’s gait stutters at the entry to the kitchen, where Choso has snuck back in to continue cleaning the dishes. The oldest brother’s jaw trembles as he inhales slowly, his mind blank. Has Choso been taking care of chores this often? Has he not even noticed?

His eyes are hot and he averts his gaze. He doesn’t have time to fight with Choso.

Setting the baby in his high-chair, Sukuna moves quickly to open the fridge and pull out the eggs.

Egg.

There’s one egg.

He shoots a glance at Choso, who’s shutting the dishwasher beside him.

Choso can have something else, right?

Yeah, cereal. Right.

He pulls out milk alongside the egg, his jaw going slack as he reads the date. It expired today. Surely it’s still alright, right?

Unscrewing the cap, he holds the carton up to his nose and it wrinkles, his lip curling in disgust.

Okay. That’s fine.

He dumps out the rest in the sink.

Yogurt. He can have… yogurt.

What a sorry excuse for a meal. What a sorry excuse for a guardian.

Sukuna stands silently for a moment, contemplating his decisions. Maybe the kids would be better off without him. Maybe they would be better off in the foster system with a pair of adults who can take care of them. Someone equipped for this.

But what if they got separated? What if-

“I can have, um, chicken fingers,” Choso mumbles as he comes up behind Sukuna.

Sukuna swipes his tongue over his lips, opening the freezer. It’s more full than the fridge. That’s an alright option. He pulls them out, beginning to prepare food for both kids as Yuji continues bawling in his chair.

“Give your brother some yogurt while I cook,” Sukuna mumbles, passing the container off to Choso, who nods.

To Sukuna’s relief, the child sniffles and stops crying as Choso quietly spoons yogurt straight from the container. Facing the frying pan with the egg in it, Sukuna shuts his eyes in relief at the silence, a semblance of control returning, even if only for a second.

He casts a glance at the stove. Nine fifty seven. Three minutes.

Finishing up cooking and slipping the chicken into the oven, he sets a small plate on the table, sitting alongside Yuji and blowing on the scrambled eggs to ensure they aren’t too hot. He spoons it into the bumbling child’s mouth, only to sigh when there’s a knock at the door.

Sukuna is so grossly underprepared for this house study. He knows it’s standard procedure in cases like this, just court-ordered motions, but in truth, Sukuna doesn’t think he deserves to be a guardian to either of the kids.

The question of whether he wants this has been rattling around in his head so frequently that he feels a constant guilt. Because he doesn’t. He loves his brothers, of course he does, there’s no question in that. But he doesn’t want this. He’s never wanted this.

Standing in front of the door, he sucks in a breath and puts on his best attempt at a mild expression, leaving a hand over his shoulder to cover the stain that he’s fairly sure is spit from Yuji. Or worse. He doesn’t want to think about it.

A man with short salt-and-pepper graying hair stands outside the door in a nice, long black coat. He wears a pair of deep blue slacks and a white button-up beneath. His pale blue eyes slide along the length of Sukuna’s jaw, silently evaluating his face tattoos.

Is that strike one before he’s even said hello?

Still, the man extends his hand with a carefully mediated smile. He introduces himself as the social worker for Sukuna’s case, goes over the purpose of the visit, and requests access to the home for his evaluation. Sukuna swallows hard and moves aside, letting the man in.

He’s quick to run his evaluating gaze around the front entryway. It’s a bit of a mess, but surely that’s not a big deal.

Surely.

Sukuna clears his throat, mumbling out a “come on in,” as he makes his way into the house. It’s clean enough, there’s no hazards that could put the kids in danger, and Yuji is eating as Choso scoops eggs into his mouth. The social worker evaluates the scene and nods, clearly satisfied that there’s food on the table.

“Mind if I take a look around?”

Sukuna nods in acceptance before trailing a short distance behind the man. He does a walkthrough of the kitchen first, his watchful gaze darting over the counter, to the sink that Sukuna notes he should have cleaned up the scraps sitting in it, and eventually grabs the fridge door handle.

Sukuna winces as he pulls it open and frowns.

“We’re going shopping, uh, today,” Sukuna offers, clearing his throat. “The kids are picky,” he gruffs, scratching at the back of his neck.

That’s definitely a strike, regardless.

Shutting the door, he proceeds to look through the pantry before evaluating the living room, which has gone relatively untouched since Jin got sick, leaving it under a layer of dust, but otherwise clean. The social worker doesn’t appear to think much of it, moving on as he points towards the other side of the house.

“Can you show me to the kids’ rooms?”

Sukuna nods, blazing past his dad’s old room as fast as he can without coming across as suspicious, though he simply can’t bear to look at it. The pink-haired man shuffles on his feet as he waves his hand at the nursery and Choso’s room. He takes a couple of minutes in the nursery, which is likely the cleanest room in the house, re-emerging to take a look at Choso’s room.

“How old is the older of the two?”

Sukuna swallows. Is this a test? “Nine.” He’s nine, right?

The man hums, looking around at the Pokemon plushies and the giant Avocado Squishmallow on the bed. His eyes land on the remnants of the dust pile from the exploded vacuum, and Sukuna stumbles over his words to explain the stain.

“My vacuum broke, just before you got here,” Sukuna explains, clearing his throat. “Uh, it’s on the grocery list.”

The man hums. Is that another strike? How many is Sukuna allowed?

Should he even be hoping he passes this? Is this what’s best for his brothers?

Sukuna lets out a shaky breath, idly scratching at his chest as though the weight crushing his lungs might go away if he does.

The social worker continues on his way, peeking at a closet with cleaning supplies, evaluating the fairly empty backyard, and casting a glance into the washroom. Once he’s done evaluating those, he makes his way back to the open-concept living and dining room.

“Do you mind if I ask a few questions?”

Sukuna nods, taking a seat on the couch in tandem with the worker. Sukuna sits as straight as he can manage, his bouncing leg going unnoticed by the tattooed man. The social worker casts his leg a glance, but says nothing as he pulls out a notepad.

“What’s your relationship to the children?”

“Brother. Uh- step-brother.”

He jots down Sukuna’s reply. “What’s your financial situation like?”

“I need to get a job, but we’re living off the estate of my father.”

The social worker nods, prattling off more questions about the needs of the kids, medical care, questions about Sukuna himself and his background, as well as his experience with kids. Sukuna’s fairly certain he barely skirts by with his responses, but his mind goes blank with the next question.

“How will you handle the emotional needs of your brothers?”

Sukuna stays silent for a moment too long, before choking out “... emotional needs?”

The social worker sits forward. “You’ll be with them throughout all, if not most, of their developmental stages. You need to ensure they’re cared for emotionally and feel secure. Emotional stability is extremely important for young children,” he explains.

Sukuna swallows hard.

Is this already a strike? What the fuck is he supposed to say? He’s too depressed, too manic himself, to even begin thinking about the emotional needs of his brothers and how he, of all people, is supposed to provide that. As it stands, he’s pretty sure he’s already neglected Choso’s emotional needs.

“I, uh-” Sukuna stammers, casting a glance at the bandage on his palm. That was- what-? Thirty minutes ago? Why does it feel like ages ago? Why can’t he think straight?

Sukuna’s jaw trembles and he swallows. Fuck, he can’t breathe again. Bile gathers at the back of his throat. He wants to vomit.

“Kuna loves us,” Choso chimes in suddenly, the little boy’s quiet voice interrupting Sukuna’s spiralling thoughts. “He’s the best big brother, he makes me happy.”

Sukuna damn near chokes. His eyes are hot with tears and he rubs furiously at them to prevent any from falling down his cheeks as Choso speaks up, practically saving his ass. Sukuna’s throat tightens as he leans forward on his knees. Does Choso really feel that way? Or is he feigning happiness for the social worker?

Sukuna chances a glance backwards to his little brother, examining the look on his face. Choso’s eyes are sunken, he’s tired. He’s become a shadow of his former self, much like Sukuna, and the oldest knows that he’s contributed to the anguish Choso feels. Yet still, the little boy has leapt to his defense. He’s kept the house in order, fed himself, and helped to take care of Yuji.

Now he’s taking care of Sukuna, too. Sukuna isn’t sure whether he’s more pissed that his nine-year-old brother is looking after him, lost because a child is handling things better than him, or shocked that Choso’s coming to his defense at all given how shitty Sukuna’s been. He’s failed Choso at every turn, yet the boy never seems to hold it against him and that kills Sukuna.

Regardless, the social worker seems pleased with that response. “Seems you already have things in order. Do you mind if I have a chat with your little brother?”

“Go for it,” Sukuna barely manages to whisper, lost in his thoughts.

“Great. We’ll review the documents after.”

How long Sukuna sits there staring at Choso as he types up his homework, he couldn’t tell you. The only reason he’s snapped back to the present and pulled from his thoughts is from the hoarse “I’m done,” that Choso manages as he hands Sukuna his laptop to take a look at his writing.

Sukuna stares blankly at Choso, holding his laptop in one hand. Did Sukuna ever deserve to look after these kids?

Is Sukuna at that stage again? Has he gotten as bad as he was when he first started looking after his brothers?

It’s been so long since the ordeal with the social workers, since Sukuna spent most of his time laid out on the bathroom floor or curled up in bed with freezing hands and a burning throat, and yet… Has he changed at all? Is he any better?

You may have reassured him that the kids love him, that he’s a good guardian, and yet… he’s still not so sure. Not after he failed you, Yuji and Choso.

God. Poor Choso.

Whatever piece of Sukuna died back when Jin passed away, Sukuna could feel it beating and thriving once more with your arrival in his life. Now, though, it’s gone again. Its departure went hand-in-hand with that same light in Choso’s life.

And in the aftermath of his own self-destruction, he’d pushed away Toji too. Again. He’d never really let him back in, but as Sukuna sits frozen in place staring at his brother, he sees the sum of his mistakes staring back at him. A child who Sukuna hasn’t been able to provide for in terms of emotional needs.

You had. You were so, so good with Choso and Yuji. You were an angel.

Sukuna can’t help but wonder what the fuck is wrong with him as he realizes that in his frozen state, his brothers are both staring at him with worried brows. Great, now the five-year-old is concerned for him too.

Snapping out of it, Sukuna clears his throat and pulls the laptop onto his legs, reading through Choso’s evaluation on some iceberg in the Antarctic ocean. He makes a couple of grammatical fixes, before handing it back. Not a single word sticks with Sukuna, but he nods. “Looks good,” he tells Choso, running a hand through his pink locks.

Choso takes the laptop back and sends the document to his teacher before handing it back to Sukuna. The oldest brother idly stands by as the two kids get ready for bed, and it’s not until they’re tucked in that Sukuna’s mind really starts running again.

He stares down at his hands, running his thumb over the small scar he’d gotten on the day the social worker arrived. It’s barely noticeable, but it serves as a reminder of that day, of the smashed plate, and of Choso’s words. A nine-year old stepped up, because the adult couldn’t.

Sukuna can’t help the thought that for all the pride and ego he tries so hard to protect, for wanting to prove himself as a guardian, on his own, he’d failed on every account. At every turn, he’s only ever met with endless failures.

Failures that he dragged you into.

It’s not that he didn’t expect your departure to hurt- after all, he’s failed you once already- but it only seemed to jumble his mind further. At least with Choso and Yuji, he understands his frustrations. At least he knows what he’s feeling and has an outlet in his art and workouts to work through those emotions.

You, though- you’re a variable he hadn’t anticipated. Your loss weighs heavy on him, on his heart, and he doesn’t know how to unpack that. Losing you had been the final nail in the coffin that solidified two things with Sukuna.

The first- wherever it is (was) that you stand with Sukuna, that feeling can’t be replaced. Not by workouts, or distractions, or anything else he can muster to stop his mind from spiralling. You hold a place within him, within his heart, that he can see now and if he weren’t so stupid, he might not have lost you. You hurt him, sure, but he doesn’t think he cares anymore. He doesn’t even mind that he doesn’t understand what exactly the place that you hold within him is, he just knows that you’re there.

And the second- Sukuna is a coward. He’s a downright coward and a dumbass who can’t bring himself to fix his mistakes because he can’t bear the idea of dragging you back into his problems.

Sukuna was wrong.

The worst part is that his brothers ask constantly about you. Hell, he’s had to email a fake address just to placate them, and formulate your answers on his own. The amount of times he’s read through your emails to replicate your tone only serves as further harm to his mental state, weighing heavy on his heart. Both his lies towards his brothers and his mistakes with you cut at his emotions.

He was foolish to think he could manage everything on his own. Foolish to think he could manage without Uraume’s help, without the kind old woman across the hall’s help, but especially without your help.

You didn’t just watch the kids. You made them better people, you taught them valuable lessons, you were there for them emotionally. You were there for him, and he took you for granted.

You were the first person since Jin passed that made Sukuna feel human again.

Balling his hands into fists, he huffs and picks up a weight. He’ll work out until he passes out, airpods in if it only means that he can keep his mind off the things that make his chest tighten. It’s his only release from the stress of each day.

He’s about an hour into working out when his phone lights up with a call. A call that he has half a mind to think he’s hallucinating with the state of mind he’s found himself in.

His hand hovers over the green button as though it might disappear when he blinks, because there’s no world where you give him another chance. Hell, he doesn’t deserve it and he’s willing to admit that now.

Pressing down on the button, he remains silent for a moment before pulling the phone up to his ear. His breath is coming in puffs and pants due to his workout as he barely manages to squeeze out your name.

“Hey, Sukuna.”

Sukuna. He thinks he hates when you call him that. He’s grown so used to your nickname for him that he prefers it.

“Hey,” he grunts, how brow furrowed. His eyes trail the length of his room until they land on his drawing table. Strewn across the top are his sketches of you, before he managed to draw the one he was happy with, the one he gave you. He’s not even sure what spurred him to do that for you, it just felt right.

It feels like years have passed since then.

“So, um, listen,” you start, an air of nervousness to your voice, still so saccharine sweet. “One of my colleagues disappeared last week, and she left behind this whole pile of work-” you hesitate again, leaving Sukuna only to listen with his brows knit together. “- sorry, uh- she was our graphic designer and now we’re behind and we’re gonna lose a client if we don’t find a replacement like yesterday,” you groan, and he can practically hear the way you’re chewing on your lip. “I thought that, you know, with your art and all, that maybe you might…” You trail off, awaiting Sukuna’s response.

Sukuna’s brain takes a moment to catch up, still stuck on the fact that you’re reaching out.

“Sukuna?”

“Yeah, sorry,” he gruffs, sighing as he tries to make sense of what’s going on. “Why’re you offering this to me?” It doesn’t make sense, why would you come back after everything?

“Every book I’ve edited so far is missing a cover. If we don’t get a graphic designer to submit covers before Friday, we lose the client, and all of my work,” you explain.

Right. That… makes sense. You have no other reason to reach out to him and he owes you a favor. Bounds of them, actually.

“Sure.”

And he thinks he can live with being just a favor, if it’s to you. It brings him comfort to know that you’re not entirely out of reach anymore. He thinks he even feels his chest loosen just a bit.

“Really? Oh my god thank you, you have no idea how much of a huge favor this is, um-” you begin prattling off details of the job, but Sukuna’s hardly listening, too caught up on the sound of your voice. When did he get like this? Has he always been like this with you?

When did you carve yourself into his heart quite like this? A place meant only for you, one that no one else could replace. He can’t pinpoint a moment, but he hadn’t realized just how much he needed you. You’re his best friend. That has to be why he longs for your presence so badly, it’s the only explanation that makes sense.

Can he fix things?

“Can you meet up tomorrow morning?” You ask.

Sukuna grunts out a yes, giving you a time and place. The cafe he originally apologized at.

“And Sukuna?”

He pauses, waiting for you to continue.

“This doesn’t mean I forgive you.”

Sukuna’s throat tightens again. “Right,” he mutters. “See ya tomorrow.”

“See you.”

He stares at his screen for a long moment, swallowing hard. You don’t forgive him. He doesn’t blame you, but he has to try to get you to. For the kids’ sake.

He swipes his tongue over his dry lips, shaking his head.

No, he selfishly needs you to forgive him for his own sake.

–

You fiddle nervously in the early morning with the sleeves of your coat. You’re twenty minutes early to your meeting with Sukuna to go over details, but it couldn’t be helped. You can’t say you slept well with the stress of knowing your entire past month’s work relies on the same person you’re so nervous to see.

The cafe is quiet this early in the morning, having just opened. Only one employee has arrived, a woman around your age with a blonde bob in a pale brown apron. Her movements are deliberate as she moves syrup bottles and whipped cream around the counter into optimal places to keep the shop in a good working order.

The ringing of a bell catches your attention, and you think your heart may actually stop for a moment at the sight of Sukuna.

He’s still tall as ever, in his coveralls for work with a heavy black coat over them, but he looks leagues different from when you last saw him. You’ve never seen dark circles quite like what Sukuna’s got going on, his chin is dotted in stubble, and his hair is longer than you’ve ever seen it. Based on the way he shakes his head to get stray strands out of his vision, you can conclude that it’s bothering him, too.

You don’t need to know that he only shook his head in an effort to get himself to focus as all the air left his body upon simply seeing you.

He stops in front of the table, casting a glance at the shop’s counter. “Need a coffee. Want somethin’?”

You nod gingerly. “Yeah, um, just tea, please.”

Whatever words you had planned for this meeting seem to disappear into thin air as you watch him trudge over to the counter. After a short wait, he returns with your tea and his black coffee.

“So,” you begin, deciding to skip pleasantries in favor of keeping any emotions out of this. Strictly business. “I don’t know what the pay is, but my boss said you would be compensated extra for the first seven covers, since we’ll need them on a rush basis. Um-” You pause, pulling out your phone to show him examples of the style of covers you’ll need. They’re children’s books, similar to things he read in school as a child along the lines of The Magic Treehouse or Goosebumps. Coincidentally, Sukuna’s pretty good at that, he has experience.

Sukuna hums, not daring to interrupt despite the words dying to spill from his lips.

“They expect you to be in-office five days a week, but the hours are flexible and if you’re sick, then you technically can work from home,” you explain, staring at the ceiling as you go over any other minute details you can think of. After prattling off a few more details that Sukuna can’t possibly imagine actually matter, you realize you’re rambling and pause. “Oh, bring a portfolio and um- it’s business casual. So, um-”

Again, you pause. Sukuna sees it in your eyes, you’re debating whether you want to tell him what to wear. You’re afraid he’ll think you’re telling him what to do.

“Wear something nice, got it.”

You blink once before nodding, satisfied. “I’m there from eleven-thirty to five, so just, um- come anytime? Ask for me at reception. My boss knows you’re coming.”

Sukuna nods. “Be there after I pick up the kids.” He’s pretty sure Uraume shouldn’t be busy tonight based on the few texts they’ve exchanged, so he’s sure he can manage to get someone to watch his brothers.

Silence hangs heavy in the air, thick with unspoken thoughts. It’s clear that a conversation needs to happen between you if you’re planning on working together, but Sukuna’s had no time to go over the things he wants to say, having convinced himself he’d never get another chance with you.

“Well, um-”

“I’m sorr-”

Sukuna bites his tongue as he accidentally speaks at the same time as you. Your hand is splayed on the table like you’re ready to push yourself up and leave already and Sukuna sighs.

“Sorry. I’ll see you later,” he resigns to let you leave, leaning back in his chair. He figures if he can catch you a little more willing to chat and not so nervous later in the day, he might stand a better chance of appealing to you.

You swallow hard as you stare at him, tapping a finger on the table. “This is just business, okay, Sukuna? Consider this my repayment for all the favors.”

Sukuna’s throat is dry as he swallows hard, nodding. “Right. Repayment.”

Before you can be the subject of any more of the strange stares he’s giving you, you push up to your feet and excuse yourself without looking back.

Your heart is practically beating out of your chest as you leave the coffee shop, clutching your backpack’s strap tightly.

What the hell was that!? Why did he spend the whole time staring at you like- like that? You’d expected huffs and sighs and thinly veiled anger. You’d expected him to be furious with you, still. You’d thought that you were in a better headspace, ready to face him and not think twice about it, but now you’ve got a one hundred horse power heart pounding like it’s about to race the damn Monaco Grand Prix and your thoughts are beyond jumbled.

You thought you were over him enough that this wouldn’t affect you, that you could be professional and strict. Instead, you’d stumbled and rambled through so many words that you could hardly make sense of what you managed to get out and what you didn’t.

Regardless of your nerves, the real question is Sukuna.

Why was he so… uncharacteristically not Sukuna? What happened to the boastful man who demanded attention with his mere presence? It was as though he’d been reduced to little more than a background character in his own life, simply going through the motions.

Not to mention that stare…?

A pang of concern floods through you as you recall what he said about how he would have handled his mental health without you. You know it’s not your place to worry anymore, as decided by Sukuna himself, but you’re too kind not to. Maybe it’s naive of you, you’re sure Kento and Shoko would tell you so. Still, it’s in your nature to worry about those you care about.

And one thing can be said for certain- you still care about Sukuna.

main masterlist || series masterlist || previous chapter || next chapter - coming soon

❦ a/n ; in case you missed it, i did some art for the series and i'd love if you checked it out here <33 hiiiii sorry this took so long 😩 health problems were the bane of my existence last week and i just couldn't sit at the computer wrong enough to write. but!! thank you all so much for all the well wishes, i'm doing much better now and it's back to business as usual. that flashback scene HURTTTT ngl. they were all so young :(( they still are. i love this lil family sm tbh ANYWAY sorry i'm really yapping down here ig but i just wanted to say thank you thank you so much for all the love. i know i've been gone for a bit, but all the kind words and constant love and excitement for the series always has me kickin my feet n smiling <33 i seriously love you all and you guys keep me motivated to keep up my writing. lots of love and sorry for the angst 🥲

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alotofpockets · 2 days ago

Text

Tiny Tillie | Katrina Gorry x Reader

5k celebration prompt: “Our girl’s first football practice.”

Woso masterlist | Words: 1.2k

-----

Harper grew up in a world filled with football. With both of her mom’s playing professionally, there hadn’t been a day in her life where a ball wasn’t involved. She had joined you and Katrina on camps since she was a little baby, and it hadn’t taken long before every single one of your teammates had become her aunties.

While she had already kicked balls around in the biggest stadiums, in front of thousands and thousands of people, she had always been too young to sign up for your local football club.

You and Katrina had always said you wouldn’t force her to be into football like the both of you, your children would be free to love whatever they wanted. But Harper loved football with her whole heart. She wanted to be just like her mom’s.

After asking again and again if she could play, you were finally able to enroll her. She would have her first practice with the club today, and she had not stopped talking about it all week. Her enthusiasm was the most adorable thing.

The morning of Harper’s first practice was pure chaos, but in the best way. It started by her hopping into your bed and jumping around. “Get up! Get up! Get up!” She chanted full of excitement.

You swooped her out of the air mid jump, and held her down onto the bed in a cuddle. “Darling, practice isn’t for another couple of hours.” You tried, hoping she would let you and Katrina stay in bed just a little longer. “But mama, I gotta get ready.”

“Hmmm, I think that you have plenty of time, and maybe the tickle monster should have a visit first.” Katrina chimed in, lifting her hands tauntingly above your daughter. “Noooo.” Harper said as she was trying to get up to escape the incoming tickle attack, but Katrina’s fingers were tickling her tummy and sides before she was able to run off.

Your bedroom filled with her giggles, a sound you would never be able to get enough of. “Mama!” She cried out with laughter. “Help me!” You wrapped your arms around her protectively and softly swatted your wife’s hands away.

“Alright Harps, why don’t you put on your training kit. Mommy put it on your chair last night. Then I will be right there, alright?” Harper’s eyes lit up at your words. She jumped off of the bed and sprinted to her room. “Save some of that energy for practice.” Katrina said after her jokingly.

Then she turned to you, “Can you believe it’s our girl’s first football practice?” You shook your head and pulled your wife closer. “I still remember the first time we took her to camp with us like it was yesterday. I can’t wait to see the joy on our little girl’s face when she’s out there.”

“Mama, help!” You heard Harper from the other side of the hallway. You kiss your wife’s head. “Duty calls.”

When you walk into Harper’s room you see her struggling to get her shirt on. It was all twisted around her small frame, one arm through the head hole and the other in the wrong arm hole. “Hm I think this is fixable. Arms up.” You said and helped her pull the fabric off.

“Here, let me hold it up for you, and then you can try again.” She carefully watched what you did, eager to learn how to do it herself. She had been in a phase lately where she wanted to do everything herself, so you let her and knew she’d come to you if she needed help anyways.

“There we go, well done darling.” You praised her when she managed to get the shirt on properly the second time around. She proudly showed off her outfit, that’s when your eyes fell on the West Ham short she was wearing. “Darling, why are you wearing your West Ham kit? You got shorts from your club.”

“Because they’re my favourite Mama.” You were about to tell her to switch them out, but Katrina stepped up behind you and wrapped her hands around your waist. “Pick your battles, love. They’re just shorts.”

Katrina was right, as long as it was training, she should be fine in her West Ham shorts. “Alright, West Ham shorts it is.” Harper jumped around excitedly. “Yay, let’s go Hammers!” You both chuckled.

“I’m going to start on breakfast, see you downstairs.” Katrina whispered to you. Leaving you to continue helping Harper get ready.

When she was all dressed, and you finished braiding her hair, the two of you headed downstairs. Instead of walking to the dining table however, Harper went straight for the kit bag that Katrina had gotten ready last night.

“Where do you think you’re going, Harps?” Katrina called out to her. “We have to go to practice, Mommy.” She shook her head with a chuckle. “Come have some breakfast first, we still have time. Footballers need to have a good breakfast, so they can be strong on the pitch. You want to be strong, right?”

“I am strong, Mommy.” She said showing off her muscles. “Well, I think some pancakes would make you even stronger than that.” At the word ‘pancake’ she dropped her bag and sprinted to the dining table. “That’s my girl.” She said proudly before placing a stack of pancakes in front of her.

Once breakfast was ready, there was no stopping the little baller from wanting to go to practice. Heading over early actually worked out for the surprise you had planned.

When you got to the parking lot, Harper was hastily trying to undo her seatbelt, wanting to get out of the car as fast as possible. You opened her door and walked her to the little sidewalk in front of the car before, while Katrina got the bag from the trunk.

Harper was too busy looking towards the pitch to notice two people walking towards her. “Look who’s here.” You nudged her in the right direction. “Kywa! ChaCha!” She yelled out full of excitement as she ran their way. Jumping into Kyra’s arms as the midfielder lifted her up and spun her around.

“Are you ready for your first practice?” Charli asked Harped as she kissed her cheek. “Yes, I’m gonna be just like all of you!”

“Our Tiny Tillie.” Kyra said to her, “I can’t wait to see you out there.”

Then Harper looked over Kyra’s shoulder and saw even more familiar faces. “Put me down! Put me down!” She said, wiggling her legs. The moment her feet touched the ground she ran off to greet Steph and Caitlin. It was safe to say that the surprise of some of her aunties coming down for her first practice was a success.

Together with some of you Aussie girls, you watched your daughter play full of pride. She looked to be having the time of her life, a big smile plastered on her face as she was running around on the pitch with the rest of the kids. No matter how far she wanted to take football, you would be there to support her through it all.

-----

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#pockets 5k celebration #katrina gorry #katrina gorry x reader #harper gorry #matildas #matildas x reader #auswnt #auswnt x reader #west ham united women #west ham women #woso #woso x reader

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nanavn · 7 hours ago

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[ID: Several photos, totaling a chapter from the book BUTCH is a NOUN.

FAGGOT BUTCH

“I hated that essay,” he says to me, “about femmes who care for you when you travel; I really hated it.” And when I ask why he tells me that he thinks it sounds like all butches should be soothed by femmes, and vice versa; he says, “Why would those femmes have assumed that you were a butch who liked femmes?” He says, “Maybe you’re a faggot butch, did they even consider that?” He says, “I know you’re not just for femmes.” That’s what he says, but I know what he’s thinking. And even though I know how dangerous it is to assume I know what someone is thinking, I know this butch maybe as well as I know myself, and he’s thinking, “Fuck you, for having it easy even in being queer. Fuck you for going along on your happy little way to San Francisco and finding a bunch of femmes who see you as a big stud-duck butch and just want to pour themselves through your fingers. It’s just as hard to be a faggot butch as it is to be any kind of fag.” There’s all that masculinity to consider when you want to rub up against someone, like that old joke about porcupines: How do porcupines mate? Very carefully. He’s saying, “I want to show up at brunch someplace and assume that anyone who I want to flirt with will want to flirt back, and will do it, will want to, without fear of recrimination from hir community. I want you to put something in that book of yours for me. I am a butch whose identity, sexual or otherwise, has nothing to do with femmes. They are not my natural partners in this gender crime the way they are yours. I wake and sleep in the arms of butches like me, butches who understand a whole host of things about my life, my world, the way I see things, the way things affect me that no one else could understand. Write about us. Write that we have sweet, hot sex in which no one has to put on a pair of panties, or take them off; write about how good it feels when ze fucks me hard, so hard. Write about how it feels to fall asleep with the weight of a butch on you, one tattooed arm and one furry leg pinning you down and grounding you in your sleep. “Write about all the ways in which butches care for each other, comfort each other. Write about how we understand all the shit that comes in the world for our partners and salve it as best we can, about how I have all the more respect for hir because of all I know it takes to survive as a butch.

“Write about how, as soon as butches were no longer the scourge of dykedom for aping masculinity, or whatever that baloney was, it became faggot butches who were scorned and derided. Everyone understands butch/femme because it seems familiar, like Ozzie and Harriet but with better hair and more pussy. Everyone understands femme on femme, even though you don’t see it all that often cause it doesn’t read queer, you know, but it’s in the first images of‘lesbian love’ most of us see, in porn or on television. Two longhaired pretty girls smooching in a daring fashion wherever they happen to be. No one’s threatened by that, not the dykes, not the men, nobody, but if I want to kiss my butch anywhere, I’d better be damn sure of my audience, or better yet, be sure we don’t have one. “I can be a butch without opening doors for girls,” he’s saying. “I can do it even if I follow while dancing, I can do it without spending my Saturday afternoons as a femme’s shopping bottom at the mall and I do. I am. I am honorable, I take good care of the people I love as well as I possibly can; I watch out for my community. I have a butch heart full of love that I can express when I feel safe enough; I walk in the world resisting gender norms and transgressing gender rules, transcending them. I am fixing whatever I can, whenever I can, and I laugh, and play, and let the spaces in my masculinity show, just like you, just like every butch. I get all slicked up for a date in a suit and tie and I pick up my date, also in a suit and tie, and we just open the door if we get to it first and we take turns paying, and it doesn’t make me less a butch. It doesn’t make me less of anything. It doesn’t mean that I don’t think femmes are swell, I surely do, but they are not my salvation when I travel, they are not the North of my heart’s compass. That’s butches for me, and I will always go a little weak when I see someone who looks scared and hardened and delighted and ashamed and proud — proud, just like me.

“You’re writing a book? Of course, I’m glad, but don’t chicken out. Don’t write a book that speaks so many volumes about your adoration for femmes that it leaves out the ways in which I know you cherish butches too. Yes, not the same way as you cherish femmes, entirely differently, butches and femmes are different creatures, sure, but I don’t just mean how glad you are and always will be to have butch brothers, abutch tribe. I mean, make sure you don’t forget to mention that you put butches on their knees in front of you and enjoy them, that you kneel down too, that you sit sometimes stunned by how much you want to lick a buzz cut or a hot tattoo, that you know what a great grace it is to fall asleep next to a butch’s heart and muscle and skin and ink and fur, that you understand how wonderful it can be to feel butch arms around you. Make sure you mention me, make sure you give me and my lovers and my life the same benefit of some of your words, make sure you don’t write another book that leaves us on the cutting-room floor. Give us a place on the landscape, help us become visible. Say this: Say that when butches love butches they hold lightning between them, but that as much as it burns it also illuminates. That it’s the sweetest burn I’ve ever known in my life of searing pain, that it keeps me from feeling the flames of the world’s hate licking the soles of my boots, that I hold it in my heart and it fuels me every day. Say that it shows me things I could never see any other way, that without it I would grow cold and die. Say that there is nothing else I would rather be.”

End ID]

Text from the link in OP

butch is a noun, s. bear bergman 2006

#queue do it

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imaginespazzi · 18 hours ago

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All Fell Down ~ Part 3 ~

paige bueckers x azzi fudd

* masterlist in collaboration with @azzibuckets *

summary: paige and azzi have never really been just best friends

a/n: Hello, hello my lovies <3 I'm so sorry; I literally just fully forgot to post this part yesterday because life has been so very hectic. But I think having an Azzi Fudd masterclass before this chapter is probably ideal. As always let me know your thoughts my loves!

Azzi should have expected the deafening silence that follows Paige’s name leaving her lips. If it wasn’t for the sound of the other girl’s breathing -staggered and heavy- she’d have thought perhaps it was a phantom call with no one on the other end of the line. And really Azzi doesn’t know what she was expecting; doesn’t know why she’d expected anything but exactly this when she’d picked up her phone. But when Paige’s CallerID had flashed on the screen, the buzzing of the ringtone cutting into Azzi’s pity party, there hadn’t been much else in her brain other than this sudden burst of hope. It had taken barely two rings before she was scrambling across her bed, grabbing her phone and hitting the green answer button with far too much vigor. It was one syllable but she’d wrapped Paige’s name in a desperate mixture of i just miss talking to you and please can can we fix this. And she’d gotten nothing in return.

“Paige?” she tries again, fighting the fresh new set of tears threatening to fall from her eyes; she’s lost count of how many times she’s cried tonight.

There’s a sharp intake of air on the other end but still no response and whatever thin string had been holding the remnants of Azzi’s heart together seems to fray even more.

“Okay,” she breathes out, closing her eyes as she digs her fingernails into her palm, “okay Paige,” she repeats, her tone resigned and ready to accept something that feels a little too much like defeat, “I get it. I guess this was um- this was an accident or something so I’ll uh- I’ll hang-”

“Canyoucomepickmeup?” Paige’s words come out hoarse and slurred together as she cuts Azzi off.

“What?” the brunette’s eyes widen, unsure if she’s heard wrong.

Azzi hears Paige gulp; can almost picture the blonde chewing at her lips like she usually does when she’s nervous, “I asked if- if you could um- can you come pick me up?”

“I-”

Paige begins to ramble before she can say anything, “it’s just uh- it’s just that the rest of team seems to be having a lotta fun and I- I think maybe I drank too much and my head’s throbbing and Evina says I should go home but-”

“Okay.”

“I can’t drive myself and I don’t- I don’t wanna ruin anybody else’s night-” Paige cuts herself mid sentence, taking a second to process what Azzi had just said, “wait- okay?”

The brunette has already slipped off her bed, rummaging around her bedside table for her car keys. She thinks she’s probably giving in a little too easily, thinks she should probably be more pissed at Paige’s audacity to not speak to her for two weeks and then call her out of nowhere to ask for a mundane favor. But it’s Paige. Her Paige. And Azzi knows that if the blonde asked her to show her the stars, she’d find a way to steal the whole night sky for her.

“Okay,” Azzi confirms as she slips into her sneakers, “I should be there in a couple of minutes.”

“You’re actually coming,” Paige’s voice is slightly dazed.

There’s a pang in Azzi’s chest at the slight surprise in her best friend’s tone. It’s a testament to how much has changed between them. Those unspoken promises of we’ll always be there for each other that had been the solid foundation of their relationship seem to be clouded by fears of are we still the same us? It hits her then the depth of the abyss between them. They’re stranded on opposite sides of it and Azzi just hopes they still have enough strength to build a bridge over it and get to each other again.

“Do you still want me to come?” she asks timidly as she steps out into the wintry Storrs air. It’s freezing cold but Azzi thinks it’s nothing compared to the way she knows her heart will ice over if Paige says no.

That familiar silence lingers between them as Azzi waits for Paige to say something. It feels like that’s all she’s done for the past two weeks. Waited. She’d waited for the answers to her list of ever-growing questions as Paige had pulled further and further away from her. She’d waited to catch her best friend’s avoidant eyes so she could try and decipher the storm brewing in them. She’d waited, arms outstretched, for her Paige to come back to her. But she thinks that if Paige says no now, if Paige decides to keep building this wretched wall between them instead of helping Azzi tear it down, then she won’t wait again. Because the weight of waiting is just too much and there’s only so much longer that Azzi can hold on.

“Evina said to go home,” Paige’s voice trembles when she finally speaks, “she said to go home and all I could think of- was you.”

“Paige,” Azzi whispers.

“Azzi,” and that same desperation from before echoes in Paige’s tone, “please come take me home.”

#pazzi #paige bueckers #azzi fudd #wcbb

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pussyisg0d · 24 hours ago

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photographer!vi headcanons

sfw & nsfw

note: hi ive never done this before. writing these i have like a chubby!user (reader?? idfk) in mind since that’s basically me! its not directly mentioned though

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sfw (slightly suggestive)

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photographer!vi who has to constantly buy new sd cards cause all she does is take photos of you

photographer!vi who begs you to pose for her when you dress up all nice

photographer!vi who tells you how pretty you are and how you’re doing so good for her, just to get you to smile while posing

photographer!vi who’s camera roll is just photos of you with the occasional meme, landscape photo, or workout photo

photographer!vi who lets you take photos of her sometimes (specifically her back tattoo)

photographer!vi who takes mirror selfies with her camera after just working out (definitely transfers them to her phone just to show you)

photographer!vi who’s job is to photograph events that she ends up bringing you to just to show you off (and show off her amazing camera skills to you)

photographer!vi who sometimes does portrait photography

photographer!vi who makes it known she has a girlfriend whenever one of the women she’s photographing tries to flirt with her

photographer!vi who will teach you how to use a camera and get extremely good photos (if you dont know how already)

photographer!vi who occasionally will record videos of you and her’s everyday life (like a little mini movie)

photographer!vi who will move you like a doll so you’re posed how she wants you to be

photographer!vi who has a portfolio dedicated to you…..and other parts of you.

photographer!vi who will literally cry if you buy her a new camera, one she’s been wanting for years

photographer!vi who will buy a polaroid camera just so she can have a polaroid of you in her phone case

photographer!vi who will constantly compliment your looks. “you’re so pretty today baby.” “you look gorgeous in this lighting.”

photographer!vi who tests all new camera techniques she learns by taking photos of you

photographer!vi who pretends to be paparazzi when you model the new clothes you got

photographer!vi who, when the time comes, will be super critical and specific on how the wedding photographer should take the photos

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nsfw

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photographer!vi who will straddle you and lift your shirt to take a photo of your tits

photographer!vi who sometimes makes you pose naked for her

photographer!vi who will get so worked up she almost drops her camera

photographer!vi who has an album in her camera roll dedicated to your boobs

photographer!vi who will take photos of her strap buried inside you. “hold still baby…”

photographer!vi who tells you what a perfect photo your blissed out expression would make. “think it’d be a nice one for the collection? yeah?”

photographer!vi who buys a tripod so she can set the camera to take photos while she eats you out

photographer!vi who uses that exact tripod to record you two having sex, making you look in the lense. “look forward. wanna be able to see your pretty face.”

photographer!vi who will rewatch the videos while getting herself off

photographer!vi who will have you hold the camera, recording while you ride her

photographer!vi who will show you the sextapes, much to your embarrassment. “c’mon you don’t wanna see how deep i was?”

photographer!vi who sets the camera in front of you while she has you bent over so she can capture all the faces you make as she thrusts into you

photographer!vi who begs you to dress in pretty lingerie for photos

photographer!vi who will rip off the lingerie 5 minutes later

photographer!vi who will give you a box full of provocative photos of her for your birthday

photographer!vi who smushes your boobs together for a photo

photographer!vi who takes a mirror selfie with you bent over the bathroom counter as she pounds into you

photographer!vi who praises you during sex just like she does when she takes your photos

photographer!vi who’s surprised to see you using what she taught you to photograph her abs whenever they tense as she thrusts up into you

photographer!vi who after your wedding makes sure to record the whole bedroom session. from beginning to end.

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lowkey got lazy here in the end but anyways teehee i love vi

©natssillygirlfriend ©pussyisg0d

#vi #vi x reader #vi smut #headcanons #arcane #vi headcanons #photographer!vi #violet #vi arcane #vi arcane smut #vi arcane headcanons #league of legends #wlw

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sai-int · 2 days ago

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LOW COUNTRY | HIGH NOON

johnny mactavish x reader

[PREV] [NEXT] [AO3] [MLIST]

yearning—they're both so dumb.

Two weeks fly by and Johnny proves himself in ways you weren’t prepared for.

The first two days after he arrived, you’d spent hours showing him the ropes, expecting some level of difficulty, some struggle once he got down to actually doing the dirty work. Sure, he could listen and memorize to his heart's content, but if he couldn’t do the work, he wasn’t useful to you.

But goddamn, could he do the work.

The day after he arrived, you had him shadow you as you worked. You narrated everything you did for the livestock and important things to remember. Shimmer was on a diet and needed a little less hay in her stall. The water in every barn had to stay cool to keep the animals from overheating. The sheep’s bedding came from cornstalks harvested straight from the fields, and the barn doors had to stay open during the day for ventilation. Dixie had to be fed alongside the sheep—otherwise, she'd get jealous. The cows ate soybeans, and their barn fans had to run non-stop to keep the heat at bay.

On the second day, you let him take the reins. He remembered everything, every miniscule detail, down to a T. You were there if he needed help, but he never did. He fed the animals—hell, he did it all like he's been doing it his whole life, like he could do it blindfolded.

It was almost jealousy-inducing how easy it comes to him. You’ve spent years building up the strength needed to handle farm work. You’ve got muscle, no doubt about that. Every long day under the sun has carved power into your body, earned through a lot of sweat and double the tears.

It’s unfair. It’s painfully distracting. He’s painfully distracting.

Regardless, you shove your pride to the side. This is what he’s here for, after all.

The division of labor falls into place easier than you expect. He takes over livestock care and you handle the crops and the house. But together, everyday, you both fix the fences, riding out in the afternoons with supplies in tow, patching up the weak spots before they become real problems.

You don’t speak to Johnny much during the day—mainly during meal times. He spends most of his day to the left of the house at the livestock pastures and barns. The main pastures are all sprawled out, home to about fifteen cows and sheep, respectively. You spend most of your time at the crop fields, which stretch to the right of the house, along with the old barn your family stopped using years ago. Too much upkeep for what it was worth. The cornfields are there too, easy to reach on horseback.

The stables sit in between both, a ways behind the house. The whole farm isn’t a big operation, not by most standards, but it definitely needs more than one person to run it. With Johnny proving himself capable, you both fell into an easy routine rather quickly.

Johnny's up at 7 a.m., like clockwork. He takes the biggest horse, Scout, and makes his rounds, feeding the animals breakfast, checking the water troughs and filling them up when needed. He lets the livestock graze before the sun gets too high.

By 9, Johnny finally gets a moment to breathe while you’re awake and already in the kitchen cooking breakfast. You found that if you time it right, you can get an eyeful of Johnny from the kitchen window. You’ve unintentionally made it part of your morning, standing by the window, mug of coffee in hand, watching him. You repeatedly tell yourself it's to make sure he’s getting the job done, but the more you watch, the more you find yourself thinking about him in ways that grow exceedingly inappropriate for a boss-employer relationship.

You should stop watching. If he were to ever catch you, he’d probably think you were some kind of freak. Maybe you should focus on the eggs in the pan, the bread in the toaster, but it’s hard to follow your better judgement with Johnny around. Pa’s been on your ass for how much toast you’re burning these days.

Breakfast is never fancy, but it’s solid. Eggs, grits, fried potatoes, sausage, bacon. Sometimes fresh fruit if you’ve got it, a pitcher of orange juice on the table alongside the coffee. Variations of the same spread every morning, something hearty and filling to start the day.

Johnny’s damn near worshipful over your cooking. It brings a flush to your cheeks each time he comments on it, considering Pa’s never had too much to say about it. The way Johnny reacts, closing his eyes when he takes the first bite, letting out a quiet “Christ, that’s good”- or he groans under his breath, making it hard not to feel at least a little smug.

You’re used to running the cooking and cleaning on your own: the dishes, wiping down the counters, making sure everything’s in order. Pa never offered much help in that regard. He’s traditional in the sense that ‘it’s a woman’s job’ to take care of the home, with all of its chores and domesticities. He’s stuck in his ways but he’s got a kind soul.

But Johnny does it all with you. Doesn’t even ask.

He waits till everyone’s finished eating, then rolls up his sleeves and helps clear the table like it’s second nature, like it’s part of the job description. He stands beside you at the sink, drying dishes as you wash, putting them away without needing to be told where anything goes. He just remembers.

Most times, you both wash in silence. The only sounds are the clink of dishes, the rush of water, the occasional scrape of a sponge against a pan. But you can feel his eyes on you, watching as you scrub a pot or rinse off a pan. He never says anything—just waits for you patiently.

But it does something to you. Makes you feel small in a way you can’t quite explain. Not insignificant, but exposed. Like he sees too much, like he notices things you don’t even realize you’re giving away. It sets your nerves on edge, tightens something low in your stomach, makes your hands move a little quicker even though you don’t want to give yourself away. It’s ridiculous, really. It’s just dishes. Just a quiet kitchen. But under the weight of his gaze, it feels like something else entirely.

His arm brushes yours sometimes—subtle and fleeting but often enough that it doesn’t feel like an accident. Like maybe he’s finding excuses to touch you, even if it’s barely there. And it’s nothing, really. Just the briefest press of skin, the softest graze. But it burns and it lingers. It sinks into your skin like a brand, like something your body wants more of, wants to memorize. You keep your face neutral in the moment, your hands steady. Inside? Your pulse stutters, your breath feels too shallow, and your mind won’t stop spinning in circles. It’s ridiculous, how something so small can unravel you like this. But god help you, it does.

You try to brush it off. He’s just being kind, just paying attention. That’s all. Nothing more.

You remind yourself to be grateful for the extra set of hands, for the way his quiet presence makes the work easier. It’s a small thing, really—his help. But somehow, it takes the edge off the mornings, makes them feel a little lighter.

Johnny’s makes everything feel lighter, now that you really think about it.

Mornings used to be a race against the rising temperatures outside—shoveling down breakfast just to sprint outside and make sure the livestock were moved to the shaded pastures before the sun got too brutal. But with Johnny around, you don’t have to worry about that anymore. He’s got it covered.

After breakfast, usually around 11, Johnny heads back out to do just that, while you get ready for your day’s work. You throw on something you don’t mind getting dirty—some overalls and a tank top, old boots, maybe one of Pa’s loose flannels if there’s a breeze.

You head to the stables and grab Shimmer, heading out to the crop fields. You pass the time, watering, weeding, checking for pests, making sure everything is growing the way it should. It’s tedious work, but at least now, you can actually focus on it. In a way, it’s calmer than dealing with the animals.

By 3 p.m., you've made your final rounds around the fields, harvesting some cucumbers and tomatoes if they’re ready, checking on the other plants to make sure everything’s in place. The heat nears oppressive, and you’re already looking forward to heading inside.

As you ride back toward the stalls to put Shimmer away, your eyes find Johnny by the sheep pen. He’s herding them inside, guiding them with an easy patience, keeping them out of the harsh afternoon sun. Even from a distance, you can tell he’s got a good handle on them.

Your gaze drifts past him to Scout, tied to a fence post nearby. Shimmer must notice him too, judging by the way she whinnies, ears pricking forward with interest. They’ve been sticking close lately, choosing to graze together in the mornings and evenings, grooming each other like they’ve suddenly decided they’re inseparable. It’s odd, considering they’ve never paid each other much mind before—at least, not until two weeks ago.

It’s still August. Scout’s still in heat. You make a mental note to keep an eye on him.

Your gaze flickers back to Johnny—jeans slung low on his hips, a plain wife-beater stretched across his broad chest—and as always, you try not to stare.

But Johnny has a habit and it’s downright cruel. When the sun reaches its peak and the heat settles thick over the land, he peels off his shirt without a second thought. Like it’s nothing. Like he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing.

And maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he’s just trying to keep cool. But sometimes—when he catches you looking, when the corner of his mouth quirks up just slightly—it feels like he’s doing it on purpose. Like he enjoys watching you struggle not to let your eyes linger on him too long, not to let your thoughts wander somewhere they shouldn’t.

You’ve never been so thankful for the relentless southern sun.

It clings to him, highlighting every sharp line and defined edge. His skin glistens with sweat, the golden light catching on the broad curve of his shoulders, the sinew of his arms as they flex with every movement. Thick and strong.

The first time you saw him shirtless, you stared. You couldn’t help it.

And of course, Johnny caught you.

His gaze locked onto yours, sharp and amused, and in that split second of distraction, you didn’t even realize you were sliding right off Shimmer’s back—not until you hit the ground with a graceless thud, landing in a fresh patch of mud.

His laugh had boomed across the fields, full and unrestrained, carrying all the way to your burning ears. You barely had time to process the sheer humiliation of it before you wordlessly climbed right back onto Shimmer like nothing happened, like you weren’t covered in mud, like you hadn’t just been caught drooling over him.

Played it cool. At least, you had tried to.

You shake your head, forcing your thoughts away from Johnny, and focus on putting Shimmer away. It’s easier said than done, but you manage, leading her into her stall and giving her a quick brush-down before heading back toward the house.

Lunch won’t make itself, and you figure you might as well get a head start—assuming you’re not completely covered in dirt from standing around, too busy staring at him to notice the dust clinging to your clothes. Which, if you’re being honest, happens more often than you’d like to admit these days.

At least he has the decency to put a shirt on before stepping inside. Small mercies.

You always whip up something light—sandwiches and a salad, maybe. You’re never in the mood to make anything too heavy. Pa skips out on lunch as usual, though. He always does, opting to head out to visit your Ma. She’s buried alongside a 200-year-old willow tree at the far edge of the property, the place that was always her favorite. Lunch used to be between you and a farm catalogue. Now, it’s between you and Johnny.

He never comments on how Pa slips away; he’s gotten used to the routine of it by now. It didn’t take long for him to piece it all together—Ma’s absence, the way Pa goes to kneel by the tree each day. He notices something in your eyes, too. He’s seen it in his own—loss. Grief.

When the aching sound of silence settles over the house—when the scrape of forks against plates is the only thing filling the empty space, when Pa’s vacant seat feels heavier than it should, Johnny’s hand inches toward yours.

It’s subtle, barely there. His fingertips just skim against your own, light and careful, like he’s offering something without asking. Like he’s reminding you, in the quietest way possible, that he’s here.

The first time he does it, you flinch and pull away before the warmth can settle, before the weight of it can mean something. But the next day, and the one after that, he does it again. Always the same way, always patient.

Day after day, you stop avoiding it.

It’s unspoken, something steady. A silent offering. He never asks for more, never demands, just open to let you take what you need.

Today, your hand creeps to meet his. Your fingers slide to hold his own so easily—so naturally. Your fingertips graze over his knuckles before slipping between his fingers, not gripping, just resting. His other hand stills mid-stab of a piece of fruit, the fork hovering in place before a slow, knowing smile tugs at his lips—soft, easy, like he’s careful not to startle you. He doesn't tighten his hold, doesn't rush, just lets his thumb brush along your skin, as if memorizing the feel of it. His consistency is comforting.

And day after day, without meaning to, you realize just how much you’ve come to rely on it.

Today, Johnny checks on the livestock one last time after lunch, but not before pitching in to help clean up. He’s quick about it, helping you get everything in order before heading out to make his rounds. He moves through the pastures, checking the water troughs, topping them off, and making sure the animals get their feed. It’s a rhythm by now—one that’s almost as natural to him as breathing.

You, on the other hand, head upstairs. The heat of the day still lingers in the air as you peel off your dirt-smeared clothes and step into the shower. The water hits your skin, hot and soothing, washing away the sweat, the dust, the weight of everything. For a few minutes, it’s just you and the steam, curling around you like a fog that keeps the world at bay. Thanks to Johnny, you can take more time for yourself, allowing for a few moments of peace.

Once you're clean, you retreat to your room for a bit, letting the quiet settle around you. The heat from the shower still clings to your skin, steam curling lazily in the air, and for a little while, you allow yourself the luxury of doing nothing. Just breathing. Just being.

But duty calls, as it always does.

With a sigh, you pull on something comfortable—old jeans, soft and faded in all the right places, a loose tank top that drapes over your shoulders, and a pair of boots worn supple from years of hard use. You leave your hair down, still damp, cool against the nape of your neck as you step into the hallway. The air meets you in a soft contrast, brushing against your skin as you shake off the last remnants of stillness and head downstairs.

Pa’s sitting in his armchair, the low hum of the 5 o’clock news filling the first floor. His eyes are glued to the screen, but you don’t disturb him, slipping into the kitchen to prep dinner. The knives feel familiar in your hands as you chop the vegetables you harvested earlier, the scent of fresh tomatoes, onions, and herbs filling the air. You sprinkle salt over the meat, massaging it in gently, knowing it’ll make the roast tender for tonight.

The clock ticks past 5:30, and at 6, the last task of the day is waiting. Fence checks.

You and Johnny do it together every day. At first, it was purely for convenience—two hands are always better than one. But now, you look forward to it—to seeing him again.

You grab your jacket from the hook by the door, the familiar weight of it settling over your shoulders, and step outside. The evening air is cool against your skin, the sky beginning to soften into a wash of purples, pinks, and golds, the colors mixing together like paint on a canvas. The breeze picks up, gentle at first, but carrying with it the earthy scent of grass and soil.

You make your way toward the stables, the gravel crunching under your boots in a steady rhythm. The evening air is cooler now, carrying the scent of hay and earth.

As you near the stables, you spot Johnny already there. He’s inside, leaning against Scout’s stall door, his back to you, speaking in a low murmur meant only for the horse. His fingers move through Scout’s mane with an absentminded gentleness.

There’s something different about him in moments like these—when he thinks no one’s watching. He softens. It’s endearing in a way you don’t quite have words for. And for a moment, you hesitate, just watching, before finally stepping forward.

You hum a soft, "Hey," and Johnny turns from Scout, a small smile tugging at his lips like he can’t help it, and he steps toward you with his hands tucked into his pockets.

For a moment, neither of you speak. You just stand there, caught in some strange pause, like you’re both waiting for something. His head tilts slightly, eyes scanning your face with quiet curiosity, and the longer the silence stretches, the more unbearable it gets.

“You talk to the sheep like that too, or just Scout?” you ask, blurting out the first thing that comes to mind.

He stills, processing your outburst before he huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Only th’ ones that listen.”

Before he can say anything else, you turn away—too quickly, probably—and busy yourself with Shimmer, running a hand through her mane like she suddenly requires all of your attention. Anything to ignore the way your chest feels too tight, your pulse too loud in your ears.

Johnny doesn’t move right away. You can feel him still standing there, watching, like he knows exactly why you turned so fast but isn’t going to call you on it.

“She givin’ ye trouble?” he finally asks, nodding toward Shimmer as you stroke her mane.

“Always,” you mutter, scratching behind her ears and she whinnies. “She thinks she owns the place.”

“Cannae blame ‘er. She’s got ye wrapped ‘round her hoof.”

You roll your eyes, but your lips twitch despite yourself. He’s not wrong. Shimmer huffs softly, nudging at your shoulder like she knows you’re talking about her. You softly push her nose away, shaking your head.

Johnny steps next to you, leaning his arms over the stall door, softly scratching the base of her neck. “That why ye bolted over here, hmm? Needed an excuse tae hide?" His voice is light, teasing—but there’s something underneath it. Something careful.

Your hand stills for just a second before you scoff, shaking your head. “Please.” You turn, meeting his blue eyes with a practiced ease you’re not sure you actually feel. “If I wanted to hide from you, I’d pick a better spot.” You’re almost teasing when you say it, but you do know the property better than him, afterall.

“Dinnae have tae hide from me, hen,” he hums, the corner of his mouth quirks..

You hate that it makes your stomach flip. Hate that you have to force yourself to look away, to pretend the warmth crawling up your neck is from the evening heat and not from him.

Johnny lets the silence stretch, like he’s giving you a chance to say something—anything. His gaze lingers, drifting over you. Taking in the curve of your shoulders, the way your hair catches the fading light, the way you hold yourself like you’re thinking too much but refusing to say why.

When you don’t speak, he exhales a quiet chuckle, shaking his head before pushing off the stall door. Letting it go, for now.

He nods toward the fields, “C’mon. Fence line’s no’ gonna check itself.”

You follow without a word, slipping out of the stables with him. Long shadows stretch across the fields, swaying with the wind-blown grass, and somewhere in the distance, a few cattle call out, their distant sounds blending with the steady hum of crickets.

Neither of you rush. There’s no need. The fence line is long, stretching across acres of land, and it’s a quiet sort of work—just walking, looking, making note of any broken slats or weak posts that’ll need fixing. He walks alongside you, the toolbox rattles lightly in his grip as he carries it at his side, the sound punctuating the steady crunch of boots against dry earth.

For a while, neither of you speak.

It’s not exactly uncomfortable, but it isn’t easy either. You’re aware of him in a way that feels impossible to ignore—the way his steps fall in rhythm with yours, the occasional brush of his arm when the path narrows, the way he glances at you when he thinks you’re not looking.

“Ye always this quiet?” Johnny asks, his voice low, barely disturbing the quiet, as if it’s a part of the gentle breeze.

You snort softly, eyes fixed on the fence as you mindlessly trail your fingers along the wooden slats. “Only when there’s nothing to say.”

“That so?” His voice carries easily with a sprinkle of amusement.

“Mhm.”

You keep walking. So does he.

Every so often, you test the fence with a firm press of your palm, checking for weak spots. He does the same. Occasionally, he stops to inspect a loose post, tapping it with the toe of his boot before moving on. It’s a simple rhythm—walk, check, walk again—but the silence between you is anything but simple.

It’s thick, growing heavier as the minutes tick by.

You can feel his presence beside you like a current, something you could fall into and get swept under if you weren’t careful. And maybe he feels it too, because every now and then, his hands twitch at his side, like he wants to reach for something, but can’t. Won’t.

“Ye ever get tired o’ all this?” His voice is quieter this time, almost like he’s asking himself more than you.

Your brows pull together slightly. “Of what?”

He gestures vaguely around you with the hand that isn’t carrying the toolbox. “Th’ same land, same routine. Mornings start early, work’s never really done. That ever get to ye?”

You consider that for a moment, kicking at a stray rock with the toe of your boot. “Maybe. Some days.” You glance at him. “You?”

His mouth tugs into something like a smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Nah. Never.”

You don’t know what to make of that.

The two of you keep walking, keep checking the fence. The breeze picks up, stirring loose strands of your hair. Johnny exhales a slow breath, his shoulders shifting as he rolls them back, working out a stiffness from the long day. The movement draws your attention, and for a brief second, you let yourself look. Really look.

The sharp cut of his jaw, the way the light catches on his cheekbones, the way his shirt clings to the broad stretch of his shoulders, still slightly damp from the sweat of the day. The gold cross dangling from his neck and the dark, miniscule birthmark that sits just below his ear. His hair has grown a bit since he first came. Maybe you could cut it for him, like you do for Pa.

You swallow hard and snap your gaze forward before you get caught. Again.

Another long stretch of silence. Another step. Another brush of his arm against yours—so light it could be accidental.

Could be.

Johnny stops when he catches sight of a sagging section of barbed wire, his steps slowing before he finally comes to a halt. Without a word, he sets down the toolbox and crouches, running a hand over the worn wood of the post before reaching for the wire. Testing its give. Seeing how bad it really is.

You watch as he exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly before grabbing the wire stretcher and a handful of staples. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even complain about the extra work—just gets right to it, like it’s second nature.

Rather than hover over him, you hoist yourself up onto a sturdier section of the fence beside him, perching on the top rail with ease. The wood is solid beneath you, not like the weakened stretch he’s working on now.

The sun is nearly gone, but there’s still enough light to bathe the fields in a golden glow, the last remnants of warmth brushing against your face. You tilt your head toward it, letting the heat sink into your skin, letting the evening breeze lift strands of your hair. It’s the kind of peace that settles deep in your bones, the kind you don’t appreciate until it’s gone.

Johnny breaks the silence first.

“If I’d’ve grown up somewhere like this…” He pauses, twisting the wire tight before driving a staple into the post. “I think things would’ve turned ou’ different for me.”

The way he says it—flat, almost absentminded—makes you hesitate. You’re not sure if he’s inviting the conversation or just thinking out loud. You don’t want to pry, but something about the way his voice lingers in the air makes you ask anyway.

“Different how?”

Johnny keeps his eyes on his work as he answers, pulling the wire taut. “Would’ve been normal, I guess. Wouldn’t have joined up. Would no’ have spent years runnin’ toward shit other people run from.” He exhales softly, a ghost of a chuckle. “Think I’d have been calmer. More settled.”

You watch him work for a moment, the way his hands move with ease, deft yet steady. He doesn’t look unsettled, per se. If anything, he seems at ease out here, like he belongs in the quiet.

“You don’t seem unsettled,” you say finally, tilting your head to him.

Johnny huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he pulls the wire one last time, before giving it a final staple to secure it. “Then ’m doin’ a great job at pretending.” His voice is light, but there’s something underneath it, something that makes you press your lips together.

You watch as he finishes up, hammering in the last staple before brushing the dirt off his hands. “If you aren’t happy here, you can always leave, y’know,” The words slip out before you can really think them through. “There’s plenty of families that need help.” It’s not a challenge, just a simple fact.

That stops him.

He straightens up, turning to you with something between bewilderment and confusion, like the idea hadn’t even crossed his mind. Like he can’t quite believe you’d think that, let alone say that.

“Ye think I’m no’ happy here?”

You shrug, glancing out toward the fields. “I mean…” you pause, exhaling as you look toward your boots, drawing shapes in the dirt with the pointed toe. “I wouldn’t be surprised. It’s isolating.”

Johnny sets the tools down in the grass beside him, his jaw tightening as he mulls over what you just said. It sticks in his head, gnaws at something deep in his chest. He hadn’t considered that you might think that—hadn’t realized he might’ve spoken in a way that’d made you assume he wanted out.

But when he looks at you now, perched on the fence, swathed in the gold, pink, and purple swirls of light from the sun, he understands why you would.

You’ve been here your whole life. You know the weight of isolation, watching things in your life pass by and disappear before your eyes. You probably expect people to leave.

And maybe that should be the case. Maybe he should leave—move on to bigger and better things. But when he looks at you—really looks at you—it doesn’t feel that simple. It can’t be. It’s not.

Your very presence buzzes with life, from your hair to the ever-present flush in your cheeks—from the heat or him, he doesn’t know. You’re sat on the fence like you belong here, like the land itself was carved around you. And maybe it was. Maybe that’s why he’s so goddamn unsettled. You’re everywhere; you’re in every breeze that brushes his skin, in each rooster crow that signals the wake of a new day.

He’s spent his whole life moving, chasing something—war, adrenaline, a sense of purpose that’s always been just out of reach. He knows the weight of isolation just as well as you do.

His throat feels tight as he finally speaks, his voice dipping lower, rougher. “I’m no’ unsettled because o’ the job. Or the farm.”

His gaze is locked onto you, unrelenting. Waiting. Willing you to understand—like he’s been holding this in for too long, and if you don’t get it now, he’s not sure what he’ll do.

And then it all clicks.

It’s not about the farm. Not about the work, the isolation, the long days under the southern sun.

“Oh.”

The word breathes out of you before you can censor it, before you can even feel it.

You’re the reason he carries tension in his shoulders, the reason he looks at you like he’s already lost whatever battle he’s been fighting with himself.

All at once you can feel the sharp pull in the air between you, the way his jaw tics, his breath slows, his fingers flex like he’s stopping himself from reaching for you.

And the worst part?

You wish he wouldn’t.

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je0ng1nn · 24 hours ago

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SHOW ME WHO YOU ARE (Pt. 2) — Hwang In-Ho

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ PAIRING — Hwang In-Ho x fem!reader

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ INCLUDES — basic Squid game violence, little bit spice, age gap (reader is mid 20‘s In-house is late 40‘s)

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ NOTE — Seriously y‘all, i‘m so so happy that you love my works🤍 i really appreciate all the love.. waking up to over 100 of likes on just a short silly fanfic means a lot to me, i didn’t expect to grow this fast! As a thank you, here’s the second part ! (sorry that this part comes out this late, i have a big blockade 💔)

(PART 1) | (PART 3)

We just voted, it ended up being a tie, which meant there will be another one tomorrow.. I looked up at Young-il, i thought we‘ll finally be able to go home now.. but it wasn’t, i felt myself getting really uneasy. Not only because of the tie, but also because of what happened back in that room. I don’t know how to feel about the whole situation, he killed someone.. to save us? And the kiss too, it got my thinking.. does he like me the way i like him?

We all went back to our normal place to sit as a group, again i sat between Gi-hun and Young-il, like always. I didn’t plan on telling the others, i promised Young-il not to. „Young-il.. Can we talk?“ My head turned to look at him, the others were deep into their conversation.

He was a little surprised at that, but he ended up nodding. We went to my bunk, „What’s up, little one?“ It made my legs weak, he really knew how to make a girl feel good, but i had to focus on this one thing.

„Do you.. love me?“ I asked him, his cold eyes slowly turning softer. „I do, but you’re to you-” I stopped him mid sentence. I expected everything but that. My world broke together, but i couldn’t let this sit on myself, I won’t let go of a guy like this easily, especially not Young-il.

„I‘m not Young,“ I sighed out, he was about to say something but i wasn’t done yet. „I‘m 23, i‘m not a baby, i‘m an adult now. If i want to day a guy that’s twice my age, i will. You aren’t my father are you? I don’t want you to decided on my life like this, please.. Just give one chance! I really like you.“ My voice got a little louder each sentence, but i could care less, it got me angry.

I know, 23 and 49 sounds bad.. but it‘s my life, if i want to date a older guy i can, i‘m old enough, right? Young-il just chuckeled. „What’s so funny?“ I asked, my eyebrows furrow. „You. You’re funny, the way you defended yourself. It‘s cute, but also idiotic.“ His hand went to touching cheek, his thumb slowly caressing my face. „I don’t care if you‘re 30 or even 20. You‘re brave, and you don’t mind saying your opinion. I love the way you kissed me back in that room, it made me feel younger again.“

„I love you more than you could imagine.“

My heart stopped at this. My impulsive thoughts took overhand. I kissed him, not even caring if anyone saw this. Why should they care anyway? Either way, this was the best kiss ever. Full of desire and love, passionate. I let out a gasp and he took the opportunity to push his tongue in my mouth. Our tongues were fighting with each other, Young-il‘s clearly won this fight. After some seconds, we broke the kiss, panting. He leaned down to me, giving my forehead a little peck. „I can’t get enough of you, i hope you know that.“

We were about to kiss again, but suddenly the door opened, out of curiosity i looked in the direction. Players, blood everywhere on them. Player 333 looked like he showered in blood. Young-il noticed my surprised face, he looked into the same direction. „Looks like they killed some people in the bathroom, hm?“ His voice was low, he didn’t seem to like that we got carried away by this sight. He knew i probably wasn’t into anything after seeing this much blood.

And shortly after, the fighting seemed to begin again, both teams attacking each other, arguing about who started everything. Gi-hun called everyone to him from the X team, to see how much players we lost. Young-il groaned at this, i didn’t think much of it and went together with him back to our group.

G-hun started to count us. 47. The other team had 45 which meant we can go home tomorrow after the next voting. I was happy and immediately clung onto Young-il. But the euphoria didn’t last long.

Soon after, Gi-hun had a little ‚meeting‘ with a couple of X players. I sat in between Hyun-ju and Young-il, as we discussed a plan. „They‘re planning to kill us during Lights out.“ Gi-hun said, my body felt numb at that. „What do you mean?“ I asked, just to make sure he wasn’t joking. „They have 2 less than us, they have to kill atleast 3 of us to win the next voting. They‘d do everything to win more money, and killing some of us would bring money too.“ He said, it sounded logical. „Then we should attack first“ Young-il said. I looked at him like he was crazy. I didn’t want to die after all. „No, it would bring unnecessary deaths.. we should pretend like we didn’t know it. When they start attacking, we‘ll hide under the bunks. When the guards come in to stop the game, we will lay down on the floor and act like we were dead, when they check us to identify us, we‘ll grab their guns“

„Are you crazy? They‘d kill us!“ Hyun-ju called out. „It‘s the only way to stop these games.. We have to stop the frontman.“ Young-il tensed up, i shrugged it off, maybe he was just scared. „But they‘d easily overpower us, they‘re probably twice as much as we are.“ Young-il spoke up. „And after all, the other players would be suspicious if everyone of us hid under the beds.“ He continued.

„Not all of us will hide, only the ones that are here,“. Gi-hun said, I quickly looked up at him, in disbelief „So we‘re gonna leave people to die? Just so we‘re gonna end up in a bigger risk of dying?“ Young-il‘s hand went on my thigh, going up and down in a slow pace. He tried to reassure me. „Sometimes it’s important to have some victims to save everyone else.“

I sighed, „Trust me on this guys, two of us will watch out, as soon as we see movement, we‘ll quickly tell you all and all of you‘ll go hide under one of the bunks.“ Everyone agreed to Gi-huns plan. I just did because Young-il did. I didn’t flex right about this whole situation.

2 Minutes until lights out. I went to my bed, all of us choose the ones at the bottom, so we could hide quicker. Young-il‘s bed was almost next to mine. The 2 minutes went by fast, i tried to fall asleep, but i couldn’t. My mind kept me awake all the time.. I don’t want to die. Gi-hun and Jung-bae were patrolling. I felt unsure about all of this, so i went to Young-il..

I whispered as i lightly touched him, „Young-il..?“ He turned to me, his eyes were sharp, but softened when he realized it was me. „Baby? what are you doing here?“ He asked, he pulled me down to sit next to him. He started to caress my hair.

„I‘m scared.. can i stay with you?“

So… I decided i‘ll make a THIRD part, because i currently have a blockade for this story, and instead of letting y‘all wait for the second part i‘ll just make a mini-series out of it🤍 I hope y‘all enjoyed it!! (thanks again for the support y‘all omg)

TAG LIST: @slovesyouuu @squidgame-lover001

#fanfic #je0ng1nn #squid game #squid game x reader #hwang in ho #frontman x reader #hwang inho x reader #front man #lee byung hun

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bots-and-cons · 12 hours ago

Note

I’m in the mood for merformers if you don’t mind, if you’re not up to it you don’t have to write it I know it’s not Mermay 😂 but could you do a Soundwave and human reader. Sound wave meets them because they are a marine rescue person and untangled (stingray) Lazerbeak from an old fish net when scuba diving.

A/N: I love the idea of Lazerbeak as a ray of some sort, that's so cute lol. I changed it to manta ray because they're bigger though, so it would work the same way as in canon, as in Lazerbeak can rest on Soundwave's chest. I've always imagined the merformers as even bigger than the robots are in the show. Also, I'm using the word "mermaid" as a more of a general term rather than a gendered one, because I didn't really know what other word to use

You were on one of your dives in a new area, when you saw a manta ray stuck in a discarded fishing net

You of course went to help it, because you can't just leave an animal in distress alone, it could die if you didn't help and you couldn't stand the thought of that

You didn't even notice Soundwave before he was already behind/kinda above you and casting a shadow

He was of course wondering what you were doing, and he was ready to interfere if you seemed like you were going to hurt Lazerbeak

He very quickly realized you were trying to free his friend, so he let you do your thing

You got the manta ray freed quickly and it swam behind you and you turned around to see a gigantic something looming over you

The manta ray is swimming laps around this giants head, and you were just looking at him, eyes wide as saucers

You'd never seen anything like it before, was it a mermaid or something?

If it was, it was an absolutely huge one

You didn't really know what to do, should you try to escape? Was that even necessary?

You didn't get a hostile feeling from this giant creature, so the two of you just stared at each other for a couple of minutes

You were of course very intrigued, because you'd never seen such a creature before, so you swam a bit closer

The giant stayed still and let you approach, but he seemed to be observing you just as keenly as you were observing him

Soundwave was wondering what you might have been thinking, he knew that the existence of his kind wasn't really acknowledged by humans, and it was rare for humans to ever see someone like him, so he was probably more like a myth than anything

You didn't dare touch him, even if you were very tempted, his scales were so shiny and a beautiful deep purple

The manta ray came back to you, it swam around you as if to thank you and then the due swam away slowly

You kind of waved goodbye at them and you noticed the giant glancing back at you for a brief moment

You started seeing him almost every time you dove in that area, often he was pretty far away, and you weren't even sure if you were really seeing him

He eventually started approaching you a bit more, but he still kept his distance even though he swam alongside you

Soundwave was intrigued by you, most humans he'd met harmed marine life or did something else he disliked, but you seemed very respectful and kind

You'd also helped his friend, and you didn't seem to be scared of him either

He lived a pretty nomadic existence, but he decided to stay in the area for a while, just to see if he might see you again

#transformers #tfp #transformers prime #maccadam #decepticons #soundwave #tfp headcanons #reader insert #platonic transformers x reader #merformers

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respectthepetty · 2 days ago

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The Heart Killers' Colors? - Ep. 11

I saved over 100 images for episode eleven of The Heart Killers’ so writing “I’m in my feels” in an understatement, and this episode beginning with this beautiful shot of the boys at descending heights, Style being the highest in pink, and the lovers reuniting at the center really emphasize this is a love story.

Style's shirt even says "love" and I need the GMMTV wardrobe department to get a raise!

However, I’m still pissed that the boys did not kill this man!

Liliana, I thought you raised them better!

But now that Black Brooder Fadel and Red Rascal Bison have found love, they are done killing (even if they should still take the shot).

And Style, the biggest lover of them all, makes perfect sense because I, too, would be acting a whole damn fool for this beautiful man and begging him to give up the hitman life since Style knows it doesn’t actually make Fadel happy.

So even though I’m already thinking about how good Joong and Dunk are going to look in Dare You To Death since this will be their aesthetic, I’m also very pissed that this white man is about to break up the these partners (in crime) since he doesn’t understand this Black Brooder and Red Rascal are in a LOVE STORY (with two possible Blue Boys, but I'm not here for those lies)!

Thankfully, Style’s dad understands what genre his son is in because even if I’m not sure about Style’s color, we all know he is deeply in love with his Black Brooder (who is wearing the hell out of that tank *bites bottom lip*), so it’s time he puts a ring on it, and makes Style Mr. Hitman’s Husband.

Even Kant understands this! I don’t think he even knows his color, but he knows he is in love with a quick-tempered and aggressive Red Rascal, so an exhibit about a volcano killing everyone is the perfect place to propose a proposal to him.

It’s also the perfect place to have these adorable inflatable suits with red (and blue . . . Kant, what is your color, bro!) on them.

But we all know the only reason for the suits was so the show could introduce this line into the mix. Kant and Bison have said the freakiest stuff in this show, and I appreciate First and Khaotung getting an opportunity to be play characters who are weird about each other.

Fadel can’t allow that though. He must out-weird everyone. But first, let me enjoy this scene.

Okay, now for my emo kid to show just how “weirdly romantic” he is.

I know Black Brooder Fadel is super duper emo (Paramore’s “The Only Exception” plays in the distance), but Style is just so in love with him that their perfect emo love story is healing my heart. Style is Death Cab for Cutie’s “I’ll Follow You into the Dark” (Love of mine, someday you will die, but I'll be close behind. I'll follow you into the dark) and I love that Style continues to prove that Fadel’s darkness does not scare him, but is the reason he loves him.

I LOVE THEM!

And now they are going back to the support group to share their fears leading to Style basically proposing. That’s my boy! He doesn’t need to wait for Fadel. He can propose!

And seal it with a kiss. They are my OTP!

Fadel is giving Style is heart pin, and that is a reversal proposal. He is giving him his heart. I feel the tingle of a tear of a forming in my right eye!

And now a romantic dinner after cooking together! This is “peaches and plum, motherfucker.” This is “In another life, I would have really liked just doing laundry and taxes with you.” This is “we deserved this domestic happiness, but even if we don’t have it, I’ll still love you in every version of us” and I’M UNWELL ABOUT IT!

Of course Kant is looking like an angel surrendering his tools, so Bison can claim him with a tattoo.

They are beautiful, and this calming blue light is physically hurting my feelings because now my left eye is tingling with a tear.

Fam, I’m going to be honest, I’m not doing too hot. I don’t give two effs about the colors right now. This hurts way more than I expected.

AND NOW KANT IS CRYING! Don’t have First cry because then my bitchass starts crying. Don't look at me!

FUCK!

Jojo, don't you hurt me like this. This is not HIStory 3: Trapped.

FREE MY BOYS!

#the heart killers #the colors mean things #color coded boys in love #episode eleven #They better be in jail for five days #five weeks TOPS!#let my boys be free #I cannot go through this again #they did nothing wrong #and even if they did . . . I DON'T CARE!#my eyes are tingling #DON'T LOOK AT ME

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muttsupreme · 2 days ago

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wide awake, breathing hard

just started my period after a prolonged ovulation (no one cares mutt) and i decided i missed being horny. written for people with periods that use she/her pronouns.

TW: smut, just about straight from the get-go. typical roman hijinks. somno that seems soft but he has ulterior motives because he loooooves you and your poor period pussy. i can’t tell if this is misogynistic or just romantic being ironic, but believe me, he loves you. PERIOD STUFF! CRUDE LANGUAGE! DUBCON (well…maybe noncon)! praise and degradation but kinda fucked in a sweet way. he finds you cute-slash-as beautiful as a goddess. roman films you without your consent and whispers commentary. rimming, roman eats your ass. breeding at the end.

A/N: technically thus far, nothing on my blog is 100% canon to My Roman Storyline (oh shit gotta actually write that — forgot i had to write my own story). this is just for fun. self-indulgent as fuck; nothing more, nothing less. also no beta. no anything actually i wrote this on my phone mostly in the tumblr app and said yeah that’s good enough send it out. so don’t take this as some sort of literary pièce de résistance of fanfiction, it’s 5k words that i would compare to a tangled ball of yarn. ur welcum

Roman kind of cares that you’re struggling, but not really? Because like, you love him. That’s it. You’ve always been a giver, and yeah, he’s always taken advantage of that, because that makes you feel good — useful, nice, hard to abandon is what Roman thinks you consider yourself. Aren’t you already? He doesn’t think too much into it.

He brings painkillers, he knows exactly what combo to use: three ibuprofen, two tylenol. Makes you some warm blackcurrant tea his mom gave him a long time ago that he keeps stocked up, which to him tastes like warm Ribena. He nuzzles your noggin instead of kissing it, not because he’s weird about menstruation, just because you’re in a ‘no touchy’ mood. Until you’re not. And he thinks that’s all good, fun and games, puts on a movie, Only You from 1994. A nice romcom should — will most certainly — soothe a chick on her period, he takes it as a life hack: a romcom and a warm hand on your tummy.

You fall asleep with some time. It takes time, he’s okay with that. He’s still in his work clothes, his dark blue button-up with the sleeves rolled up to show his forearms and those kinda stubby, wide fingers. They’re so soft and warm that they almost match your heat. His belt holds up his black slacks and your hand rests on it, like he was the one shedding his uterine lining. Your palms are warmer than his.

Roman’s dick twitches. The vein in his forehead just pops out, his eyes just lock in on you like if he looks away you’ll disappear. You’re warm, and soft, and malleable; you always take good care of Roman, because he needs it, he knows he does. But right now, you’re in pain to the extent that you’re allowing him to take care of you. You’re asleep on his side, halfway lying on him, not even paying attention as the movie finishes up. Your toes twitch and you occasionally make a little “mmn” noise in your sleep. It isn’t sexy by any means, but it’s so you. He thinks he’s sort of addicted to seeing you so intimately, open, vulnerable. You can’t take care of him like this. It’s his turn to baby you and he’s already plotting what he can do now that you’re so pliant.

Fuck, he feels awful. Not that he should, though, right? You’re like, maybe his soulmate. He adores you. He pays for your existence and you love him. And he loves you, in a Beauty and the Beast, trap her in my tower-slash-penthouse sort of way.

His black socks scoot against the bedding and blanket as he reaches for his phone. He goes to his text messages and searches some familiar key words from one day, scrolls until he finds a message from that day and opens it. Yeah, that’s exactly it. Pictures of his own dick hanging out of his fucking Calvin Klein tighty-whities, soft, limp, his untrimmed pubes peeking out.

He doesn’t really get off on his own cock, but he’s enough of a freak to hope she would. To hope her little clit would get all puffy and irritated and fuck — maybe her hole would clench around nothing. Flutter and squeeze like trying to milk a load out of him.

A few minutes after he sent that text, after she just gave a quick heart reaction to the prior, he sent another pic. His balls, full fucking sack on display. His texts after are almost frantic at her lack of verbal response.

Have fun playing out your fascist fantasies and ignoring me. I’ll be waiting here like a good little cuck. Come home whenever you’re done.

Can you just come?

Yes I mean that as a double entendre

You’re a bitch of a wife. When I actually marry you I’m gonna put a shock collar on you because of this

He’s always been supportive of your career. He’d just really like it if you could get it all out of your system sooner or later and become a good girl for him. You know, sucking his dick every morning, getting knocked up and worshipping his nuts to thank him. It’s really not that difficult.

He almost jumps out of his hot, horny skin when you move in your sleep. Just a little adjustment, tightening your leg around his thigh, squeezing it tighter like a pillow. His phone immediately turned closer to him, but slowly, he turns it off and lays it down, still on the bed. He may have use for it. He likes documenting you, likes knowing he has it even if he can’t bear to hear himself on camera. Still feels proud he has it. Maybe he’ll show it to Kendall one day, the folder of pictures and videos of you that you’re scarcely aware of.

His dick is half hard when he gently scoots his hand beneath yours in his belt buckle to unbuckle it, flinching at the sound of his belt clanking. He moves on to unbutton his slacks, unzip them, and palm himself through his too-tight briefs.

You’re there, you’re asleep, your poor, puffy pussy is free bleeding in black shorts, and his dick feels like a bull at a rodeo. Fucking jerking and bobbing at every new thought, which really, is every new opportunity. You’d let him do anything as long as he slipped in some shit you liked, something about how you’re a goooooood girl, or something about him being a daddy, or if you’re really out of it, something about emptying his balls so deep into you that you’ll be waddling in a few months.

Gently, so gently, he moves your leg off of him by the underside your knee, rubbing his soft thumb against the even softer skin of the underside of your calf. He’s surprised it soothes you so easily.

Eyes glued to you and his breath huffy, kind of sharp, he eases his slacks and briefs down to his knees, tugging off his socks as well, tossing those to the floor. No room for anything getting in the way on the supposedly sacred space of your bed.

His dick is flushed, but flagging. You’re on your side as he lays down on his, facing you — his hips where his face should be. His fingers pet your hair, slowly bringing your lips flush with his balls, your nose nuzzling the base of his cock. Like instinct, you shift your face a little. Maybe it’s some evolutionary psychological theory of propagation or maybe it’s just because you’ve done it so much, but you pucker your lips to kiss his balls, nuzzling in closer.

Fucked? Sure. But beautiful? Like Christopher Doyle on steroids. Wong Kar-Wai couldn’t fucking visualize how he feels.

“Uhn-uhn. Open, open up honey,” he says as you try to move away. His voice is quiet and squeaky, and he hopes you think it’s all a dream. Your tongue lolls out on him and you breathe out a pitiful little whine. Sweet girl must be having a good little dream, huh?

“Okay, okay. I know. I’ll do it for you. You just rest,” he says, sticking his thumb in your mouth for you to suck on. You do, and it makes his dick jump against his tummy. Bringing it out, slick with your spit, he rubs it along his cock as best he can. He should use some more, some of his own spit. It’s not wet enough. But he’ll deal with it. He doesn’t want any spit but yours on his dick, and he doesn’t wanna disturb your sleep. Yet.

He pumps his cock a couple times, but by the time he’s hard, he isn’t even sliding his hand up and down his cock. His jaw is clenched and he’s fucking your pussy — his hand mimics your pussy squeezing, trying to milk him, and his thumb occasionally brushing against his tip is a shitty imitation of your cervix.

He likes bending you, feeling his sticky cocktip kiss your cervix as he kisses you, thinks it’s real sweet. He’s kissing you with his lips and his cock, how domestic. Maybe he’ll drool his spit into your mouth as his cock drools cum into your cervix. The memory makes him throb.

He gasps quietly and removes his hand from his cock. Hands push your face further into the pillow as you naturally roll on your belly, tits smushed against the bed through your stupid oversized tee that he’s stolen from you countless times. “Up, up,” he whispers, not expecting you to hear him, but he makes you obey.

Waddling behind you to sit on his knees, arms around your lower abdomen from behind, his chest at your back, he lifts you just a little to remove your shorts. He pulls them all the way down your legs and off your ankles to throw them the floor, the same treatment that his socks got. Situates you so your hips are up, one of your more limp pillows beneath you, barely noticeable.

Fuck. Holy fuck. He spreads your legs with a quick, quiet mumbled whisper of, “Spread ‘em,” and stares at your hole for a while. A while, meaning a solid minute, maybe more. It’s bloody and he knows it’s a little tighter than usual.

You’ve been really struggling, haven’t had much time to take care of your pretty little pussy. Haven’t told him what you need. Poor, pitiful thing. Not that he would’ve helped you.

A glob of his spit drips onto your pucker, down to your pussy and further down to your clit. He leans in close to smell, smell the blood, your pussy. He doesn’t have any particular affinity for your period, but he does have a special interest in your pussy. Not just pretty pussies, just — your pretty pussy. Like Venus de Milo of cunts. Maybe that’s why he took you to see it at the Louvre.

Spreading your pussy lips, he spits directly on your hole. One thick finger pushes the spit in, see-sawing it in and out of your hole until your hole sucks it in to the knuckle. He’s entranced. With your asshole still slick with his spit, he feels the urge to rim you. But oh, you get so embarrassed when he does that, and he wouldn’t wanna make you embarrassed while you’re cramping. A tongue outlining that ring of muscle wouldn’t be very soothing.

So he does it.

Leaning down, scruff tickling your cheeks, he drools on the hole as a second finger just barely presses into your pussy beside the first. He lap at it, swirling, before the tip of his tongue dips in. He sees you squirm.

“Just a li’l taste test,” he assures in a hot breath against the hole, getting the idea to blow cool air on it. He does, watching it clench spastically, making him absolutely fucking delighted. “Calm the fuck down, Jesus. Just my tongue.”

Leaning up from your holes, he slowly tugs his fingers out of your pussy. He sniffs them with a quiet, soft groan before he licks them, basically makes out with them, until they’re clean of you.

His tip is basically fucking purple, not a drop of blood in his brain anymore. He lets his dick lead the way, notching in your hole with accuracy rarely shown. He’s thankful for it; now’s not the time to slip it in the wrong hole. Probably.

Just the tip, and he’s leaning his head back. His eyes squeeze shut and his balls tighten, and he bites his lip but it does nothing to stop the whine from escaping through his closed mouth. “Ah-fuck,” he moans your name, or rather, whimpers it. He’s entranced by your hold the minute he moves. The tip pops in, and out, and in, and half way out until he sees your hips jerk away, and he can’t help but push his dick in a little farther down past the tip out of instinct.

“Ro — Roman, no, Rome,” you say in a shaky voice, the left side of your lower abdomen aching just a bit as the pain meds wear off. “Why the fuck — mmgh,” you squirm, feeling the wetness of his spit on your asshole and his dick a couple inches deep. “Please, out, take it out,” you whine, scared, trying in vain to pull him out by scooting away.

“No — no, no, fuck,” he scrambles to keep you still, pins you down by the back of your neck. “I’m not doing what you think. ‘Kay? I’m not — raping you. I’m making love to you. That’s what I do, remember? Feel that ache? I’m tryna make it go away. See?” He pops the tip of his cock out and rubs it on your clit. Takes it slow, rocks his dick from tip to down near the base, lets you feel the ridges and veins and how his blood pumps through it.

You let out a noise that can only be described as distorted. It’s broken and scared and still sleepy; your body is begging for him to just stick his dick back in and blow his load in you, cunt clenching at every bump, ridge, and vein as he rocks your clit back and forth on his dick.

“Shhhh-sh-sh-shh,” he soothes you. His left hand goes to warm your front again, like a heating pad, as his right goes back to your pussy. His cock is rubbing your clit as he humps, and one finger slips slowly back into your pussy.

“You don’t — y’don’ have to,” you slur out, your speech still sluggish and slow with sleep. It’s uncomfortable, just a little, but his hand on your lower abdomen is so warm, so soft, that it makes you lean into him against your better interests.

“If you — ah — if you want, I c’n just blow you, or,” you trail off, embarrassed by the blood seeping from your pussy. It’s messy, and Roman generally just isn’t the most giving kind. Or maybe you just don’t give him the chance. Yeah, that rings a bell. Wonder why.

Roman knows. Roman sees straight through you the same way you see right through him, but you’d never expect it. He uses it as leverage whereas you use it for — what, love, comfort? Maybe his leverage is sort of like that. Manipulating you into calming down.

“Awww, is someone feeling insecure about their little puss puss?” Roman coos mockingly. “Don’t you worry. She’s doing juuuust perfect. Though I can see why you’d need some reassurance. You have, what, a whole lotta hormones and shit surging through you right now, huh?” He says in a tone where you can practically hear his scrunched-up face, filled with mocking disgust.

He giggles drunkenly, “That’s okay. Isn’t it? I don’t mind if my fleshlight is a little, uhhh…” His left hand on your lower abdomen makes a stupid gesture that goes with this face, both unseen by you but easily predictable by his pause and tone. And if his fingers nudging into you mean anything, that stupid gesture is that typical curl, where he raises it in a sort of confused fashion. “Fucking — bloody? Kinda hot. Like you’re already lubed up.”

He does not fucking help. It’s almost a game, seeing how embarrassed you can get, and he’s impatient to win. Roman likes to think he dabbles in cruelty (whereas he may say you have a PhD in cruelty just for not letting him lay all over you while you work), but he makes sure never to break his favorite toy. Well, not to the extent to which it can’t be fixed, at least.

And you can be fixed. The tears start bubbling over as the pain from before starts subsiding. It’s the worst thing of all, that you’re suddenly liking it.

Your pussy makes squelching noises, literal squelching as he fingers you, cock still under your clit, letting you lube him up by just dripping on him. He sputters out a giggle after you grind on him a couple times.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, definitely not sorry. “It’s just — you’re fucking grinding your clit into a diamond on me and — squeezing me like I’m the King of Cooch. And you were just begging me to stop earlier. Isn’t that a little, I dunno. Ironic? Fuckin’ hilarious?”

You know this game. It isn’t fun.

“Oh — come the fuck on. Don’t gimme that crybaby bullshit,” he jokes with a mix between a chuckle and a scoff. His fingers push deeper and his tone takes on a certain clarity, that mock seriousness, as if he’s in a courtroom, swearing in. “I will not…leave you, like this. M’kay?”

It’s a double-edged sword. Will he not leave you like this, or will he not leave you like this? Is he saying he’s not gonna walk out of your life, or is he saying he’s not gonna leave your pussy full of cum and sore, denied any chance of cumming?

You whimper. Your cheek is smushed cutely against the pillow and he has just the perfect view of it. He presses down, pushes you into the pillow. His fingers are quick, they push deeper, spread out, wriggle around a little bit, enough to push more pained whines out of you.

"Yeaaaahhh, I know it hurts — but you're the one who went and got yourself all worked up, aren'cha?" Roman says with a teasing lilt in his tone, like a schoolboy tugging at his crush's pigtails and then gaslighting her into thinking it's her fault for wearing them. It’s cruel to blame you for your own business, for not fucking — playing with your pussy enough.

“It’s okay. Daddy’s got you, just fall asleep. You hear me?” Roman says, and it sounds like the words reverberate in the room, like you’re in a cave where only his voice echoes and your cries and whines, your tears falling onto the pillow, are all just background noise.

You nod. It’s like a code word, a trigger that he’d Pavlov’d into you to calm you down. When you’re scared, or can’t sleep, or freaking the fuck out, that ‘daddy’ comes right out. It’s not like he likes it, not like he cares that he’s your ‘daddy��. He just finds himself crooning the word softly. Sometimes feels some weird inverse reaction to the word that makes him feel all nice. His jagged edges being cushioned in real-time.

His fingers pump and curl, wiggle around like he’s taunting you. A (not so) silent ‘I’m in control, boo-hoo, cry me a river’. He adds a third, squeezes it in there to hear you wince and whimper. Sees your blood, dark red on his fingers. You’re creaming on him, he sees it at the base of his knuckles. God, he could cum from this alone.

“Mhm. I know it’s a stretch. Poor little girl,” his cock jumps up against your clit at your broken whine. It sounds like you’re already fucked out. You gush blood, and to some extent, he doesn’t wanna imagine this being ‘actual’ blood; on the other hand, he feels the vampiric urge to sink his teeth in and get as close as he can to you, digest you. Maybe cannibalistic in a non-sexual, ‘I eat you, you eat me’ way; like how he’ll steal and wear your panties to feel close to you.

“Daddy knows. You’re gonna be fine,” he promises with a teasing lilt. It’s a false promise that you can’t help but believe. He pulls his fingers out, nice and slow, as everything has been; it feels like a whirlwind, like your head just can’t keep up, too dizzy, but he’s been so patient, so sweet, so slow. He licks his fingers clean again, letting the bitter iron and sweetness marinate in his mouth, then wipes them off on the back of your shirt.

You don’t see, you’re too busy being caught up in that brain fog, that nice dizziness that makes you feel drunk. You’re too busy letting tears fall down ever so often, feeling your legs twitch, feeling that ache return with a vengeance. Why is he doing this? A sob bubbles up and you let it out before you can catch it.

“Why’d you—?” Roman cuts you off, quickly. His cock lines up, he takes special care with pushing his tip in just a little bit, just enough to give that testing stretch of the elasticity of your pussy. You let out a breath, one you didn’t know you had in you.

“You gotta calm the fuck down,” he leans down, kissing the nape of your neck, one hand going over your eyes. You close them, you obey, even once he removes his hand. “My dick’s gonna help your cramps, but you gotta let him in. Gonna…shit, holy shit, gonna help you sleep.”

It feels good, his dick pushing deeper as you ease up a little. He’s about halfway in, and fuck, he whimpers like he’s the one getting fucked. You’re nice and slick, and his dick is all too eager to cum in you, fuck you nice and raw how he always does. Your cunt is so fucking warm, it makes his balls clench. It’s fucking scalding hot, holy shit.

Unbeknownst to you, Roman’s hand reaches for his phone near where he was lying earlier. He swipes to the camera and leans up, pressing record. He gets a quick shot of your pussy, too tight around his dick, the hole trying to draw him in deeper with every thrust.

“Daddy’s feeling a little neglected,” he pushes all of her buttons, knows she’ll let him do what he wants if he plays the right cards — fuck, even if he doesn’t play the right cards. “Can I kiss you, hm? Kiss-kiss?”

You nod and let out a broken little noise, knowing just what that means. He quickens his pace, pushing deeper, and deeper, until his cocktip nudges your cervix. His tip is fat and sticky and leaking pre against your cervix as he kisses it with his dick. It’s vulgar, and he’s getting it all on video. But he’d just as well get it on an audio recording, knowing your fucking squealing is what makes it.

Roman feels you squirm on his cock, feels you trying to push back. “Oh, good girl, huh? You feel that?” he praises in return. He places the phone beneath your spread legs, getting a view from beneath of your clit pressed into the pillow, humping it as his cock pushes into your hole, the sway and plap of his balls against you, his taint. And you do sound like such a good girl.

Leaning down against your back again, he grinds into you. He’s deep, it feels almost like you’re a bitch in heat who’s been pinned down, a bitch being used. Your cramps feel entirely second to his dick in your hole, varying from gently nudging your cervix with soft kisses to slamming into it brutally. He has no rhythm, and as he was before — he’s letting his dick lead the way.

His hand reaches down to your clit pressed and grinding into the pillow, his other against your lower abdomen, efficiently both pressing down for you to feel his cock even better and acting as a human heating pad once again. His thumb and forefinger pinch your clit gently, your hips jolting as he giggles sluggishly.

“Awhhh, don’t wike dat? Okay, okay. I know. Sweet little fucking…thing, here you go, bitch,” he rubs your clit, feels your pussy flutter around him. “You close already?”

“Mmuh-huh,” you murmur out through the pillow. “Fuck — oh, fuck, mmfuck,” you sob pitifully as he fucks into you harder, initially knocking the breath out of you.

He moves his legs over your hips, slamming his dick deep, balls smacking against you with loud, wet noises, the dark red that has trickled down even onto the pillow beneath you transferring onto them as well. “Gotta catch up,” is his only excuse. He’s seemingly forgotten about the camera beneath them both and any semblance of attractiveness.

His hand warming your lower abdomen angles you up even more, coaxing you into fucking yourself back onto him again despite how hard it is. “Wow. Lazybones. Come on, c’mere, help yourself.” He stops, a complete and full stop, the fingers on your clit pausing their movement.

He chuckles proudly as you pitifully squirm beneath him, unable to really do much of anything with his thighs around your hips and him lying on top of you, but you tried. You think that’s all he wanted, just to watch you try, know you want it.

“Good job. Still lazy, but hey, shark week and all that — I get it. Still love you,” he means it, even if he says it sort of jokingly. And to prove it, he starts pumping his dick into you again, rubbing his fingers on your clit real nice, just how you like it. You squeeze.

“Felt that. Oh-ho-ho, you think I wouldn’t? I’m literally in you,” he taunts. He feels you shaking — too emotional, too on-edge, too fucking close. “Hey — ‘s okay. Remember? It’s aaaaall okay. You can cum. It’s okay if you cum before me. You’re the girl,” he says, the weird misogynistic statement not really registering, just comforting for now, telling you that you can cum.

“That’s it. You can cum — if, if. You lemme give you a creampie,” he says, suddenly making this a condition, creating a conditional offer that you can’t really fully comprehend right now. “…Or, cherry pie? Strawberry? Raspberry? Red and cum-colored. Whatever.”

“Uh-huh, yeah,” you agree, to whatever the fuck he’s saying. You aren’t sure if he’s saying all of this extra bullshit intentionally to confuse you or not, but it’s doing the job.

“Good. Good,” he reassures, close to cumming himself. “‘Cause, y’know, I’m gonna empty my balls in you anyway. It’s just, the difference between ‘the wonderful conception of our firstborn’ and ‘rape’,” he says in a flagrant voice, and it clicks: oh fuck. You aren’t on the pill, he isn’t wearing a condom, and you just told him to cum in you. You’re surprised Roman knew that the whole ‘can’t get pregnant on your period’ myth wasn’t real.

You cum. Fuck, you cream on his dick so hard you can barely breathe. And it takes him maybe one, two, three pumps of his hips to blow his load. Whole time, he’s breathlessly mumbling shit, “Fuck, gotta make sure it takes. Milk it, yeah, milk that shit, suck that load real deep, mama. Fuck you with your fertile fucking — shit.”

He doesn’t pull out. After you cum, and moments after he finishes, he moves his legs down to lay on the outside of yours, pushing his dick deeper in you one last time, plugging his load up. You still drip, leak just a few droplets of pink-ish cream, a mix of his thick load and your own cum, with the tint of your liquidy period blood. He wipes what’s already dribbled out and brings it to his lips as he lays his fully body weight on top of you like a smothering weighted blanket.

“Mmh, cherry cream pie for sure,” he finalizes. “All-American. Taste so good, bring a tear to your eye, right?” he quotes with a grin you can feel against your nape through his scruff, then a kiss to your back through your t-shirt.

“Ho-holy shit, no, nope,” he stutters when he feels you shift, your cunt clenching around his dick on instinct, like some biological imperative to keep his cum inside while his dick’s still there doing that job for you. “No moving for another, like…hour? Whore. I’m too sensitive to just. Fuck you like a fuck train. So wait. Let it…I dunno, seep into your uterus.” Another kiss to your back. “Go to sleep. We’re sleepy, sleepy time.”

Your cramps are subdued throughout the nap. His phone records the visual of his balls against your cunt and the sounds of him snoring softly, for hours.

#figuratively shitting this one out real quick #written in one day as i procrastinated on stuff that NEEDS to get done by the end of the work week #so don’t judge me this isn’t how i normally write i’m usually more creative and complex i PROMISE this ISNT MEEE *hides under covers*#roman roy #romulus roy #hbo succession #succession #roman roy x reader #succession fanfic #succession imagine #romulus roy x reader #roman roy x you #roman roy fanfic #roman roy imagine #roman x you #roman x reader #mutt is supreme

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