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swordgrace · 6 months ago

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𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐀𝐋𝐌 𝐎𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐙𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃.

KINKTOBER WEEK ONE — RISK OF GETTING CAUGHT.

⤿ pairings: (S1) jon snow x fem!reader

⤿ word count: 3.4K.

⤿ warnings: smut (mdni), public sex, risk of getting caught, experienced reader, sub!jon, reader is definitely more dominant, heavy kissing, teasing, mild praise kink, cunnilingus, oral sex (fem!rec), p in v sex, unprotected sex, riding, descriptions of cum, soft ending

⤿ note: lowkey I churned this out pretty quick, this was so so fun to write! honestly this is also dedicated to @dipperscavern , a lot of their jon snow content fuels my inspo for him, so thank you!

“You’ve got to be mad.”

Jon Snow’s bewildered, sour Northern timbre rattled throughout the stables, twisted with palpable uncertainty as you led him back toward bales of hay. His stomach was coiled into knots — knots of excitement, but nerves seemed to prevail.

Ever the honorable one, he often cautioned you against these hasty, secret meetings you orchestrated. A sliver of him thoroughly enjoyed the exhilaration of it all, the thrill of being with you between corridors and in darkness.

Trysts like these were exceedingly dangerous — if any question came into being regarding your virtue or his honor, Eddard would have his head for it, and you would be scorned.

“Yet you willingly partake,” A quip as sharp as a longsword dug into his side, prompting him to huff in response. “If this is madness to you, Jon, you have not yet lived a life.”

“Here, of all places?” Jon countered, tone bordering along exasperation and subtle excitement. The stables weren’t exactly the most conventional place to couple, but your options were thin. He feared someone stumbling upon the both of you.

Glancing over your shoulder, you peered at your brooding paramour through a half-lidded gaze, head canting to one side. “Here, of all places.” You parroted, tone dripping with amusement.

Gods, you were such a temptress.

It was difficult to resist you, the prettiest girl he’d ever seen, the hem of your dress shamelessly steeped in several inches of mud. Even the Northern chill could not ice his bones in your presence, as warm as the sands of Dorne.

The both of you were caught within the throes of youthful affection and what he called it, love. It pained him all the more to consider the Night’s Watch when he had you at his side.

“You do not have to follow me, Jon,” You countered, one hand twined with his, steering the doe-eyed boy back into the stables, enough for partial concealment. This was as reckless as it seemed — but you cared little for it. “You can always turn around.”

A pleading groan rippled from his throat, yet Jon relented, chasing after you like a wolf nipping at your heels. “What happens if we’re discovered? Your brother would take my head for this.” He murmured.

The thought of Jory Cassel dismantling his head from his shoulders was a gruesome thought — but not before Eddard Stark got to him first. Jon shuddered, dark brows creased with permanent frustration.

“Gods, you worry like an old crone,” Your bubbling laughter made his chest stir with warmth, the sensation spreading toward his stomach. “Why, you don’t trust me?” You suggested.

With furrowed brows, Jon’s countenance told a different story, one of incessant fear and boyish nerves, ones that only flourished in your presence. He seemed to accept defeat. “I do trust you.” He insisted.

Inching closer, you pressed a palm against his chest, nail picking at the finely-crafted leather. “We don’t have long,” You murmured, tone betraying your playful facade. “I wish it weren’t always like this.”

Jon exhaled, a somewhat trembling noise that finally evened out as moments ticked by. He reached to cup your jaw, calloused thumb soothingly stroking at your cheek. “Someday, it won’t be. I promise.”

The constant sneaking around had become exhausting — Jon was shocked that no one had discovered you yet. Even then, as much as he fought against brash decisions like these, it was all you had, and he would seize the moment.

With a cheshire smile, you rocked up upon your toes to kiss Jon, reveling in the sensation of his weeks-old stubble scratching your skin. You enjoyed his rugged appearance more than that of a freshly-shaved boy.

Sometimes you forgot that he was nine-and-ten, more a man now than boy — but that was who you’d fallen in-love with, the boy. Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell.

He could’ve been anything and nothing, and your feelings wouldn’t have changed. A bastard or not, Jon meant more to you than most. He was kinder, not spoiled or surly, yet still protective when it mattered most.

Jon very nearly buckled beneath the saccharine warmth of your mouth, absorbing every scrap of heat from you. Gods, you were the first woman he’d ever touched, ever laid with — he hoped that you would be the very last.

Your experience before he truly became your lover never soured him to you — in fact, it made him jealous. If Jon had it his way, he would’ve been your first for everything, but there was no use in dwelling in the past.

Fortune favored him, knowing that he had you now. His hands, initially hesitant, finally made their perch against the swell of your hips. The lovely outline of your body molded itself to his palms as you kissed him, digits toying with his dark curls.

“You could change your mind,” Your softened voice drifted between the both of you. “About me.” It was a gentle sigh in between kisses, your countenance becoming a touch melancholy.

A look of complete and utter shock made residence upon Jon’s features, lips agape at such a statement. “I wouldn’t,” He insisted, hooking an arm around your hips. “You know that I wouldn’t.”

Jon knew your being like the scrawlings of a map — every fine line, every landscape, the valleys and dips of your heart. You knew him just as much, and you knew that he was certain about you. It gave you comfort, placating reassurance in the face of insecurities.

It brought you solace to know that Jon intended on being with you, even if your union was somewhat unconventional. It was a love whispered between corridors — stolen glances, a yearning that transcended duty, touching behind hay bales.

“Good,” Your assertion made his belly erupt with fire, stoked by your constant teasing and prodding. Jon savored it nonetheless, even if it did make his features burn with scarlet. “Are you blushing?”

Seven Hells — Jon nearly tossed you into the hay for your inquiry. He huffed, playfully pinching the pliant part of your haunch. “No,” He grumbled, silently commiserating over your observant nature. “But you don’t make it any better.”

With a laugh as bright as the first inkling of springtime, it prompted Jon to smile too, even if it was threadbare. A comfortable silence drifted between you both, simmering with a thinly-veiled tension, wreathed in desire.

Desire was a perilous thing, especially for Jon.

He was still somewhat clumsy during your lovemaking, inexperience glimmering through, but he was an adept learner. Jon thoroughly enjoyed learning your body as one would learn to wield a broadsword.

The ardor that glistened within your hues made his heart pound like a hammer against an anvil, steel to be molded by your capable hands. He was often the more subservient one in your union, not that he minded it.

Jon seemed content to become lost within your gaze, reduced to a mere pup. Swallowing the growing lump within his throat, he bent to kiss you, disarmingly gentle as he squeezed at your hips.

A beat fluttered between the both of you; love blossomed, yet lust flourished like a swiftly-spreading fire. Soft fingers found their purchase against the nape of his neck, preening through his dark curls.

Beams of a dying sun pooled in from the gaps in the wood, painting your features with burnished gold. It was nearly dusk, and the castle would be settling — Jon’s incessant worrying began to diminish altogether.

Lips tangled together, a sweet dance that stole every wisp of air from his lungs. Jon felt your palms glide downward, planting themselves against his chest as you wordlessly directed him to the firm bales of straw.

“Wait,” Jon rasped, voice hoarse with desperation. Before you could slip into his lap, you ceased, head cocking to one side. “I want to taste you first.” He wanted it more than anything else.

A coy smile caused your lips to quirk, and you sauntered backwards a step or two, back hitting the wall of the stables. Brazenly, you gathered the material of your dress in one hand, slipping it up along your legs.

Jon did not waste a second, moving off of the straw and onto his knees, crawling to you like a starving animal; a wolf on all fours. Those dark hues of his sparkled with affection, even as he parted your legs with his shoulders.

His tongue raked hot embers across your cunt, greedy laps causing you to shiver in delight. Nimble digits found their way to his crown of curls, coaxing him closer. “Jon.” You sighed his name as if it were a prayer.

It was ambrosial, your taste; a finest stout, the sweetest of nectars that stained his lips with your perfection. Jon sloppily lapped at your cunt, dutiful and attentive, ensuring to find every spot that made you gasp for air.

Nimble digits fisted into your tattered skirts, mouth agape as a myriad of throaty moans escaped you. Your hand roamed through his tresses, tugging and pulling whenever his tongue graced the pearl of your cunt.

Jon wasn’t tactful nor graceful, but passion and enthusiasm was all he really needed to please you. Each kiss he placed against your cunt drove you to madness, arching into the eager ministrations of his mouth.

If he were to perish, let it be between your thighs, exactly like this. An aching sensation throbbed along his length, straining against his leather trousers. He gripped your thigh, letting you rest one leg atop his shoulder.

The scratch of his stubble caused friction between his cheek and your thighs, yet it was a pleasant sting. You sang Jon’s praises, a myriad of hushed whines and wanton moans between the distant whistling of the Northern gales.

Warmth blossomed throughout your body, a familiar coil of heat unfurling within the pit of your stomach. A stab of pleasure struck at your nethers when Jon’s tongue briefly rolled over your clit, prompting you to tug on his curls.

A low groan rippled through his throat, reverberating as a grunt throughout his chest. He savored your taste, each twitch of your thigh, brusque tug of his tresses from your greedy hand.

Jon cared little for the mess, content to drink you in, rougher palm caressing against your thigh before trailing down to your calf. He squeezed again, to ensure that you were real and not some lascivious fantasy he’d dreamt of.

You were everything — flesh and blood, the lament that echoed his name, a lover so beautiful that he dared not look away. Jon did not consider himself a romantic, but he found himself putting in the effort with you.

He devoured you like a man starved, a hungry wolf, seeking its final meal. Jon continued to trace your cunt with his tongue, kissing you wherever he could. Your little tugs of his tresses often coaxed him further into your heat.

As his lips rolled over the pearl of your cunt again, your knees buckled, ecstasy mounting, electrifying your very veins. He did not cease, tongue stoking the fire, delighted to lap at your core until you forced him to stop.

Tugging at his tousled curls, you pried Jon away from you, flushed with a delicious shade of scarlet. Warmth permeated your skin, a heat that sank into your bones, kept you oblivious to the growing cold that came with dusk.

His chin glistened with your slick, pliant lips seeking your mouth. “You are so handsome.” You purred, watching Jon preen beneath the softness of your compliment. You thought him to be perfect in every way imaginable.

Rising to his feet, Jon did not resist when you began to push him back toward the bale of straw, palm planted against his chest as he sat. He was more than willing, peering up at you through thick lashes.

“You’re beautiful,” Jon reciprocated your kindly words, timbre steeped in an awestruck appreciation for you. His breath hitched within his throat when you slid into his lap, hitching your skirts up towards your hips. “Seven Hells.” He groaned.

Excitable hands grasped your hips once more, brazenly sinking towards your derrière as you kissed him. Jon’s sigh was audible as he returned such a heated kiss, brows creased in concentration.

There was a lack of uncertainty in his actions, and in the beginning, he was often unsteady and hesitant. Now, Jon touched you greedily, wanting more of you, savoring the sensation of your body pressed so closely to his.

Able to taste your own nectar upon his tongue, you allowed one hand to clasp at the nape of his neck, the other slyly working to slip beneath his tunic. Jon was growing in muscle, flesh as pale as a moonlit snowfall, broad-shouldered and comely.

Your dress would be riddled with pieces of hay in the aftermath, but it was all worth it. Your kisses were rather domineering, but disarmingly gentle. Perhaps your desire to take initiative always lingered in your entanglements, but your love for him never faded.

Jon let his kiss linger, lips pressing to your jaw, and then to your throat. A shiver iced your spine with anticipation, hand traveling from beneath his tunic toward the laces of his trousers.

It was then that you scanned his features for any hints of hesitation or uncertainty. “Do you want this, even still?” You uttered, lips tugging into a reassuring smile. He did not seem as nervous as before.

With a nod, he reached to cup your jaw, pressing a chaste kiss to your brow. “More than anything.” The rasp within his tender tone filled your stomach with an eruption of butterflies, gooseflesh tingling along your skin.

There was certainly no rush, but with daylight burning and Jon expected to be in his quarters soon, you began to act with haste.

Eager fingers unraveled the coase ties of his breeches, with Jon attempting to aid you wherever he could. With bated breath, you looked to him, brimming with a thinly-veiled adoration.

His hands held your hips, allowing you to maneuver yourself as you saw fit, freeing his cock from its confines. You hovered, soft palm guiding his length to your slick cunt. Jon inhaled — a sharp, poignant noise that signaled relief.

“Jon,” You moaned, grasping for his broad shoulders, still shrouded in leather. Gods, you wished you could see him bare, unobstructed — he was surely a ravishing sight. “Gods, I missed you.”

Jon groaned at the sweetness of your words, spoken through a wanton moan. He held you close, hands tracing the outline of your curvaceous physique through your gowns.

Twilight painted the skies above Winterfell, bringing with it the bitter bite of nightly chill and a canvas of stars above. Darkness settled in throughout the stables, save for the burning of dying braziers within the stables.

Even through such slim illumination, Jon could make out your countenance, a picture of beauty, contorted into a look of bliss. He was at your mercy, slumped back against some of the bales, letting you ride him as you would a broken gelding.

Intermingled noises of breathy moans and strenuous pants reverberated in the space around you, heat prevailing where the cold could not.

Jon shuddered at the feeling of your cunt, tight and warm around him, clenching around his cock with each roll of your hips. You took him perfectly, as if you were made for him, molded together.

It was a sluggish start, agonizingly so, bodies finding moments to adjust to one another, grow accustomed. You drew yourself up, his cock filling you in such a pleasant way, nothing discomforting about it.

The way in which you milked him, moved agonizingly slow, allowing him to feel your cunt tighten around him — it was nearly overwhelming.

The very image of grace, tarnished with lust; a maiden worth worshiping. Jon huffed, chest erupting with a string of pants and soft groans, lips agape as you adopted a steady rhythm.

His hands caressed circles into your hips, dark hues wide and mesmerized, doelike in their silent appraisal of you. Through the moonlit dusk of the stables, you met his gaze, blushing beneath the intensity of it.

A whimper of bliss bubbled from your lips as you became invigorated in your pace, rocking yourself up and down along his cock, aided by his grasp upon your hips.

The lewd, crass union of flesh against flesh joined the ambiance, yet all he could focus on was you, the lovestruck look within your eyes, exuberance glittering beneath. He kneaded along your thighs, squeezing when the pleasure mounted.

“Perfect,” A soft sputtering between exhilarated breaths, enough to ensnare Jon’s attention. “Gods, Jon, you’re perfect.” Such wanton praise nearly made him spill his seed into you then and there.

His hips stuttered, bucking off of the bale and right into you, cock reaching new depths. It made you moan, significantly noisier this time, enough for Jon to become mildly concerned about someone investigating.

A familiar coil of heat began to unfurl within the pit of your stomach, just as it did his own. Jon sat up enough to seize your lips in a kiss, one that blossomed with passion, letting his affections bleed through.

Your pace was tantalizing, nothing too swift to let it feel sloppy and rushed, yet fervent enough to make his head swim with the haze of desire. Jon’s mouth did not part from yours until you drew away, only to release another moan.

Jon fought against his release, not wanting it to end so quickly, stomach tight as could be. He let out a string of sighs, vocalizing your comeliness, digits squeezing into your hip once more.

“Don’t stop.” He huffed, and if he could plead with you, he would’ve. Your current rhythm was perfect, made to torment him as you sank yourself down upon his cock again.

Your cunt clenched pathetically, snug around his length as you continued to ride him, his cock bottoming out within you. It was a perfect storm of sensations, ones that made you delirious with desire, crying out to the heavens.

It was your release that came first, and it was swift — the intensity of it nearly blinded you, white-hot and sticky as you began to still. The tightness of your cunt sent Jon cascading over the edge.

Jon’s swift thinking caused you to move off of him, with seconds to spare as he spilled himself across your thighs, ropes of seed painting your flesh. Embarrassment rippled through him, but you understood why he didn’t come undone inside of you.

Chests rose and fell with labored sighs, basking in the aftermath of your tryst. Pieces of straw had stuck themselves to your dress, to his clothing, to his dusky curls.

It was difficult not to let your seriousness diminish in the wake of your orgasm, body tingling with such bliss. You couldn’t help but giggle at the ridiculousness of this — the stables, the disheveled hay, your recklessness.

He found himself smiling with you, dutifully assisting in cleaning his seed off of your thighs with the handkerchief tucked away within his tunic. Your shared joy brought him comfort.

“What will Lord Stark think of your unkempt state?” You teased, plucking golden twigs of hay from his hair, nose wrinkled with mild amusement. “Romping around in the hay?”

Jon huffed, eyes crinkling with mirth as he pulled you in for a kiss, allowing it to linger, knowing that he would be parted from you soon enough. “If I’m lucky, Lord Stark won’t see me.” He mused.

You would pray to the Old Gods that Jon was not accosted by his stern-faced father. “If you’re unlucky?” It was not something that Jon wanted to consider, but he did for the sake of your playful inquiry.

“We’ll have to find a different location.”

#jon snow x reader #jon snow x you #jon snow x y/n #game of thrones #game of thrones x reader #game of thrones smut #game of thrones imagine #hotd x reader #got x reader #jon snow #jon snow smut #jon snow fanfic

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parfaitblogs · 5 months ago

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making the bed ❀ s. reid x reader

in which your night crumbles around you, and spencer is happy to pick up the pieces.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: hurt/comfort tags: established relationship. (prior) alcohol consumption. reader is semi-drunk (but sobers up). post drinking depression. healthy alcohol information/discussion 🫡 word count: 2.1k a/n: do not read too much into this for you will begin to question why i still enjoy going clubbing. (joke...) 😄 plsss tell me if u liked this or even if u didnt thank u i love uuuuuu

Alcohol is a depressant.

You remembered the God awful lecture your boyfriend had given you when you woke up one Sunday morning with this feeling of existential dread, and nothing to pin it to. A ramble about how alcohol can temporarily increase the body's production of dopamine and serotonin when entering, causing a worse crash of both chemicals when it leaves. Leaving you, evidently, depressed and anxious after a big night.

You knew that.

You also knew how quick you were to seclude within your mind when you were with people. Too many drinks and not enough social interaction tended to lead to your own isolation, sitting on the outer edge of the booth, absentmindedly playing with the charm on the end of your phone.

The room no longer spun the way it had an hour ago. You missed when it spun. When it spun, you weren't thinking about how little you had to contribute to the conversations your friends were having. You weren't tallying up how many drinks you had already drank, then falling flat when you realised you couldn't remember, and that was a thought more horrifying than knowing it was over ten. You were fun, when the room was a carousel.

Now, it's simply overwhelming. Loud chattering from both your table, and the surrounding ones. Clinking of glasses at the bar. A sports game on the television across the room. Balls on a pool table being dispersed for the first time in a game. Dancing feet. Music. People. So many fucking people.

Your phone buzzes against the table, and you pick it up before any of your friends could turn their heads to see where the vibrations were coming from. You figured they were too drunk to conclude it was you, anyways. Or to care.

Spencer had texted you fifteen minutes ago to check in on you, and though it wasn't long ago, you not responding immediately in a flurry of half strung together sentences and emojis was worrying for him. That was probably why his name was now lighting up your screen, a funny photo of him mid-bite of an ice cream as his contact photo, enlarged.

You hadn't responded for no reason other than the fact that you had no will to. Which should've been a big enough red flag to yourself that you should text him, and you should ask if he can pick you up. Thankfully, he loved to prove how well he could read you, and he was calling you anyways.

"Hi," you mumble into the phone, angling your body away from your friends, hand held up to your other ear to block out some of the noise the best you could.

"Hi," he parrots back to you. "You okay?"

An automatic yes manifests on your tongue, but you're quick enough to keep it to yourself before you can lie to him. Instead, you let out a quiet, "No."

He seems to have expected that answer, for he leaves no silence in between your admission and his response. "What can I do to help?" He also seems to be expecting your hesitance at asking him for anything that would require him to move, because he adds, "I can pick you up. Do you want me to pick you up?"

"Yes. Please?"

"I'm already leaving," he tells you, and you can hear his shoes against the wooden floor of his apartment to confirm that. "Did something happen? Are you safe?"

"No, nothing happened. I'm safe," you reassure him. "I started feeling sick so I stopped drinking an hour ago. Now I'm just sad."

"You remember what I told you about it being a depressant?"

"Vividly," you mutter, and while it isn't meant to be funny, you hear him huff a short laugh anyways. It makes you feel a little better.

"It's important to know," he defends. "I'm sorry I shared important information with you."

"Mm."

Your lack of a verbal response was expected, but he still hated the sound of it regardless. You heard him sigh. "I have to hang up now. I'll be there in forty minutes. Will you be okay?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. I love you."

"Love you too."

No matter how much time had passed, your head lifted every time the door — that your group was so conveniently close to — opened, letting in a rush of cool air and sobering you up with every hit of it.

True to his word, Spencer was entering the bar after forty minutes, face scrunching up at the sudden onslaught of noises and visual stimuli. Same boat as you, only he had not a drop of alcohol in his body. At least you weren't crazy about it being overstimulating.

"This is why I don't go to bars," he says once he's approached your booth, and you had stood up next to you, his hand finding an automatic place on your waist.

"It's usually not this bad," you tell him, but he decides not to ask you anything else upon hearing just how exhausted your voice sounds. You're grateful for that.

The goodbye to your friends is quick, Spencer rattling off a lie about him needing you home for he had work early the next morning, and you only had one key to the apartment. Even the friends who knew that wasn't the case didn't comment on it, and you made a pointless mental note to thank them for it later. You knew you wouldn't.

The drive home was even faster. Silence, aside from the rush of the wind from your slightly cracked window as Spencer drove, that helped the sick feeling in your stomach from the alcohol you had consumed.

It didn't seem to help the hollowness of your chest, though.

You weren't sure if anything would, really. A chemical imbalance in your brain — even one as temporary as the deflation from being drunk — was hard to fix without medication. It would go away, yes. But then you would make the mistake of drinking once more, and you would find yourself back in this brain peeling predicament.

You showered alone. Despite Spencer's offer to join you, and your own personal desire for him to be there with you. It didn't help your fogged mind at all, and you were exiting the bathroom feeling like you had retreated further into your bones. Every movement felt clunky, your skin a heavy coat to your skeleton, restricting your movement down to short shuffles and barely lifted arm movements.

He was reading when you reentered your bedroom, and you've never seen him put a book and his glasses back on his bedside table faster. He looked visibly tired. Keeping himself awake a seemingly difficult struggle, that you could feel your body heading towards to as well.

"Hey," he says as you climb into the bed, and he's very patient as you figure out what position you want your bodies in. Head on his chest, but next to him, you had decided on, and his fingers entangled into your hair.

"Hi," you mumble, staring up at the ceiling, counting brush strokes of the paint, as if it were possible to.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

You huff at the phrase, tilting your head upwards so your eyes could land on him. "Do you have a penny?"

He pauses, then angles his head closer towards yours. "Okay, kiss for your thoughts?"

"That'll just distract me."

"Is that what you want?"

You should say no. Arguably the last thing you should be doing when you're sad is let intimacy with your boyfriend distract you. But then again, you're not the best advocate for healthy coping mechanisms anyways.

"Maybe."

"Maybe?" he muses, and his lips brush against yours. Your heart flutters.

"I don't really know what I want," you settle on telling him, honestly. "I want my brain to shut up."

His body deflates beneath you, and you feel guilt chip away up your spine at the killing of the less depressing atmosphere.

"Sorry," you mumble.

"No. It's good. Be honest with me," he reassures you, quietly. His fingers tap at your scalp, "What's going on up here?"

"I'll cry if I try to verbalise it."

"Crying's good for you, you know," he hums.

"I'm pretty sure I still have eyeliner in my waterline. I'll just stain your sheets," you retort.

"Yeah, probably. That's fine."

You're silent for a few moments, gathering your thoughts in your brain the best you could despite yourself, before you sit up, his hand dropping to the bed beside you.

"I just don't like being... here? Out? I don't know. I'm just really sick of being sad every time I drink. Is there something wrong with me? Did you get sad whenever you drank? Everyone else I know loves going out for drinks because they have fun and they're giggly drunks, or they're clingy drunks. And if I drink too much then I'm a fucking sad drunk, and I'm the only person I know that gets that way. I want to be normal."

He's silent your entire rant, and then some, waiting for your heaving chest to slow, having caught the few tears that slipped down your cheeks. You were grateful — you needed that time.

He reaches a hand out, and you let him tug you back down to the bed, slotting your body atop his own, just so he could see you properly.

"To answer your question, no, I didn't get sad when I drank," he says, brushing your hair out of your face, before his hands rest on either side of your face. "But I wasn't really happy, either. I just talked more."

"You already talk a lot."

His lips twitch. "I do. Double whatever you think my worst is, and that was me drunk. Focus on the part where I said I wasn't a happy drunk, please."

"But you weren't sad. So there is something wrong with me."

"No, there's not. Alcohol is a depressant," he punctuates his words with a kiss to your nose, which you gratefully accept despite your emotions. "Are you willing to give up alcohol as a whole?"

"My friends will think I'm boring, then."

He hesitates in his response, but ultimately settles on asking, "Do you think I'm boring because I don't drink?"

"No. Obviously not. And you have a real reason for not drinking, so—"

"—and being sad isn't a real reason to not drink?"

Taken aback by his sudden sternness, you go quiet, breath hitching within your throat. He was right, ultimately. No reason is reason enough. You knew that.

Sensing your discomfort at his tone, he expels a breath of air and lowers his hands down to your hips. His voice drops to something a little less harsh, as he murmurs, "You are allowed to not want to drink alcohol if you don't like the way it makes you feel. If your friends think you're boring for that, then they're not worth it."

You silently nod your head, beginning to curse your emotional regulators. For while you had kept your tears at bay for the vast majority of this conversation, it seemed all it took was the gentle rubbing of circles onto your hip bones, and a fact checked piece of life advice from your boyfriend to make you cry.

"Sorry," you sniffle, dropping your head to the crook of his neck to hide your newly tear stricken face.

"Crying's good for you," he repeats his earlier words, and feels you nod your head. "You don't have to decide tonight. I'd encourage you not to, actually. You're technically still intoxicated."

"I'm sober," you protest, weakly.

"Okay, honey." He's only agreeing with you to wane any further argument. "I don't think your friends will think you're boring, though, if that's any help."

"I don't think they will either."

He nods his head, and you're relaxing against him a little more.

"Are you just trying to not be the only loser who doesn't drink?" you mumble, voice muffled by his skin.

"You've caught me."

He relishes in the laugh that leaves your lips, and he places the gentlest of kisses on the side of your head, which prompts you to lift it to look at him again.

"You're not a loser for not drinking," you say, and his lips pull into a smile.

He leans his head up, brushing his lips against yours, despite the mix of mint toothpaste and alcohol on your tongue. "I know. You wouldn't be either."

"I know."

your reblogs and replies are always appreciated ♡

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starmapz · 2 months ago

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what you know - ch10: miscalculation || 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. mutual pining. 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 ; 12.5k.

main masterlist || series masterlist || previous chapter || next chapter

The campus feels quieter than usual without Sukuna’s presence. It’s not as though he’s particularly loud or boisterous, he simply demands attention with his demeanor. Of course, you knew he wouldn’t be at lunch, but it doesn’t change the fact that you find yourself drifting away from the topic at hand quite frequently. Uraume, sitting in what’s usually Sukuna’s seat, finds themself nudging you every so often just so that your friends can hold your attention for a few moments.

But Shoko and Kento can only pull you aside so many times. It’s not like you’re unhappy, so they can’t be upset with you, but it doesn’t ease their concerns.

As the lunch hour ends and you snap a lid over your tupperware, you’re surprised when Toji drops a strong hand over the container, staring at you intently to stop you from getting up. Peering at him with a raised brow, you tilt your head.

“Got a minute?”

“Um- yeah,” you smile, peeking at the time on your phone. “I have a few minutes before class.”

“Great.” Toji pushes to his feet, letting you throw the container he’d held down into your bag before leading the way out into the frigid air. Your breath billows around you as you trail after Toji’s long strides. Finding a spot with an overhang, he takes a seat on a dry bench pressed against the brick of the lunch hall. It’s not warm, but at least it’s free from snow. You take a seat beside him, kicking at a pebble by your foot.

You’re thoroughly ready for winter to be over, sick of the chilly walks between classes and waiting for your car to warm up. Nothing sounds nicer right now than being able to go back to cute sundresses and shorts with a tank top, only needing to throw on a hoodie during cool mornings and nights.

Turning your attention to Toji on your right, you shoot him a curious smile. “What’s up, Toji?”

“Sorry ‘bout yesterday,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair. As usual, it falls back into his face, clearly bothering him as he scowls at the feeling of raven strands tickling the bridge of his nose.

“It’s fine,” you mirror his sigh. “It’s not your fault. He’s like that,” you shrug.

Toji rolls his eyes. “Yeah, no fuckin’ kidding.” He shoves his hands in his pockets as he leans back against the brick wall. His unimpressed emerald eyes train on a dripping icicle clinging to the overhang above. “Who else knows ‘bout the kids?”

You hesitate, not really sure it’s your place to say, but you also get the feeling that Toji has no intention of backing down. Toji is the emphatic version of Sukuna, with all the attitude, but lacking in stoicism. He’s far more vocal with his disdain than Sukuna usually is.

“Uraume, Shoko, and Kento know.”

“Shoko and Kento?” He parrots in disbelief. “Oh yeah, let’s tell the whole fuckin’ peanut gallery, but not Toji.” He puffs out a breath of air, rolling his eyes. “Shit, I knew the fucker didn’t care ‘bout me, but he ain’t close to them either,” he huffs, pulling his hood up over his head. “Nothin’ against y’r friends. Sometimes I just feel so fuckin’ stupid when it comes to that dumbass.”

“I get it.” You kick your heel against the packed snow at your feet, staring at the indentation left behind. “I think he still cares about you,” you offer, though there’s not much else to be said in Toji’s favor about the situation. “He’s just…”

“An asshole,” he snorts, leaning forward on his knees.

With a tight-lipped smile, you lean back against the rough bricks behind you, understanding immediately why Toji isn’t leaning back anymore. It isn’t particularly comfortable. “Was he different when you guys were kids?”

“Mmm…” Toji hums in thought, tilting his head side to side as though to say ‘somewhat’. “He’s never been a saint, but Jin kept ‘im in line. We played a lot of basketball, his kid brother liked watchin’.” Toji smiles to himself, the scar on his lip stretching. “He was always a bit more into skatin’ and art than sports, though. He had every old court tagged somewhere.”

You tilt your head curiously, engrossed in learning more. “Tagged?”

Toji smirks, tilting his head to get a better look at you. “Graffiti.”

“Oh!” Your eyes widen, glimmering as you learn more about a younger Sukuna, before he became so jaded. “Was he always quiet?”

“Nah. Wouldn’t say he was chatty, but he wasn’t so tough to have a conversation with. He was always draggin’ me along to some new place he wanted t’ paint,” Toji gruffs, raising a hand to his chin to scratch at faint stubble. “Always thought it was weird he just stopped wantin’ to do anything. Guess I know why now,” he sighs, idly moving to pick at his nails, which are already fairly destroyed.

“I’m really sorry, Toji. It sounded like Jin meant a lot to you.”

With a long, deep inhale, Toji nods. “Yeah. Yeah, he did. Always will.” He swallows hard, harshly rubbing his eyes. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was about to cry. He doesn’t seem like he’s the type to cry often, but if Jin was as much of a father to him as he’d made it sound, you can only imagine he’s more beat up than he’s letting on.

The raven-haired man lets his hair drape over his face as he leans on his knees, his gaze glued to the ground. You’re keen enough to notice that it seems like he’s attempting to mask how upset he truly is, but you don’t know him well enough to offer much more than words of sympathy.

“I always wondered what happened f’r him to change so much. God-” Toji shakes his head, rubbing his face against the back of his forearm. “He’s such a fuckin’ prick. I knew Jin got sick but I never thought-”

Whether his voice breaks or he cuts himself off, you aren’t sure. With your brow drawn together as you listen intently, all you can do is watch as he turns his head away.

Toji clears his throat, his gaze kept firmly on the ground. “Did you talk to ‘im after I left?”

“A bit. He told me you guys didn’t talk about that sort of stuff when I asked why he didn’t tell you.”

Toji shoots you a look of utter disbelief, his lip curling in frustration as he narrows his gaze. You see now that his eyes have a red sheen to them. “That was his excuse?”

With a tight-lipped smile, you shrug.

“Christ,” he groans. “What a dumbass. Guess Jin takin’ me in every time I got kicked out didn’t mean anything to ‘im.”

You chew on your lip, uncertain of how to answer that. Clearly things are a bit more gray than how Sukuna considered their friendship, but you can’t exactly say where you stand when it comes to being in the middle of them. Toji’s unequivocally in the right to be every bit frustrated with Sukuna, but you hardly know the man.

Sighing, Toji pulls his phone from his pocket, getting to his feet. “I gotta get to class. Thanks for this.”

“Sounds good!” You get to your feet as well, getting ready to make your way to class. “Oh-! Um, Toji?”

The raven-haired man doesn’t say anything, turning to face you with one hand on the strap of his backpack and a look of mild discontentment. You pull your bag strap up over your shoulder, clinging to it tightly.

“Please don’t give up on him. He needs the help.”

Toji’s sharp gaze flickers between yours, examining the curl of your brow as you hopefully fiddle with the fabric beneath your fingertips.

Blowing out a breath of air from his nose, he shoots you a half-hearted smirk before turning to walk towards his class with a wave.

You pray to whoever will listen that that’s Toji’s version of saying he’ll hear you out.

–

The past week after your chat with Toji has not been kind to you, and as you wait for Sukuna to open his door late in the evening, you find yourself just about ready to pass out. You want to lean your head on the door and let sleep take you right then and there, but at least you can get some rest soon- even if it will be strange falling asleep in a foreign environment- Sukuna’s apartment.

As Sukuna swings the door open, clad in his blue polo that looks painfully out of place on his bulky form, you can tell he’s as gassed as you are. His eyes travel the length of your body, something that makes you blush more than you maybe should, as you know he’s just evaluating that you’ve had as long of a day as he has, based on the business attire beneath your jacket.

Still, his eyes linger on the pencil skirt just long enough that you think you’re fooling yourself.

Swallowing, you smile as you push past him without a word, catching even Sukuna off-guard as your usual sunny disposition is replaced with a yawn and a drag of your feet. He shuts the door, trailing behind you and catching your gaze where your dark circles are just as apparent as his.

“If I’m askin’ too much of you-”

“I’m fine, Kuna,” you yawn, using your sleeve to cover it before shrugging the coat off. Setting it on the back of the couch, you tilt your head with a mild smile. “Just tired.”

“Mm.” Sukuna idly hums, raising the back of his hand to your forehead.

“Are you-? Stop it, I’m not sick.” You swat his hand away, sticking out your bottom lip dramatically.

Sukuna’s chest rumbles in a low chuckle. “Alright, alright. Just lookin’ out for ya.”

Hugging your arms around yourself, you plop down on the couch behind Yuji and Choso, who are sitting on the floor in front of your old GameCube as they contemplate what game to play for their last couple of hours before you have them get ready for bed. You frown at the sight of Choso, who seems to languidly agree with anything Yuji chooses.

Sukuna leans over the back of the couch by your shoulder, holding himself up on his forearms. “That Animal Crossing game you left here, it had a memory card in the case, they found your file.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah,” he snorts, “you called yourself ‘Flower’.”

Giggling, you tilt your head to better see him. “Really?”

“Mhm. You were dressed in all pink with little pigtails.”

“That… Sounds about right,” you grin, unable to help it as you continue giggling at the thought. “I stopped playing because one of the cat villagers made me cry. My mom took the game away and I didn’t find it again until I moved out.”

Sukuna’s lips purse as he stares at you. “A cat made you cry?”

“They were mean in that game!”

Sukuna’s eyes narrow, a smirk pulling at his lips. “Sure they were, flower.”

“I’m begging you not to call me that,” you whine.

“Dunno, it kinda fits,” he hums impishly, giving your shoulder a nudge. He’s so close that his breath tickles your neck.

You shove his bicep in return, catching him off-guard just enough to have him stumbling to keep himself upright. He chuckles to himself, standing straight and stretching his arms over his head. Your eyes trail down to the way the shirt rides up, revealing his toned abdomen and- oh god stop thinking about his salmon-toned happy trail. Tearing your gaze away, you stare at the pile of games on the floor.

“Yeah, yeah, alright,” Sukuna relents with a chuckle, your wandering eyes going unnoticed. “Washed the sheets for ya, you know where everything else is.”

You hum, nodding your head along gratefully.

“Tired, princess?”

You nod again, yawning as you’re reminded of your drowsiness. “Yeah, I was shadowing all day. It’s stressful.”

“Yeah?” He asks as he shuffles around behind you, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge to toss into his work bag.

“Mhm. My co-worker was practically drilling me with questions all day.”

“I’m sure ya did good,” he grunts, taking a final look around the apartment. There’s something strange about leaving at nine at night rather than three or four, but the sight of you, with a tired, albeit content expression, curled into the corner of his couch in your work attire seems to light something within him.

His stomach churns uncomfortably, as though something is trying to break free from his gut. He brings a hand up to scratch beneath the polo, telling himself it’s just the material of the shirt, but he can’t deny the way he can’t seem to tear his gaze from you. Your attention is on Yuji and Choso, your arms wrapped around yourself and legs pulled up onto the couch in the comfiest fashion you can manage with a pencil skirt on.

He clears his throat, dragging a hand down his face. Christ, he’s tired too. It’ll be a long night.

Making his way to the door, he casts a glance at his brothers before fixing you with his stare. “I’ll see ya in the morning. Let me know if you need anything.”

You tilt your head briefly given that you’ve never been able to contact him at work, before your eyes light up with realization. “I can text you now!” You gasp excitedly.

“Don’t make a habit of it,” Sukuna grumbles as he closes and locks the door behind him.

Unfortunately for him, you would make a habit of it.

For now though, you turn your attention to the boys, stifling a yawn. “If you two choose something multiplayer, I’ll join you.”

Now at the center of the kids’ attention, you can see the way Yuji’s eyes light up instantly, while Choso’s reaction is far more subtle. His hands still, no longer occupied with a button on his deep purple plaid shirt sleeve. It’s hardly worth calling progress, but it’s a sign he finds comfort in your presence, and you’ll take that.

Yuji flips a couple of games over, separating any that allow three players before he’s left with Super Smash Bros. Melee, Mario Party 6, Ribbit King, and MarioKart.

“What’s this?” He asks, holding up the case for Ribbit King to you.

“That’s a golf game,” you explain, “with frogs instead of balls. Frog golf.”

“Frolf!” Yuji exclaims with a grin. You catch a glimmer of amusement in Choso’s expression as he shares a more subdued version of his brother’s sentiment.

Popping the disc into the system, you slide off the couch onto the ground, where both kids join you as you lean against the couch. Yuji immediately leans into you, holding the orange controller that’s become his favorite since you’d left the system at their house.

As the game boots up and you each choose your characters and frogs, it takes only a moment before the boys have a decent grasp on the mechanics. Falling into competitive banter with Yuji comes fairly easily, and to your delight, every so often even Choso chimes in.

Yuji pulls ahead fairly handily before you know it, leaving you and Choso to compete for second place. After a close competition, the middle brother manages to just barely pull ahead of you in points, leaving you in last place. As the podium pops onto the screen and your penguin character dips its head in defeat, Yuji bounds up excitedly before hopping into your lap.

With a brief oof at the force that Yuji uses to collapses against you, you find yourself giggling at the boy’s glee.

It doesn’t matter how tired you are, Yuji is a bundle of joy and his happiness is infectious. You pull Choso into the hug, praying the happiness is infectious to him as well. He may not display the same jovial expression that you or Yuji do, but he does hug you both back with enough force that tells you that if nothing else, he appreciates the effort to include him.

“Good job Yu, you make a good golfer,” you pat his back lightly.

He pulls back with a pointed stare. “Frolfer.”

Amused, you blow a puff of air through your nose. “Right. Frolfer.” Yuji pushes himself to his feet, plopping down in front of the stack of games again. His little hands flip each case as he examines them. “Did you want to play something else?” You query, watching Choso carefully as he slips back into his spot beside you with a distant expression.

“I wanna play what Cho wants to play!” Yuji insists, a hopeful expression crossing his face.

Your lips part at what would usually be a kind action from a little brother, but the context behind his words makes it feel more like pleading. A hopeful action to bring his older brother back, even if only for a moment.

Choso’s sullen gaze trails slowly from Yuji to the pile of games, lingering on the stack. When the moment draws on a second too long, the little boy deflates.

“Cho?” Yuji leans forward on his knees, staring down sadly at the pile of games. His thumbs smooth over the case in his hands, before he sets it aside and drags himself across the floor until he’s seated on his knees in front of his older brother.

With a frown that mirrors Yuji’s, you set a hand on Choso’s shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Do you wanna talk, Choso?” You try to encourage him, pulling him from whatever stupor he was trapped within. There may be fleeting moments of amusement or appreciation here and there, but the young boy rarely seems present.

Choso rubs his nose with the back of his hand, blinking at the stack of cases on the floor. “Um- whatever Yuji wants is-”

“I wanna play what you wanna play,” Yuji pouts, his tone now laced with desperation as he drags the stack of games towards his big brother. His lip wobbles as he holds up a Sonic game, to be met only with indifference. He blinks away tears, setting the case down, only to hold up a Mario game. Met with the same indifference, his whole body trembles.

You swear it all happens in the blink of an eye.

At the sight of the Yuji’s trembling hands and wide-eyed expression, Choso scrambles to keep his brother happy, stammering over words as he attempts to sate his brother’s sadness, but it’s too late. Yuji bursts into sobs, crying loudly about missing his brothers, which in turn causes Choso to pull his knees into himself, hiding the silent tears that fall down his face as well as guilt swirls in his eyes.

You scramble to pick up the pieces as quickly as possible, wrapping an arm around Yuji and pulling him into a tight hug. You attempt to do the same for Choso, but he stiffens to prevent you from doing so. Recognizing that he doesn’t want or need the same attention as Yuji, you opt for simply sitting beside him with Yuji in your lap.

You’ve noticed Choso tends to prefer talking things out, and in all honesty you think all three of the brothers could use a could talk. That’s a tough sell with Sukuna though, so you’ll settle for two out of three.

You soothingly hush Yuji, rubbing his back gently as he clings to you, no doubt staining your dress shirt in tears and snot. You’d likely need a trip to the laundromat for it, but it hardly matters when your heart squeezes at the melancholic sobs that fill the air.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. It’s okay,” you coo softly, eyeing Choso to make sure he’s not getting any worse either. You suck in a deep breath to soothe your own nerves, giving Yuji a reassuring squeeze as his sobs slowly begin to die down.

Once the apartment is filled only with sniffles and not sobs, you gently place Yuji on the ground beside Choso, who looks up at you for reassurance. You force your best smile, patting his back softly before turning to Choso.

From what you can tell, his tears are dried and he’s simply staring blankly at his arms curled around his knees now.

“Yuji, have you told your brother how you feel?” You ask softly. Choso’s head raises slightly as he listens to you.

Yuji shakes his head through silent tears.

“It’s important to communicate how we’re feeling when something’s wrong,” you tell him with a small smile, motioning towards Choso. “Why don’t you tell Choso?”

Choso’s auburn gaze flickers between you and Yuji, waiting as his little brother’s face scrunches up into an expression fitting of a five-year-old deep in thought.

Once he’s decided on his words, he looks up at his brother with teary eyes, his little hands fiddling with the game case on the floor in front of him. “I miss you, Cho. You never wanna play with me anymore.” Yuji mumbles, rubbing his eyes with the palm of his hand.

Choso sniffles, raising his head. “I’m sorry, Yu.” He curls into himself further if that’s even possible, guilt pulling his face into a scowl reminiscent of Sukuna. It’s easy to forget those two are related until Choso mirrors one of Sukuna’s expressions so perfectly.

“Do you wanna tell your brother what’s going on, Choso?” You encourage him, setting a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“Um-” Choso buries his face into his arms, his brows pulled together so tightly you’re certain he’s giving himself a headache. “I don’t feel very good,” he admits, his words muffled against the sleeves of his shirt.

“You’re sick?” Yuji tilts his head in confusion.

Choso shakes his head. “I’m…” he pauses, glancing up at you. “Scared,” he admits.

“Why?” Yuji wastes no time in demanding answers, shuffling closer on his knees to Choso.

“I don’t wanna lose Kuna,” Choso admits, leaning his face into his shoulder to wipe a tear that rolls down his cheek.

“But we won’t,” Yuji pulls himself forward over the hardwood again, tugging at his brother’s arm lightly. “Kuna never loses. He’s the best.”

You can’t help but smile at Yuji’s confidence, which seems to encourage Choso, even if only a little bit. Choso lifts his head, blinking in thought at the pink-haired little boy. Even with a face covered in tears and snot, it’s hard not to believe every word the pink-haired kid says.

As Yuji continues tugging at Choso’s arm, the brunette finally relents, letting his brother tug him into a hug. When Choso pulls back, he slumps against the couch again, a hint of life breathed back into him.

“It’s okay to be sad, Choso, but it’s important to talk about your feelings to others like you do with me,” you encourage him with an understanding smile.

Choso swallows hard, nodding slowly. He blinks at the ground, doing somewhat of a mental reset, before he points at the stack of games with a sniffle. “Let’s play Mario Party.”

Yuji’s eyes light up as he sets up the game while Choso wipes the tears from his face.

“I’m proud of you, Choso. It takes courage to talk about your feelings.”

Choso shoots you a half-hearted smile with tired eyes, serving as a reminder of just how worn out you all are.

“One short game and then it’s bedtime, okay boys?”

“Okaaaaay,” Yuji agrees, though his expression mirrors the exhaustion across Choso’s. The crying had clearly tired them both out, and while normally you would have them go to bed right away, you’re pretty sure they need a fun game before bed.

While the boys play games, you get up to change into an oversized tee that’s free of tears and a pair of shorts, grabbing a tissue and wiping Yuji’s face, much to his dismay as he groans and complains the whole time.

Planting yourself back on the couch, you pull up Sukuna’s contact, and shoot him a text.

Thursday 9:42 PM - You || hey, not urgent but wanted to let you know what happened!

Thursday 9:43 PM - You || the boys had a bit of a meltdown because choso’s been so quiet, but i think everything’s okay now

You lock your phone and set it in your lap as you turn your attention to the screen. Choso’s still clearly down and not himself, but you can see the effort going into giving Yuji the sense of normalcy he’s desperate for. Although you can see Choso’s needing to force himself out of his shell, you’re reassured that this is good for him when for the first time in what feels like ages, he laughs.

Your lips quirk up into a genuine smile at the sight of Choso’s sleepy grin, just as your phone vibrates in your lap.

Thursday 9:59 PM - Kuna || okay. let me know if they give you more trouble

Thursday 9:59 PM - You || i can handle them, no worries! :)

With the game coming to a close and no meltdowns even as Yuji steals Choso’s stars in the game at the last second and pulls off a win, you urge them to get ready for bed. Neither boy had given you a hard time as Yuji tended to, far too worn out from the emotional day to protest.

With the boys in bed, you set your overnight bag down on the washroom counter and lean over the sink, fairly worn out yourself. You can see the effects of the day on your face, dark circles under your eyes and makeup in disarray, having been done well over fifteen hours ago.

So much for the twenty-four-hour long-lasting guarantee they promise. What a lie.

Dragging your hands over your face, you lean on the edge of the sink, letting the seconds tick by as you grapple with your own emotions.

You spend so much time treading carefully around the three boys in an attempt to help them as best as you’re able that sometimes you forget to check in with yourself mentally. Between Sukuna’s increasing snappiness and the two boys learning to handle their fear, grief, and concern, you’ve hardly had a moment to yourself. That’s not even beginning to mention classes, studying, and your internship.

You can only pray the bubble doesn’t pop. You need to keep up being strong until the court date, then you can relax.

Once that’s over, you’re certain things will be alright.

Giving yourself a moment to reset and take a breather, you slow down as you dig into your bag and handle your skincare and hair routines, taking a moment to indulge in the self care of it all. It’s refreshing and allows you a moment of peace, a moment to simply be and take care of yourself, something you can’t help but feel you’ve neglected to do as of late.

As you finish up your hair routine, you open the pocket where your toothbrush should be, only to come up short. Blinking, you dig through your bag in search of it, when you realize where it is.

On the counter.

At your own apartment.

Quietly groaning, you pull out your phone again.

Thursday 10:46 PM - You || hey kuna?

Whether he’s on his break or just has his phone on him, you’re not sure, but he answers quickly.

Thursday 10:48 PM - Kuna || what now

Thursday 10:48 PM - You || i forgot my toothbrush :( do you have an extra?

Thursday 10:49 PM - Kuna || no

Thursday 10:49 PM - Kuna || dont fucking touch mine

Thursday 10:49 PM - You || rude

Thursday 10:50 PM - Kuna || use your finger

Thursday 10:50 PM - You || :(

Frowning at your options, you tap your fingers on the washroom counter in thought.

Thursday 10:51 PM - You || do you have mouthwash?

Thursday 10:53 PM - Kuna || you know im working right

Thursday 10:53 PM - Kuna || under the sink

Thursday 10:53 PM - You || thank you!!

Opening the cupboard beneath the sink, your eyes scan the mess of shampoos, aftershave, replacement razor heads and various other hygiene products. Off to one side, you spot some mouthwash and a bag from a dentist with a toothbrush concealed within, brand new.

And it’s pink. Cute!

Thursday 10:55 PM - You || i found a toothbrush under the sink, can i use it? i’ll pay you back!

Thursday 10:55 PM - Kuna || whatever

Under the assumption that means he doesn’t really care one way or the other, you crack open the packaging, relieved that you won’t need to quickly run to your apartment in the morning before class. There is no way in hell you could go without a toothbrush for that long.

Dumping your belongings back into your bag, you push into Sukuna’s room, taking a look around. It’s not like you haven’t been here before, but it has a different feel now that you’ll be sleeping here. Taking a step into the room, you stare at the papers strewn across his drawing table.

Anatomy practice makes up most of what litters the table, alongside pencils and a tin of charcoal, but what really catches your eye are sketches of random characters, mostly from video games you recognize. Your lips quirk into a small smile as you spot a small glimpse of color and can just barely make out a red shoe. It must be the drawing that Yuji colored the other day, and Sukuna is still working on the second half of it. It warms your heart that in his spare time, he still finds little ways to take care of his brothers.

For all his complaining, he loves them very dearly.

Pulling your gaze from the drawings, you take slow steps to the edge of his bed, taking a seat on the mattress. You’ve never really considered the comfort of his bed until this moment, but it’s fairly plush and his sheets are cozy as you run your hands beneath the covers. It’s also massive, but you can’t imagine your double bed would fit someone of his height.

Not that you should be thinking about that.

You know he welcomed you to sleep in his room, insisted on it, but a part of you can’t help but feel like you’re invading his space. Yet somehow, as you settle under the covers and stare at the ceiling, it doesn’t feel as uncomfortable as you thought it might. There’s some part of you, deep down, that feels like this is what you want. Some selfish part of you that wants to feel like you belong here.

But it’s not your place to feel that way, and that feeling tugs at your lips, pulling them into a frown.

It’s a strange feeling to sleep in a bed that isn’t yours, owned by someone you can’t give your heart to. It leaves you with a sensation like static settling into your chest as you aren’t quite sure what to do with your thoughts.

Turning to your side, you pick up your phone, plug it into Sukuna’s charger, and send him one last message.

Thursday 11:12 PM - You || night, kuna!

You aren’t sure whether you send it in an attempt to comfort yourself, or if maybe it’s a sad attempt to find affection where there is none.

Regardless, all you can do is set your phone back down on the table and try to ignore the way the whole room smells painfully like him.

Thursday 11:58 PM - Kuna || night princess

–

Your alarm blares in your ear at the crack of dawn. You shoot your hand out to grab it before it can accidentally wake the kids, squinting at the time.

You may have set the alarm with your first class at eight thirty in the morning in mind, but seven still feels too early. Yawning, you scroll through your social media in an attempt to find any semblance of wakefulness before finally making your way out of Sukuna’s room. You’re about to make your way to the washroom, when the sound of a video-game-y groan in the living room catches your attention.

Padding quietly back down the hall, you peek around the corner, spotting Sukuna lounged at his full length across the couch, his legs hanging over the edge. He’s in his work khakis, but his shirt is laid on the back of the couch, a GameCube controller in hand as he plays Super Smash Bros. Melee.

Oh, it is too fucking early for this.

Your mouth goes dry as you try painfully hard to keep your attention on Sukuna’s face, and not his sculpted and tattooed abs.

“Morning,” you greet him with a groggy smile.

He pauses the game, equally drowsy eyes darting up to you. Unlike you, Sukuna is exhausted, has been awake for over twenty four hours at this point, and you’re startlingly hot in casual clothing. He’s used to seeing you in short skirts and tights, a cozy sweater adorning your top half, but it’s not like he hasn’t seen you in casual clothes before.

But Sukuna is too sleep-deprived to come up with a time he’s seen you in casual clothes.

A baggy shirt hangs down your frame, stopping barely in time for Sukuna to see that you’re wearing a pair of shorts. He swears his brain fizzles out as he steals a glance at your legs, and he has to tear his gaze away to meet your eyes again.

“Hm?”

Your lips part, cheeks hot as you watch his eyes trail down the length of you. He’s probably just judging the oversized shirt with Kiki’s Delivery Service on it, but his sharp gaze never fails to warm your cheeks.

“I just said ‘morning’,” you quietly repeat with a small smile.

He hums, peeling his eyes from you and unpausing the game. “Morning.”

“How was your shift?”

“Other than you annoying me, it was fine,” he grumbles, shooting you a sideways glance to gauge your reaction. He smirks when he finds you pouting.

“Well, your bed’s all yours-”

“All good, princess. I’m takin’ the kids to school at eight and got class at nine.”

Your brow raises. “You haven’t slept,” you point out.

He shrugs, his character tossing the enemy Bowser off a platform as he continues playing games. “I’ll live.”

You frown, but you know him well enough to know he won’t budge once he’s made his mind up.

“What happened last night?” He queries, his eyes still glued to the screen. You don’t need to know the video game is the only thing keeping his attention away from your bare thighs.

With a sigh, you round the couch, sitting on the edge of the cushion opposite his head. With his feet dangling off the edge of the couch, your back presses just barely against his calves and he finds himself stealing a glance at you, your expression forlorn.

“Yuji asked Choso what he wanted to play, but Cho’s been pretty out of it lately and didn’t really care-” you pause, putting a bit more weight against Sukuna’s legs as you lean back slightly when you look at him. Sighing, you shake your head. “Yuji got pretty upset that Choso hasn’t been himself lately and hasn’t wanted to play,” you continue, “whiiiiich lead to tears, sobs, the whole nine yards.”

Sukuna pauses his game, draping his arm over his eyes with a quiet groan. “‘Course it did,” he grumbles, yawning. “How’d that go?”

“I got them to talk it out, I think everything’s alright. They were laughing and playing games when you texted back.”

Sukuna hums, rubbing his face against the back of his forearm. “Figured that would happen eventually,” he manages between another yawn, lifting his arm to push a hand through his disheveled hair. A few strands fall over his forehead, so long now that they nearly block his vision.

“Yeah,” you agree with him, your voice barely above a whisper. “Honestly, Yuji’s been pretty patient with Choso, I’m surprised it took this long.”

“He’s a good kid.” Sukuna barely shrugs, his groggy gaze finally fixing on you. He can’t say for sure what’s come over him and if he was in his right mind, he’s sure he’d brush it off as exhaustion normally, but he finds himself admiring the way your hair falls naturally to frame your face.

In fact, he’s not sure he’s ever seen you without makeup, but you seem almost radiant, and that thought alone has him spiraling into territory that’s beyond unknown to him.

He bristles at his own thoughts, an unfamiliar feeling creeping up his spine. As though fighting a battle against himself, he pulls his feet from behind you and sits up, leaning forward on his knees. Clearing his throat, he gives you a dismissive wave of his hand.

“You should go get ready.”

“Hm? Oh, right!” Hopping to your feet, you bound off to the washroom to take a shower, leaving Sukuna to grapple with his thoughts alone.

You’re forced to leave your hair to air-dry without a blow dryer or any styling products, but at least you have a toothbrush. Opening the door once you’ve finished getting ready, Yuji makes his way past you towards the kitchen with a grin and his basketball in hand. His oldest brother is trailing after him sluggishly with a hoodie that he’s attempting to get over the little boy’s head.

The five-year-old happily dribbles the ball a couple of times as he eludes Sukuna’s grasp on his way to the kitchen.

“Yuji, it’s too early for that. Our neighbors’ll have my head if you make noise,” Sukuna scolds as he uses his wide gait to step in front of his little brother and grab the ball in one big hand.

Yuji jumps at his leg as though the little amount of height his jump covers is what he needs to get his basketball back, whining at the tall man to give it back.

“No. Oatmeal’s on the table. Go eat,” he guides the little boy towards the kitchen, scratching at his jaw as he catches a glance at you.

You’re back in your usual attire, a tight tank top hugging your top with a long cardigan draped over your shoulders and light jeans adorning your lower half. You’re hardly dressed up, yet Sukuna still feels underdressed in a red hoodie and baggy black sweatpants, with a beanie covering his obviously disheveled hair.

You look cute.

Whether he’s too tired to fight that thought, or he’s simply grown accustomed to it, he doesn’t mind thinking of you in such a way.

“Need a hand?” You ask cheerily, glancing at your phone before dropping it into your pathetic excuse for a jean pocket. “I have a few minutes before I need to go.”

“Nah, I got it,” he gruffs, tilting his chin towards the kitchen. “I, uh, made you some breakfast.”

Your eyes widen as you curiously bound towards the kitchen counter, where there’s a bowl with oats, fruit, and yogurt sitting on the counter. Your eyes light up as you grab it and turn back to Sukuna.

“This is for me?”

“Mhm.”

“That’s so sweet, thanks Kuna!”

He hums, a hint of a smirk giving away his satisfaction. Choso makes his way slowly to the table to eat his dinosaur oatmeal, his usual void stare plastered across his face. After last night, you had honestly hoped maybe he would bounce back, but progress is often slow. Maybe he’ll come around.

Sukuna trails over to the kitchen counter alongside you, crossing his arms over his chest as he leans back against the vinyl countertop. You follow suit as you spoon some yogurt into your mouth, your elbow brushing Sukuna’s arm as he watches over the three of you.

There’s something strangely domestic about the whole situation that seems to tighten your throat as you force another spoonful of yogurt down. It tastes great, but the thought of a life like this with Sukuna is bitter on your tongue. This moment, to you, feels like a glimpse at something real, something substantial, while it’s likely nothing more than a fleeting thought to Sukuna.

Spooning another mouthful of yogurt into your mouth, you tilt your head to catch a glance at his expression. You shouldn’t be surprised to find he’s drifting off, eyes glazed. His eyelids are heavy with exhaustion, but there’s no room for a nap, so he’ll just deal with it.

Turning to the sink to rinse your bowl once you’ve finished, you check the time and bid the kids a farewell, nudging Sukuna to make sure he’s awake. “I’ll see you at lunch?”

He nods, only managing a yawn as you make your way out the door.

–

Really, it shouldn’t surprise you that Sukuna slept through lunch. And your Literature History class, for that matter.

But your professor is clearly less than pleased when her grimace lands on him in the middle of the lecture. You nudge Sukuna awake, who blearily lifts his head, pushing his hood up to see why you’re bothering him. The sight of a frustrated professor doesn’t mean much to someone running on an hour of sleep (on tables, mind you), so he simply drops his chin back down onto his arms, pushes his hood back down, and shuts his eyes again.

Well, that was the wrong move.

You nudge Sukuna awake for the second time when the lecture ends, only for the professor to call both of your names in a stern tone. With a frustrated huff, he trudges down the steps and stands before her desk. You shuffle from side to side on your feet, glancing between him and the professor with an anxious frown.

The last thing you need is to be on bad terms with a professor given your scholarship.

“Mr. Sukuna. Glad you could join us after being absent for nine days,” the professor begins in an unimpressed tone. She takes a seat at her desk, motioning to both of you to grab a couple of chairs from the side of the room. Sukuna is too busy scowling at the woman to listen, so you gently tug him down into one of the chairs you drag over.

“Some of us got shit to handle,” he explains in the broadest terms possible.

“I understand that, and while attendance is not expected, I would advise with your grades sitting where they are that you do attend.”

Sukuna grinds his jaw at your side and you swear you can hear the enamel of his teeth wearing down with the force of the pressure.

“That’s not to mention that when you do show up, you sleep through the lecture,” she grimly continues, clasping her hands as she leans over the desk. Her graying blonde hair falls over her shoulders as she frowns.

“I can’t make that shit happen right-”

“Language, Mr. Sukuna.”

Sukuna shuts his eyes in a futile attempt to contain his anger. “I can’t make that happen right now,” he huffs, sharp eyes locking onto the professor. “I show up for tests and turn in papers. What more do ya want?”

This isn’t the first time he’s been pulled aside by a professor, but this is the first time in a long time that he’s been doing poorly in a class. He knows his last paper was half-assed. He knows his last test results barely skirted by.

“You need to apply yourself.” When Sukuna doesn’t reply, smoke practically blowing from his ears at the professor’s words, she continues, turning her attention to address you. “I’d like you to tutor Ryomen. You will receive extra credit,” she tells you, turning back to him, “and so long as I see an improvement in your grades, I won’t say a word about your attendance.”

The offer works well in your favor, why wouldn’t you want extra credit? Plus, you already see Sukuna enough that it wouldn’t change too much about your schedule.

Sukuna, on the other hand, is beyond pissed.

On a good day, he would have rolled his eyes at the suggestion and brushed it off, but on one hour of sleep, the history major isn’t exactly thrilled at the prospect of being put in his place. Especially not in front of you, someone he holds a great deal of care for.

“I’m managing just fine, I don’t need to be tutored,” he hisses, narrowing his eyes, reddened from a lack of sleep.

The professor grimaces, her gaze flickering between you both. “You’re hardly passing,” she states plainly. “I’m not going to sugar coat things, Ryomen. You’re on your last legs in this class, and I will fail you if you don’t pass the test next Friday.”

“I’ll pass. I don’t need a tutor,” he growls, clutching at the arm of the chair with white knuckles.

“It’s not a huge deal, Sukuna, I can-”

“No,” he shoots you a pointed glare, pinning you to the seat. You bite the inside of your cheek, falling back into uncomfortable silence.

Unimpressed, the professor sits up a bit straighter as if to assert her authority over the situation. “This isn’t up for discussion, Mr. Suku-”

“Like hell it isn’t!” He snarls. “I’ll pass, you fuckin’ got that?” He stands abruptly, his chair screeching as it’s pushed back suddenly. With narrowed eyes, his fiery irises seem to consume him, his pupils mere pinpricks. The professor grimaces, unphased by his defiance, but her lack of reply only serves to piss Sukuna off further as he scoffs in frustration and barges out the door without another word, hands shoved in his pockets in search of his cigarettes.

The sound of the door slamming on its hinges echoes across the lecture hall as you shut your eyes, pressing your lips into a thin line.

The professor sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I’m sorry to get you involved,” she apologizes with a wry smile. “I thought you two were close, and that maybe he wouldn’t be opposed to a tutoring session with you.”

“We are close,” you chuckle half-heartedly, staring down at your lap. “He- um- he’s going through a bit of a tough time, I don’t think he meant anything personally.”

The professor fixes you with her deep brown gaze, leaning back in her chair. “I see. Has he spoken to the faculty about this? He could get some assistance-”

You laugh nervously at the mere mention of help. “Believe me, if it were that simple, I would have suggested it by now.”

The professor taps her fingers along her forearm in thought, finally nodding. “I see. Well, if you’re able to step in, I would appreciate that. If not, I’m not sure what other options I have.” She shrugs. “There’s nothing I can do at the rate his grades are plummeting.”

“Is it just this class?” You ask meekly, brow drawn into a tight knit as you dread her answer.

“I can’t say,” she tells you, sympathy laced into her tone. “He’s a bright student, but it’s become clear over the past couple of weeks that he’s not here to learn.”

“Right,” you whisper, staring down at your manicured nails, a chip in the polish catching your attention. “I’ll do what I can.”

“I appreciate that,” she says with a sense of finality, grabbing a pen to begin grading some papers. You take that as your dismissal, gathering your belongings to make your way out the door. “Oh-” the professor calls your name before you push outside. “Please remind Mr. Sukuna that this class is a requirement for his major, and if he fails this next test, he will be retaking my class next semester.”

Your heart drops into your stomach.

–

Had you known that was the last you would hear of your hot-headed friend until the afternoon before the test, you would have tried harder to get a hold of him.

Which is saying a lot, given that you emailed, and texted, and called incessantly.

Your only sense of reassurance was Uraume letting you know that they had run into him clad in his coveralls while Uraume was headed to campus one morning. They’d mentioned that he was taking shifts throughout the mornings to make sure he didn’t need to rely on anyone but himself. He would simply work only while his brothers were in school.

For every step forward, Sukuna takes two backwards. And this time, it seemed he was drowning in the guilt of just how much he owed you, not even bothering to respond to your texts either.

Unfortunately, along with the news that Uraume had relayed to you, came the news that he hadn’t been to a single class since the not-so-friendly run-in with the professor.

Which, as it would turn out, was the first of many impromptu meetings that you would have with her. The Wednesday before the test, you’d practically jumped out of your skin as she stopped you before you could make it out the door.

The look on her face didn’t ease your nerves as she waited for the students to file out of the lecture hall.

“Will you please remind Ryomen that if he doesn’t show up to the test on Friday, I’m failing him?” She speaks gravely, an air of deathly sincerity surrounding her.

You had swallowed hard, assuring her that you would make sure he knew, slipping away with a shiver up your spine.

While you knew she’d be talking to you about your friend, you couldn’t help but feel like she would have had some sort of comment about your messy notes, your distracted gaze, or the inattentive tapping of your nails over the keyboard.

But then again, she couldn’t see your notes, so she didn’t know that your mind had been fixated on your concern for your friend all week. Your notes were the proof of it, words hardly making a lick of sense, and you knew it would come back to bite you in the ass. Still, every trail of thoughts leads back to the delinquent student.

You know Sukuna is likely only upset with life in general, but that shouldn’t make it fair for him to ignore you.

Or maybe you’re too in love with someone too incapable of reciprocating, and nothing feels fair to your fragile heart.

That series of events all lead to you standing at his door now, your fist raised to knock on the door. If he wouldn’t reply to your texts about the test tomorrow, you wanted to make sure he knew this was a death sentence for his semester should he choose to not show up.

That, and you want to make sure he’s okay.

Still, you hesitate as your heart pounds. One of his neighbors had let you into the building, so you hadn’t needed to buzz up to the apartment, and he had no clue you were showing up.

Swallowing your nerves, you rap your knuckles against the door, patiently waiting for him and praying he’s home at all. To your relief, it only takes a couple of moments before you find yourself face to face with the source of your racing heart.

With a bottle clutched in one hand, he opens the door with a mild expression, tilting his head down to look at you as he leans against the doorframe. A muscle shirt adorns his top, his broad shoulders and bulky arms on full display, along with what might be the sluttiest cut hand-cut armholes you’ve ever seen on a shirt, dipping down to his waist. His abs peek out from the way the material of the shirt curls inwards at the bottom and his hair hangs loosely over his forehead, long enough that a stray strand nearly reaches his eyes.

“Hey, princess,” he gruffs, heavily lidded eyes doing a languid once-over of your outfit, your usual business attire since you’d come straight from your internship. Heat creeps up your neck as it always does under his intense gaze. “How was work?”

“Hey, um- it was good,” you smooth your skirt down, chewing on your lip as you look up at him through your lashes. Your brow is knit with concern, but Sukuna is so fixated on the pretty way you chew on your lip that he doesn’t notice your concern. “Is everything okay? You stopped answering me.”

His expression hardens at your question, his gaze now fixated on the woven bracelets still tightly tied around his wrist. He stares hard at the red and black checkered bracelet that’s tied around his wrist alongside a matching black and purple one. He can just barely make out the pair of bracelets still secured around your own wrist as well.

“Yeah,” he forces out a reply to your question, his mind moving slower than he’d like. He continues his little staring contest with your coat sleeve, his brow furrowed deeply as he searches for an answer to why he stopped responding, but all he finds are failures.

It seems as though that’s a trend with him lately, as though letting people down is his thing.

“Didn’t wanna bother you,” he finally spits out, a meager excuse for his shortcomings that clearly confuses you as you tilt your head.

“You know you could never bother me,” you point out. “So what’s this really about?”

Sukuna sighs, bringing the bottle in his hand up to his lips. Your eyes scan the bottle, blinking as you realize the bottle he’s holding is a cheap bottle of beer, although he doesn’t seem drunk. If anything, he’s maybe a bit out of it.

“I’m handlin’ things on my own.” He grips the bottle in his hand harder, his knuckles white. His eyes raise finally from your sleeve to meet your gaze, pupils blown and scleras reddened. Your lips purse, and you straighten at the realization that he’s high too.

“Are you high?”

“Yeah. Want a gummy, princess?”

Your brow furrows as you adamantly shake your head. “No. Sukuna, don’t you think that’s a bit reckless? I mean, with the kids and all?”

Offense passes through his glazed eyes, almost as though he’s taken aback. Your question takes a moment to settle within the recesses of his inebriated mind, but once it does, he bites back. “The fuck are you suggestin’?”

“What if the kids got into the weed or alcohol- or- or needed help while you’re-?” You clarify with a wave of your hand at his current state, disbelief and concern laced into your tone.

“You can’t be fuckin’ serious right now.”

“What about this isn’t serious?” You attempt to peer past him to see the kids, the sounds of the TV in the background telling you they can’t be far, but Sukuna’s completely blocked your view with his broad frame.

Sukuna laughs dryly, a cold smirk pulling at his lips. He swipes his tongue over the front of his teeth, shaking his head as he stares distantly behind you. “Do you really think I’m that stupid?” Although he’s addressing you, you get the feeling it’s a rhetorical question, something he’s asking himself.

You purse your lips, startled by the whole situation.

When you don’t reply, Sukuna continues. “You don’t seriously think I would do this in front of them, do you?” His voice raises, mind moving slower than the words pouring from his mouth. “Do you seriously think that lowly of me?” He takes a step back into the apartment, slamming the door open on its hinges with a wooden creak to make a point as he motions into the apartment. “They ain’t fuckin’ here!” He barks, turning on his heel once his point’s been made to set his beer on the counter.

You follow him into the familiar apartment and shut the door gently, turning to the TV where you can now see that he’s got Monty Python and the Holy Grail playing, his laptop hooked into the screen. Swallowing your pride, you grimace as you attempt to backpedal before things get out of hand.

“I’m sorry, Sukuna, I didn’t realize. I just got worried because they’re always with you.”

Facing the counter, he rubs his fingers over his eyes. “Whatever,” he grumbles, punctuating his sentence with your name. “Why’re you here?”

You swallow hard. “You haven’t been in class for a week, and-”

“Yeah, I’ve been busy,” he interrupts in a flippant tone, turning to face you. He crosses his arms over his chest as he examines the way you’re visibly grappling with his attitude. “It’s the only way I can make this shit work.”

“You know I’m here to help. You know I want to help. You’re gonna fail if you don’t show up tomorrow.” You take a step towards him, feeling small under his harsh glare, but praying you can get through to him.

Sukuna watches you take a step towards him, his eyes dry as he feels the urge to rub at them again. He blinks a couple of times as his mind slowly processes your words. Wetting his lips with his tongue, he shakes his head. “Yeah, well, maybe it’s better this way.”

“What are you talking about? You’re so close to graduating. Just let me-”

“Let you what?” He interrupts your relentless insistence to help him. “Let you fuckin’ tutor me? Come in and turn my life around?” He pauses abruptly, his jaw tensing as realization flashes through his glazed eyes. “That’s what this is, isn’t it?”

“What?” The question comes out more milquetoast than you would have liked, but you’re left in genuine confusion at his query.

He laughs, a bitter smile burning straight through you as he shakes his head in disbelief. “That’s what this has always been, isn’t it? God, I’m so fuckin’ stupid.”

“What do you mean, Kuna?”

“Don’t call me that,” he hisses suddenly. “Don’t pretend you’ve ever cared. Don’t fucking pretend. I don’t wanna hear it.”

Completely taken aback, you stumble one step backwards, failing to understand where he’s coming from.

“You’ve been nit-pickin’ me non-stop since we got back from Christmas break, every single little thing I do is wrong. Did you talk to that prof about tutoring me too, add another box to check on your list? Play it off like she suggested it?”

Fuck. Of course the talk with the professor had this much of a negative effect on him. Of course one stupid little moment fucked up everything you’d worked so hard to build up.

“You don’t seriously believe that.”

“What the hell else am I supposed to believe? That I’m worth losing sleep over for someone like you? That I’m worth the time you’ve spent chasing me?” His chest heaves as he glares at you, his voice raised. “I’ve always been some little project to you!”

Caught somewhere between frustration, disbelief and hurt, you shake your head. “I’ve never- ever-” you pause for emphasis, “- seen you as a project.” You chew on your lip as your gaze flickers between his eyes, clouded with anger, but painfully distant. Whether that’s from the weed, alcohol, or stress, you can’t say for sure. “You’re my friend, Sukuna. That’s what friends do, they show up!” You wave a hand through the air as if to say that’s what you’re doing now. Even if it hardly feels that way at the moment.

“Yeah, maybe they do. When you’re little miss perfect.”

His words strike you, sharp and icy, threatening to draw blood. Fury courses through you at his blatant disregard not only for you, but also Toji and Uraume, even Atsuya and Kento. “Your friends do show up! We’ve all been showing up!” Your hand waves through the air again as you raise your voice to match his. “What do you call Toji and Uraume, if not your friends? What do you think of me?” You pause, shaking your head as you stand up for not just yourself but his friends. Your friends. “You just push us all away because you’re afraid!”

“I ain’t afraid of shit, I’m not here to be some charity case for you or any of ‘em!” His eyes blaze as he abruptly turns away, pacing a couple of steps towards the fridge as he rakes a hand through his hair.

“You never were! Oh my god, you’re unbelievable.” You cross your arms over your chest, staring out the window at the steady snowfall. “I’m so sick of you being such a dick just because you’re insecure.”

Sukuna scoffs, still facing the fridge as if he can’t even bear to look at you. In truth, he knows these emotions have been brewing within for a while now and it’s all come to a head with yet another mistake piling into the seemingly endless list of things he’s done wrong. He could let your gripes with smoking slide, your insistence about his major he was willing to talk through and the offer to tutor he could deal with at the end of the day.

But the way he’d never felt dumber in his life than when you seemed to think he’d get inebriated in front of the kids was the final straw that caused the pile to crumble.

And now he’s insecure and scared, too? He’s not sure he wants to admit, to you, or himself, just how much that all hurts. Sukuna doesn’t have the luxury of admitting that he’s hurt. He doesn’t have the luxury of being anything less than fine, because that’s what he needs to be for his brothers.

If he’s about to let you down, then he’ll dig that grave himself. He won’t let you put him there at the cost of what’s left of his dignity.

“Everything’s gotta be wrong with me when it comes to you, huh? It’s always somethin’. I’m never good enough,” he snarls, taking a step towards you as he finally turns to face you.

“That’s not-”

“The smoking, my major, my grades, this,” he points to a six pack of beer and a bag of weed gummies sitting open on the coffee table behind you. “Now I’m insecure too, right? Keep going, princess, find more shit to fix about me.”

His words hit hard, blood steadily seeping from an invisible wound in your chest, a gaping hole in your heart that Sukuna has no clue exists in the shape of him. You swallow hard, inhaling sharply to prevent the hot tears welling in your eyes from falling. “I’ve never been trying to fix you.” With another steady breath, you barely manage to push out another sentence. “I’ve only ever been trying to help because I see you struggling and I care about you.”

“But it always comes back to this, doesn’t it? We piss one another off and it’s always me who goes crawling back to you,” he points out, taking another step forward. He’s barely a foot away now, towering over you as you struggle to keep yourself from falling apart.

God, why do arguments always make you want to cry?

“I’m always the fuck-up, and you’re the perfect little prom queen. You can do no wrong.”

You bring a hand up to your cheek as you stare at the hardwood under your feet. You can only pray Sukuna doesn’t see the way a tear trails down your skin, warm and salty. “Don’t call me that.”

“Hit a nerve, prom queen?”

You swallow hard, wiping another tear as you refuse to look up at him. “You’re being an ass.”

“Yeah, maybe. But at least I’m not a fix-me-up for the school’s little scholarship princess.”

“That’s not fair, Sukuna.”

He crosses his arms, fire raging wildly behind his sharp glare. Everything about this feels foreign, from the complete and utter genuine rage that burns within him, the flames licking and simmering against your skin, to the way he seems genuinely hurt. “But it’s fair for me to sit here while you work on me, right?”

“I didn’t know you felt that way!” You raise your voice in your defense, taking a step back. Being so close to his personal space is nauseating and you want nothing more than to leave right now. “I never meant to make you feel like that, I was only ever trying to help,” you insist, gaze pleading through the tears that now freely fall down your face.

Guilt swirls alongside the downright humiliation you feel as you cry in the middle of an argument, one that leaves you standing in a metaphorical pool of your own blood as each of his words grate further into you while he steels himself.

“I told you from the start I didn’t need help.”

“You called me for help!” You point out, chewing hard on your lip, the skin raw at this point as iron tinges your tongue.

“That was a favor. I paid it back.”

“That doesn’t matter, Sukuna! I was only ever trying to be a good friend,” you wipe at your tears again, certain your makeup has streaked down your cheeks and you look like a complete mess.

“If I’m nothing but problems to you, why try?” He hisses, gritting his teeth as he takes another step forward.

You stumble back until your foot hits the couch, desperate for space from him. “Because this-” you pause, motioning at him. “This isn’t you! I’ve seen the real Sukuna, and I like him, I- I like you.”

If ever there was a way to feel your heart break physically, you think this might be it. It shatters as Sukuna only scoffs, completely oblivious to the fact that you’ve confessed something so personal to you. Something so deeply ingrained within your being from spending so much time with him that saying it aloud to him and seeing nothing but disdain in return might be the cruelest punishment of all.

Is it fair to think Sukuna might understand what you mean? Maybe not. Maybe he’s too dense, too guarded to understand the true meaning behind your words. Maybe he’s too jaded to think that anyone could possibly have feelings for him. ‘Like’ is just another synonym to him.

But it doesn’t matter anymore, does it?

“What, I’m fake now, too?”

“God, you’re such a dick!” You groan, leaning against the back of the couch as you face him. “That’s not what I meant.” You inhale sharply in an effort to keep your tears at bay.

“Then what the hell did you mean?” He barks, though he doesn’t wait for your response. His voice lowers suddenly, dripping with venom. “I didn’t ask for this fuckin’ life, you know that? I never wanted to work two jobs or take care of my brothers!” His hand flies through the air in exasperation, his jaw clenched so tightly that the veins in his forehead are practically bulging. “But guess what? I didn’t have a choice in the matter.” He huffs, irritation coming off of him in waves. “And I definitely didn’t fucking ask for you to come in and tell me everything I’m doing wrong.”

“I was never doing that, Sukuna-”

“Then what the fuck is going on right now?” He hisses, motioning back towards the six pack and bag of gummies that sit atop the coffee table again, doubling down on your earlier accusation.

“I only showed up to try to help with classes!” You insist, parting your lips to continue but in his blaze of fury, he’s already growling out a reply again.

“Oh right,” he scoffs with a dry chuckle. “How could I forget that my grades aren’t good enough?”

“Oh my god, stop! Can you listen to me for one second? You’re gonna fail if you don’t show up tomorrow!”

“It doesn’t fucking matter,” he shouts, punctuating the sentence with your name. “It doesn’t… fucking matter anymore.” There’s an air of defeat around his words. Even angry with the man, it’s unbefitting of him, of someone so driven and prideful.

Shaking your head, you stare up at him with a furrowed brow. “I thought your degree mattered to you.”

“It does,” he gruffs, pressing a thumb to his temple as his head pounds. “It did.”

“Then why quit when you’re so close?”

“Close?” There’s no humor in the chuckle he lets out, shaking his head. “I’ve never been further! Their fuckin’ mother made sure of that when she slapped me with a lawsuit!” He barks, dragging a hand over his face, dropping it to his side with a thump as his hand collides with the fabric of his sweatpants. “No matter who wins the lawsuit, she’s still comin’ out on top because I can’t afford any of this shit and she knows that.” He shakes his head, disdain twisting his features into a deep frown. “So what I want doesn’t matter, as long as Yu and Cho get to have a better life. That’s all that matters now.”

You know there’s an obvious solution here, one in which Sukuna takes his foot out of his ass and stops being a stubborn prick and asks for help, but that’s not who he is. He’s set in ways so deeply ingrained in him that no amount of convincing will get through to him, and as much as you hate to admit it, you think you need to accept that.

It’s not like this argument is doing your friendship any good, anyway. Sukuna knows his last chance shattered the moment he snapped, but beneath the surface it’s clear that on both sides there were unspoken frustrations that had been brewing for longer than either of you had cared to admit. They were bound to come to a startling explosion eventually, but this just feels like a slog for an inebriated Sukuna.

Every word piles onto his troubles, a mess of misunderstood words and confusing intentions that he can’t seem to grasp in his high state. A glimpse of your teary face has him scowling at the ground, wondering if this could have been prevented, wondering why there’s a weight in his chest practically begging him to find a middle ground with you, but it’s far too late for that and he knows it.

The whole situation has his head pounding as emotions swirl in his chest, leaving a deep discomfort that he wants nothing more than to drown in liquor. He grasps at his head, pressing the ball of his palm hard against his temple as he takes a step towards the table at the back of the apartment, leaning over it on splayed palms.

Bile rises in his throat, but he’s not nearly drunk enough for it to be caused by alcohol. One beer wouldn’t do that to a man of Sukuna’s stature, leaving him wondering if it’s you causing the bitter taste to surface at the back of his throat. He swallows hard, his chest heaving.

No, this isn’t from alcohol. He recognizes this feeling all too well. But this time, he has no one to rely on as his chest and throat tighten. He inhales sharply, pushing himself up to face you again. He steels himself to the best of his ability, masking any and all signs of the anxiety stirring deep within his chest.

You’re not oblivious to the way he’s visibly shaking and struggling to breathe, you recognize all-too-well the signs of his pain, but he won’t let you help. You know that. You know what’s coming and the worst part is that you still want to help. Your heart still aches for something you won’t find within the hardened and cold man.

It’s who you are. You’re the type to help, no matter what. Even if it leaves you hurting.

But Sukuna is incompatible with that mindset.

Worse still, is the guilt that boils deep within your stomach. Sukuna’s made a handful of mistakes, ones that he worked hard to make up for, but you’d been so deeply engrossed in helping that you didn’t realize it sometimes came across as fixing. You’d never intended to hurt him, you never wanted to add to his burdens.

But it seemed for once you’d hurt one another, both too bogged down by the world that somewhere along the way you’d both harboured too much pain and lashed out.

It wasn’t just Sukuna at fault this time, but he would be the one to end things where he stood.

“Get out.”

Your lip trembles at the finality of the situation, zipping your coat up as you head for the door, keeping your gaze drawn to the floor in an effort to keep Sukuna from seeing how destroyed you are.

Pausing at the door, you briefly turn back, your lips parting as you contemplate saying what’s on your mind. “I didn’t ask for a lot, Sukuna. I’ve never cared if you paid me back, or returned any favors.” You swallow hard to keep yourself from audibly sobbing. “You, Choso, and Yuji were always worth the extra effort just by being yourselves.” Before you can see his reaction, you swing the door open and shut it behind you.

It’s not until you’re in your car that you finally let yourself fall apart, sobbing against the steering wheel.

Countless sleepless nights spent worrying over the brothers had blinded you to the way you had been hurting Sukuna, even if you’d never intended it. It wasn’t even just a case of his pride or ego getting in the way for once, you’d made a genuine mistake and stung to know you’d caused him pain.

You can’t be upset that he reacted the way he did when you accused him of drinking around the kids, but it doesn’t give him the right to step on you. You know Kento and Shoko would be happy to know you stood up for yourself, but there’s no satisfaction in that fact. You hadn’t wanted to stand up for yourself, because this isn’t what you wanted for the friendship you treasured so genuinely.

For all the closeness you shared with the burly man, one mistake was all it took for it to fall apart.

But really, was it ever only one mistake? The smoking, his major, his grades, although all little things, they all added up. It doesn’t give Sukuna the right to say the things he did, to hurt you and dig so deeply until he crushed the very core of your soul, but for once you know this isn’t one-sided.

This isn’t like your other arguments, bogged down by Sukuna’s deeply jaded views of the world and distrust for those around him. You made a mistake, sure, but he took it too far, leaving you both in equal parts in the wrong.

The only difference is that where you would have talked things out, Sukuna stomped out any remaining flame of connection, burying the hatchet with cruel words.

Leaning over the steering wheel, you contemplate where you went wrong. Where along the winding road of what was once a very deep connection one of you found a bump and turned it into a pothole.

Sukuna would contemplate the same himself, but not until a gruelling morning hangover found him the following morning.

Tonight, his sufferings would leave him in a painfully familiar position on the washroom floor, drowning in his anxiety.

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❦ a/n ; forgive me 😭 i do hope you all enjoyed the chapter regardless though <33 it makes me beyond happy how much you all enjoy this story and the support for it never fails to make me smile. i promise i'll make up for the angst!! in the meantime, thank you as always for all the love, it makes my day <33

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writing & format © starmapz. art © 3-aem. dividers © adornedwithlight & cafekitsune

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heechwe · 2 months ago

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anything for you | 𝐣𝐰𝐰

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ MY FIC FOR JUPITER'S SECRET CUPID COLLAB

୨୧ pairing: jeon wonwoo x fem!reader ୨୧ word count: 3k ୨୧ genre: slight comedy, fluff, smut ୨୧ tags: best friends to lovers au, drunk confession, dirty talk, breeding kink, unprotected sex, creampie, cum eating ୨୧ synopsis: Wonwoo has been your best friend forever. And maybe something more could be in the cards with a mature, sophisticated confession. Or a lot of alcohol.

⟢ AUTHOR'S NOTE: Inspired by LANY's song "anything 4 u"! Big thanks to my betas for this fic Tiya (@gyubakeries), Honey (@heesuncore), and Mitchie (@seokgyuu)! I love you all so much. And this fic is for my Secret Cupid Ally (@lovetaroandtaemin)!! I love you loads and you're an incredible friend. I'm so glad I got you so I could share a small token of appreciation for our friendship. I hope you love this story as much as I did writing it! ♥︎

Valentine’s Day weekend. The one weekend you have to suffer through everything being doused in red, pink, and white decorations. It’s everywhere: across your work office, all around the city you live in, and even plastered around the hole-in-the-wall bar that all of your friends are drinking in now.

It’s not one of your least favorite holidays, per se. But the intensity of it can be incredibly draining. The constant declarations of affection, the emotionally gooey visual representations of one’s desire for another person, it’s too much even for some of your own friends who are coupled up.

The reality of your loneliness pushes your mood down just enough that staring down your third bottle of beer makes you yearn for another, despite your alcohol tolerance being less than stellar. And to make matters worse, it sucks to be surrounded by others’ happiness when you’re so alone in love and in love with someone too enmeshed in your life as a friend, rather than a person of romantic interest.

Wonwoo sits with Vernon and Soonyoung at the high-top bar, nursing tequila shots and Coronas without bothering to look back at the rest of your table of friends. Yes, you were all celebrating Soonyoung’s new promotion and Vernon finally nabbing a girlfriend in time for Valentine’s this year, and they only stalked off a few minutes ago to share a few drinks on their own, but you wish Wonwoo was sitting next to you again.

You always mocked him for telling you to slow down. To drink water to avoid dehydration or to eat something to offset your alcohol intake. With all of his parroted wisdom that drives some of his closest friends crazy, you love him for it. You love him for a lot of reasons, really.

“Maybe you should just tell him, you know?” Seokmin says across from you, looking over at you from the rim of his Whiskey Sunrise. It’s a sickly shade of red, grenadine mixed in with the other ingredients to commemorate the holiday season. You wonder if it tastes like cough syrup, because it sure looks like it.

“You think I haven’t thought of that?” You ask with a slur, licking the remaining beer on your lips. “It’s not that easy to destroy seven years of friendship.”

“Come on. You act like nobody else has noticed when it’s plain as day, babe,” Seungkwan pipes up next to you, elbowing you softly in the ribs with an accompanying waggle of his eyebrows.

“And what is your best course of action, Dum and Dee?” You split your stare between both of your friends, your irritation peaking. “I just go over to that bar and confess everything to him. Then he’ll say he’s felt the same this entire time and we ride off into the sunset together?”

“One, you don’t need to be rude,” Seokmin responds. “Two, you don’t have to make it so dramatic. Get him alone tomorrow, maybe. Talk it out, see where it goes.”

“Exactly,” Seungkwan says. “It doesn’t need to be this big movie scene thing.”

“What movie?” Soonyoung asks, sitting back down next to Seungkwan and in front of his empty bowl of ramen. The other boys follow suit, Vernon alongside Seokmin and Wonwoo next to you once again.

It feels like torture and sanctuary in the same moment, so close but so far from what you wish the two of you could be.

“Nothing, just this documentary we all saw the other night,” you respond. You press your lips to your bottle again, pouting when the last droplets hit your tongue. “I’m gonna get another,” you say to nobody in particular. Wonwoo perks up once he notices you stumbling to get out of your chair.

“Not so fast,” Wonwoo says as you fall back into his arms. “I think I should get you home.”

“No, the night’s still young!” You whine into his jacket, your hair ruffling the skin on his neck. His chest rumbles with laughter, but nothing at the moment is funny to you. You don’t want to leave just yet, and he doesn’t need to treat you like a baby. “We still haven't even gone to karaoke.”

“Another night. Go sleep it off!” Vernon calls from behind you.

“You kids have fun!” Seokmin says with a conspiratory wink. You and Wonwoo walk towards the entrance of the bar, and you want to throw something at Seokmin to make your idiot best friend’s dumb smirk and even more ridiculous idea of confessing your feelings to your mutual friend blip out of existence.

Wonwoo has seen you at your lowest. He consoled you after you ran your car into a parked motorcycle when you were sixteen, your humiliation palpable the whole three hours you both waited for the police to show up. He’s held you in his arms after every failed romantic relationship, telling you it was always them and never you when it ended poorly. There’s nothing the two of you haven’t been there for each other for, no experience too vulnerable to share and overcome together.

But Wonwoo holding your hair in a makeshift ponytail as you throw up may just be the all-time low of your embarrassing moments. He whispers in your ear that you’re okay and rubs your back with a soft hand, and you feel all the worse for it. How could he ever love someone this prone to disaster, this cringeworthy?

“You should go home,” you cry into the toilet bowl. “I’m disgusting.”

Wonwoo says your name in a mocking tone, pretending to be serious but in no way critical of you or the situation. He takes off his plaid button up and throws it in some random corner of your bathroom, free to hold you as close as possible as you continue dry-heaving. “You’re not disgusting.”

“Of course you’d say that, you’re you.”

He laughs again, tucking what hair he can from your face so you can lift your head off of the toilet. “And what’s that?”

You look at him with puffy, half-open eyes. “Perfect.”

He helps you up from the tile floor and moves you to your bedroom on your weak legs. He sheds off your overshirt as you kick off your denim jeans. Your mind rumbles with a whirlpool of thoughts as his brain ruminates on the word you used when comparing himself to you.

“I’m in no way perfect, kid,” he whispers. The nickname he’s used on you forever feels like a backhand, a copious amount of salt in a wound you know will never heal. He’ll always see you at a distance from him, his feelings leagues away from yours.

“Don’t call me that,” you cry into your pillow, resting your cheek deep into the material to muffle the quiet sobs in your throat. He can’t be serious, talking to you so tenderly when you’re falling apart.

“Hey, can you look at me?” You shake your head and settle deeper into the pile of comforters and throw pillows. Wonwoo suddenly feels his gut turn into a dozen knots. He doesn’t know what’s wrong, how to fix it, or what to say to make things better, and it kills him. “Why are you acting like this?”

“Because you’re too perfect to love someone like me. But I love you so much, and it fucking sucks,” you hiccup, the darkness of your bed making you believe he’s not there, this isn’t real, and it’s okay to release all the words in your heart into the dark. “And every time I see those damn red and pink hearts all over the place, I think of you and I want to die.”

The force of your confession almost knocks Wonwoo on his ass. At the very least, he settles onto the desk chair near your bed and hears your whimpers give way to light snores.

He runs his hands through your hair again and tucks the covers up to your chin. He holds himself back from pressing a kiss to your forehead, the one thing he’s always done when you’ve passed out countless times before in his presence, but never recalled the next morning. This time, though, he prays you’ll remember your drunken admission.

“I hope you meant everything you said,” he whispers before retreating to your couch to fall asleep to the sounds of the cityscape below.

You wake up to low jazz playing from your living room TV and the smell of sizzling eggs. Each limb aches from the heavy sleep you fell under last night. You quietly pad out of your room to find Wonwoo cooking what looks to be the perfect mix of breakfast and hangover food. A makeshift Bloody Mary sits on the counter next to him, waiting for you.

Wonwoo turns when he senses you behind him, and he grins. “Hey, you’re awake. I was worried you’d be passed out until the afternoon. I wouldn’t blame you, though.”

You blush a shade deeper, still sporting your tank top and clad in a pair of boy shorts. You forgot you had taken your pants off before slipping into bed the night prior, but it isn’t the first time Wonwoo’s seen you half-clothed. You drink half of the concoction and set it down, your headache throbbing a little less. “How bad was I last night?”

He smirks. “Bad enough to throw up another three times.”

You groan into the back of your hand and hitch yourself up on the counter across from Wonwoo, his focus still on the over-medium eggs in the pan. “I’m sorry you had to take care of me again.”

“I wanted to,” he says without looking up at you. “I always want to be here when you need me.”

“I know, I know, it’s your job to say that,” you joke.

He drops the metal spatula next to him on the stove, and you jump up at the sound. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t say a word for a moment, and you’re unsure if he’s even breathing when you ask him if he’s okay. “So, you don’t remember then?” His question comes out almost like a statement, but the wavered edge of it proves he is concerned with whatever has slipped your mind.

“Woo, you’re freaking me out.”

He turns the stove to a low, simmering heat before facing you. His eyes look sad but expectant, waiting for the inevitable to come to you. “You really have no idea what I’m talking about?”

You tuck your hair behind your ear, and in that instant, you recall that last hour before you fell asleep. Wonwoo helping you into bed. Crying in your bed. And all the words that followed.

The memories bring tears to your eyes and your hands to your face. “Oh my god—”

Wonwoo takes your palms away and holds them to his mouth. “Stop running from me.”

“Don’t make me say it again, Woo, please.” Your bottom lip trembles. You fight every instinct to run from the kitchen and out of the apartment altogether, wanting to accept the continuous pain of hiding your feelings than the truth that this could be the end of the both of you as you know it, for better or worse.

“Fine, you don’t have to.” Wonwoo’s lips curl into that grin you’ve adored for almost a decade. “I’ll say what I need to first, then.”

He takes a deep breath and sets his jaw. “I’ve been in love with you since the minute you threw your ice-cream at that biker who almost clipped me in the foot on the way to school. Remember? I may have loved you long before that, but that’s the moment I realized.

“And I don’t want to lose you. I want to be more than just the guy you call your best friend. I want to be the only friend that matters, the friend that kisses you goodnight and tells you how beautiful you are because there’s no other way to describe you. I love you, too, kid, whether you realized it or not.”

A breathy yelp leaves your mouth before you kiss Wonwoo on the mouth. It’s a hard one, a clash of teeth and a bit of tongue, but you didn’t expect less from such an unexpected and perfect confession. Maybe this was the way you rode off into the sunset together. Sure, there was the smell of burning eggs instead of the sounds of a white stallion gallivanting off to the unforeseeable future, but it’s perfect. It’s yours.

Wonwoo shuts the burner off entirely before he takes you by the hand into your bedroom. When your bed is in full view, he kisses you long and slow. It’s nothing like the first kisses you shared a second ago, but it’s earth-shattering all the same.

You moan into his mouth when he presses a free hand to your breast, teasing the skin above your shirt until your nipple pebbles.

“Is this too fast?” He asks in a gruff voice. “We don’t have to do anything if you’re not comfortable, I just—”

You press a finger to his lips, effectively shutting him up. “If you do not take my clothes off right now and fuck me, I will never speak to you again.”

Wonwoo smirks and kisses you once more, only stopping to pull your tank top over your head and rip your underwear off of your legs. His fingers delve between your folds, and you shudder in his hold but refuse to let him take his hand away.

“You like this,” he whispers, the statement thick with his lust.

“Yes, it feels so good,” you whimper. You gasp when two of his fingers curl inside of you, his thumb still nestled on top of your clit to swirl around with the pad. The amount of pleasure he’s already given you is indescribable, and he hasn’t even truly done much yet.

You whine when he takes his hand away, but it’s to discard his own clothes and sit at the edge of your bed. He beckons for you to sit on top of him, and he doesn’t think twice about swirling himself between your essence and lining the head of his dick with your entrance. His tip is so swollen and covered in pre-cum, there’s no problem sinking it inside of your heat.

You share a mutual curse of pleasure when he bottoms out, his pelvic bone meeting your skin. You stay like that for a moment. You’re so full and unable to move from the size of him filling every empty space inside of you, you think this has to be a dream. Last night has not given way to day yet, and now is just a conjuring of your cruel mind.

You get lost in your thoughts for so long Wonwoo brings his hand to your face and traces his fingers over your cheek, staring at you lovingly. “Where’d you go?”

You smile shyly and kiss his nose. “I just can’t believe this is happening.”

“I guess I’ll just have to remind you it’s real.”

He takes your ass between his hands and spreads you out before thrusting up inside of you, making you gasp hard. He moves long and slow underneath you, almost taking his cock out of your pussy completely before delving back into you.

“I want to give you everything,” he pants. “All that I have—will have—is for you. You know that, right?”

“Yes, fuck,” you whisper, meeting his hips with yours as you try to set your own pace, sinking down onto him with every thrust where your skin meets with loud smacks.

“I love you so much,” he says into your neck before biting down on your soft skin. You moan loudly and press yourself deeper and harder against him. His cock hits you at the perfect angle as you straddle him, and you feel the start of your climax deep in your stomach.

Seven years of missed opportunities. More than too many chances for days and nights like this spent together so intimately gone to the wind. It’s easy to be regretful for all the time that you’ve wasted without each other, but you realize it’s not wasted at all.

Every step, every thread of fate that tied you two together, brought you here. Whatever comes of today is just an extension of what has already existed in your hearts. So what more is there to ask for?

“Fuck, I’m so close,” he growls in your ear. His balls smack against your skin as he continues to slam into you. Tears spring in your eyes as he moves even harder, trying to take you both to your peaks together. “Where can I come, baby?”

“Inside of me. I want all of it, all of you. Please,” you beg. You bounce harder on top of him, circling your clit with your fingers to fall off the precipice with Wonwoo by your side.

“You want to feel all of me, yeah? So full of my cum it’s all you’ll think about?” He smirks and replaces the fingers on your clit with his own. “Maybe I’ll fuck a baby into you with how much cum I give you. Would you like that?”

You see stars behind your eyelids as you listen to the beautiful, dirty words on his lips. You nod vigorously, wanting nothing more than for him to claim you in this way. It’s all you’ve thought about for years, truthfully.

“God, I’m coming,” you say into his neck, thighs quivering as the rest of your body goes slack from the pleasure. Wonwoo grunts into the shell of your ear as he orgasms himself, his seed spilling into you so deep you think there’s no way any remnant of him will slip out.

When he takes himself out of you, he swirls the mixture of both of your releases on his fingers before you take those fingers into your mouth, sucking them dry.

Wonwoo chuckles and kisses you deeply, the taste of the two of you on both of your tongues. “That’s one way to end Valentine’s weekend, don’t you think?”

You giggle and kiss him on both cheeks, too eager to see the rest of your future together. “You could say that.”

@gyubakeries @loserlvrss @okiedokrie-main @brownbunnyb

𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 ౨ৎ˚₊

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#kvanity #kstrucknet #keopihausnet #lapydiariesnet #wonwoo smut #jeon wonwoo smut #wonwoo x reader #jeon wonwoo x reader #seventeen smut #svt smut #seventeen x reader #seventeen fic #seventeen fics #svt x reader #svt fic #svt fics #[ lexi's works ]#[ lw - seventeen ]#[ lw - events ]

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tojigasm · 8 months ago

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I've Got a Thing About You, Baby

Warnings: kissing, pet names, Logan shotguns the reader, cigars, smoking, fluff, domestic logan

It's late one night in the summer that it happens; when the air's still warm under the moonlight and the crickets hum against the breeze.

You've been watching him for the past hour or so. The trickling of smoke dancing into strange shapes and pretty lines through the screen door of the mansion, leading out to the back porch.

It's far past your bedtime, and the rest of the students and professors have long since retired to their own bedrooms.

Except for you, that is. A part of you too exhausted to actually sleep and the other too anxious to.

If you listen closely, you're able to hear the bird fountain from the garden.

You can hear the rocking chair sway back and forth against the chipped wood of the porch.

A weird feeling passes over you. It feels like the heat of the sun on a spring day, and it settles into your stomach warmly.

That feeling reminds you of home often.

You can't tell if Logan knows you're awake – scribbling away at your notes for the day and sipping Coca-Cola from the bottle through a straw. If he does, he doesn't make it known.

It's only when you make your way towards the back door, bare feet padding against the cool wood floors that you know he knows.

You wait by the door for a moment, gripping the neck of your Coca-Cola bottle as you watch him take a drag of his cigar.

You've always thought he was beautiful. The dark tufts of his hair and hazel eyes, paired with the brute strength he bears, was Renaissance-like.

You briefly wonder if he'd been alive that long.

"Y'gonna come out here or just keep staring at me like a freak?" Logan's voice breaks you from your spell and has you pushing past the screen door instantly.

You sit down in the rocking chair across from him, pulling both of your knees to your chest and your Coca-Cola to your side.

Your eyes follow him as he takes another drag of the cigar, thick brows relaxed as he exhales a pillow of white smoke and sinks into the chair.

"Why aren't you in bed?" You ask, thumbing the ends of your pajama bottoms

Logan snorts at the parroted sterness in your voice. You had to've picked that up from Jean, he thinks to himself.

"Why aren't you in bed?" He hums with a slight shake of his head, tapping his fingers holding the cigar against the armrest of the chair.

"Couldn't sleep."

"Hm," He picks at the fabric of his jeans momentarily, "is that why you were hiding behind the screen door thinkin' I couldn't see you?"

"I wasn't hiding!" You nearly jump from your seat, almost cringing at the hightened squeal of your voice.

"Right." He smirks from behind the cigar, voice laced with sarcasm as he takes another drag.

You watch him for a moment. Your skin warm from the summer air, a shiver runs up your spine.

There's something oddly paternal in his demeanor; legs spread as he rocks himself back and forth in the chair, flicking his lighter shut and throwing it back into his jean pocket.

Logan looks up momentarily, meeting your gaze through his brows, and just as quickly as he's turned away to blow smoke out into the hot air.

"Never smoked before." You comment, crossing your arms over the fronts of your legs.

Logan hums, "Good. Bad habit."

"Can I try some?"

Logan hesitates. Eyes meeting yours sternly.

"Aren't you a bit young to be trying to get people to pass off drugs to you?" You can hear the smirk in his voice before it's visible on his features.

You roll your eyes and place your Coca-Cola bottle onto the floor beside you.

"Never been one to try and get people to start bad habits." Logan adds, picking at his nail absentmindedly. "Seems to happen around me anyways."

You don't say anything to that. The pads of your fingers still folding and twisting the fabric of your pajamas.

An owl hoots from somewhere across the garden, and the crickets sing in the breeze again.

Logan turns his head towards you and folds his free hand behind his head, taking another drag of the cigar before turning it towards you.

You feel stuck. Suddenly, very aware of where you are and who you're with and the uncomfortably humbling fact that you have no idea how to actually smoke.

You hadn't realized you'd only been staring at his hand until Logan's voice peeks through your mental fog.

"C'mere, baby."

There's something domestically paternal in the deep of his tone that nearly makes your knees buckle as you shyly make your way over to him.

He makes room for you in his lap, guiding you to sit on one of his thighs.

"Y'never smoked before?" He reaffirms, resting a large hand over both of your thighs.

You shake your head.

The sound of his lighter makes you turn before Logan pulls you back towards him, lighting the end of the cigar again.

"I'll hold it fr'you. Just take a deep exhale like you're breathin', easy peasy."

You nod, watching the tobacco simmer at the end of the cigar, illuminating Logan's hand in an orangish red hue.

There's a moment of quiet where you're lost in thought, memorizing the preparedness of it. You turn towards Logan at the silence to see him watching you already, a thick brow arched.

"You gettin' shy on me?"

Immediately, you fluster at that, shaking your head with a "uh, uh." Before leaning down to wrap your lips around the end of the cigar.

Logan meets your eyes with a warm smile, "uh uh," He chides, voice pitched in mimic.

You giggle lightly before inhaling from the cigar.

It's warm against the back of your throat; a burning stroke that has you pulling away, coughing instantly. Your mouth feels dry and cotton-like as drool fills your mouth in an attempt to relax the forgein feeling.

"Woah," Logan chuckles loosely at you, stroking his hand up and down your back. "Y'okay?"

You give a weak thumbs up, smiling wobbly before bursting into a fit of coughs again.

Logan reaches for your coca-cola bottle mid giggle, bringing the straw up to your lips.

"Here, drink this. Yeah, there y'go."

The drink cools your throat, soothing the dry attack on your lungs as you gasp for clean breaths of air again.

Logan keeps his hand on your back, letting you relax into it.

"Y'okay?" He asks.

"Yeah, I didn't realize that it'd be that aggressive." Your voice still scratchy.

"I probably should've told you not to take such a deep breath," He strokes his hand over the curve of your jaw. "Sorry 'bout that, kid."

You wave him off, "it's okay."

Logan takes a drag of the cigar, thumbing it between his forefinger and middle.

"That is a bit strong, huh."

You nod.

"Here, I might have a better way to do it."

You watch as he tilts his head upwards, holding the cigar to his plush lips as he takes another inhale.

The glow of the auburn porch light creates a halo around his hair tufts and makes an outline of his sharp nose.

He blows smoke through his nose, hardly acknowledging it.

You're entranced with how easy he makes it seem, as though he's been throwing back cigars for the majority of his existence, and for all you know, he has.

Your betwitchment must be obvious on your face by the way Logan peers down slyly at you midst another drag.

He motions for you to come closer to him, curving his hand to hold your jaw steady.

Parting his lips some, a small whisp of smoke trails from his mouth as he softly says, "Open."

You can smell the burning tobacco, and it settles a warmth into you.

You part your lips, jolting slightly in his hold as he exhales the cloud of smoke into your mouth with a cocky smile.

The smoke is much easier to take this way – already diluted by whatever super regenerative powers he holds.

Logan brings you closer to meet you in a kiss, dragging his tongue over your lips and past your teeth to stroke the insides of your cheeks.

You're completely at his mercy, shivering and whimpering in his hand.

The plush of his lips has you grabbing at his forearm and gasping against him. You can feel him smile into the kiss with a hum.

He pulls off of you with a 'pop' before relasing his hand from your jaw with a smile.

"That better?"

You reduced to just stare at him.

"Maybe I need it one more time." You say under your breath, and you're almost afraid he doesn't catch it.

"Yeah? One more?" He asks, moving to hold your chin again.

"Mhm," you nod.

#wolverine #wolverine x reader #logan howlett #logan howlett x reader

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ittybittyfanblog · 2 months ago

Text

Error 404: (Self-Aware!AU, Sylus Edition) – Pt. 10

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and a player. That’s it, that’s the plot. Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, strong language, family issues, generational trauma, self-growth, personal issues (and dealing with it), hurt and comfort, hmmmm…. let’s leave it at that for now :) A/N: Final chapter, guys! Thanks so much for reading <3

Pt. 1 - Pt. 2 - Pt. 3 - Pt. 4 - Pt. 5 - Pt. 6 - Pt. 7 - Pt. 8 - Pt. 9 - Pt. 10

“Oh, what the hell—since when do you cook?”

“Bitch,” you laugh, nudging past them, the ceramic pot still steaming in your hands. “Do you want the risotto or not?”

The scent of garlic and pecorino permeates the air as you stand in front of the small foyer of the duplex where your friend—questionable, at the moment—lives. Your most recent culinary masterpiece, deemed safe (enough) for public consumption, rests between your hands in silent offering to the skeptic figure who’s barring you from crossing the threshold.

It’s still warm, and you’re not one to brag, but you think you’ve outdone yourself with this one. Not that it matters—everybody’s a fucking critic these days.

“Risotto?” Khol parrots in disbelief. “You don’t show up in forever, suddenly you’re all cuoca straordinario or some shit. Get out of here with your Mario ass–”

“Don’t mind them,” Anna interjects from behind your biggest hater, all cheer as she plucks the pot from your hands. “This smells amazing, actually. Come in!”

With that, she vanishes inside, leaving you and Khol alone in the doorway. You give them a knowing look.

“Oh wow,” you remark, all mock surprise. “You live together now?”

Khol rolls their eyes, already tired of you. “You missed the biggest arc of the last five months, but yeah.”

You step inside, and right away, something feels… different. It could partly be due to how much time has passed since you last visited, and it’s clearly still their place—the brooding industrial-emo aesthetic remains intact, still suspiciously close to resembling the lair of an angsty comic book antihero on acid—but it’s been overtaken by bits of boho-chic scattered all over the space.

Where there was once nothing but charcoal, vinyl, and concrete, there are now textures. Colorful woven throws drape artfully over the arm of the leather Eames sofa they won off a Craigslist bid. Tasseled pillows have multiplied across every seat surface like some kind of fabric-based contagion, while pothos vines dangle lazily from macramé hangers, stretching towards the moody Edison bulbs like they’re trying to escape the existential crisis of living here.

And then there’s the rug. Oh god, the rug.

A comically massive tufted ‘Flower Power’ rug sprawls across the center of the room, a swirling explosion of pinks and oranges—a final, cutesy fuck you to the apartment’s formerly depressing atmosphere before Khol’s new roommate staged her cheerful coup.

It should’ve been a hilarious sight, like a chaotic school art project where every kid picked a different medium to color and refused to compromise. But somehow… it works?

Against all odds, the goth cryptid and the hippie gremlin have found domestic equilibrium.

“Love what you did with the place, Anna,” you call out, toeing off your shoes at the door. “It doesn’t look like a twelve-year-old’s fantasy bedroom anymore.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Khol laughs, shaking their head. “As if you’re one to talk. Last time I visited, you still had that stupid-ass sofa. Is it still there?”

You sniff haughtily. “Excuse you, but that’s a custom piece. You wouldn’t get it.”

"Alright, you two," Anna says, leaning against the archway between the living room and kitchen, one hip propped against the frame. "Both of you have terrible taste in decor. Now, I have a fabulous Prosecco to pair with the risotto." She tilts her head, shooting her partner a pointed look. "Khol, darling, be a dear and grab the crystal from the cupboard?"

"Whipped," you sing as Khol, predictably, does exactly as told. They don’t even bother with a comeback, just flashes you a lazy middle finger over their shoulder as they disappear from view.

You grin, shaking your head. The moment stretches into something easy, comfortable. It’s nice—being here, bantering like no time has passed. You let yourself sink into it, tugging off your beanie as you cross the room.

The creaky couch welcomes you like an old friend, and you flop down unceremoniously, stretching your legs out, rubbing your feet against the oversized monstrosity of a rug that is... honestly, pretty fucking comfortable, actually.

Anna follows suit, settling beside you with far more grace, tucking one foot under the other.

She watches you for a moment, expression warm but slightly inquisitive. “We haven’t seen you in a while.”

You exhale, tipping your head back, staring up at the beams on the ceiling. "Yeah, sorry. Been a little out of it these past… couple of months, I guess."

Anna makes a quiet noise, something between understanding and acknowledgment. "You’re doing okay now?"

The easy answer sits on your tongue—yeah, of course. An automatic response, a reflex built from habit. Another front to put up, another lie to slip behind.

But you’ve been working on this. So instead, you take a breath and say,

"Not… really."

The words feel foreign, heavy, but oddly freeing as they leave your mouth.

Your gaze flickers to the side table—framed photos of Khol and Anna, smiling, sunlit. You don’t linger.

“I mean, better now compared to, maybe, a few weeks ago. I’m getting there.”

Anna’s brows lift slightly—not in surprise at the sentiment itself, but at the fact that you admitted it out loud. There’s something thoughtful in her expression, something softer around the edges. “Good. That’s good.”

You can tell she means it. Maybe even more than you expected.

"Yeah."

There’s a brief lull. You catch yourself tugging at the edge of your cardigan—a nervous habit you never quite broke. The warmth of the apartment is settling in you quite comfortably, but there’s something about sitting still under Anna’s gentle scrutiny that makes you restless.

From the kitchen, there’s the unmistakable clink of glass, followed by a muffled, “shit.”

Anna exhales, long-suffering. “I don’t know why I even bother buying nice things.”

“‘Oy,” Khol’s voice carries from the other room, “get in here and help. We have, like, seven things to carry.”

You take that as your cue, trailing after Anna into the kitchen. Between the three of you, it’s quick work—bowls of warm, brothy risotto in hand, glasses of white wine balanced carefully between fingers.

By the time you step back into the living room, Khol is already dropping onto the blue accent chair near the window with all the dramatics of someone who’s worked far too hard for far too little.

You settle into your usual spot, Anna beside you. You don’t touch your food. Your appetite’s still in remission, though it’s been steadily improving lately.

Khol notices. “Now, why the hell aren’t you eating?” They shoot you a side-eye like you’ve personally offended them. “I knew it. You put something in this, didn’t you?”

“Jesus, Khol,” Anna sighs, exasperated, already two spoonfuls in. “Your diet was literally gas station burritos and eight-pack Coors before I moved in. You’ll live.”

She pauses, though, casting you a look. “Don’t get me wrong—this is really good.”

“Ha,” you retort as Khol prods suspiciously at a floating mushroom. You glare. “Are you fucking kidding me—”

“Alright, alright.” With an exaggerated sigh, Khol finally takes a bite. They chew once, twice—eyes narrowed in concentration, acting like some hard-ass seasoned judge from Top Chef. You can practically see them digging for something snarky to say—until, begrudgingly, they nod.

“Shit. This is actually pretty good. Who are you?”

You preen at the praise.

For a while, there’s nothing but the quiet clinking of spoons against ceramic, the occasional satisfied hum. It’s… nice. Comfortable in a way you haven’t felt in what feels like forever.

You’ve missed this.

Missed being here. Missed being with people.

Somewhere between the second glass of wine and the last few bites of risotto, Khol angles their head toward you, their curiosity piqued. “How come you’re free today? You on leave or something?”

You swirl the drink in your hand, watching the light catch on the amber surface before answering. “Oh, I quit my job.”

There’s a beat of silence. You don’t know what reaction you were expecting, but Khol just blinks at you. "Huh. Finally."

Anna looks mildly more concerned. "You quit?"

You nod, stretching your legs out beneath the coffee table. “Yeah. The OT was getting ridiculous, and they had me working night shifts again. That was kind of the last straw for me.”

Khol grunts in agreement. “Good fucking riddance. That job was killing you.” They pause for a beat, turning serious, contemplative. “You’re not hung up about it, are you? You’ve been bitching about that job for ages.”

You exhale through your nose, staring at the rim of your glass. “Yeah, no. I’m glad I left.” The words come easily, and they’re mostly true. But still—there’s something about suddenly having all this space, this aimless in-between, that makes you antsy.

A thought strikes you, and you glance up. “Hey, you know if Marion's still looking for someone to work part-time at the bistro?”

Khol raises an eyebrow. "You looking to apply? It’s minimum wage, just telling you in advance."

"That’s fine," you assure them. "I just need something on the side. I’m doing freelance work right now, I just want something to fill in the gaps."

Anna perks up at that. "I think that’s a great idea. I can hit up Marion later, but I’m pretty sure they’re still looking."

Khol stares at you, and for once, they don’t have a quip lined up. No sharp-edged humor, no quick banter—just a quiet look of something almost foreign on their face. Pride. Maybe even relief. You’ve worried them. The realization jars you like a pebble dropped into a clear pond, sending ripples through the stillness of your self-imposed isolation. You hadn’t meant to, not really. It wasn’t like you deliberately wanted to disappear... But you did, didn’t you? You let the days blur into weeks, then months, telling yourself naively that no one would notice if you just—vanished for a while. Five months, to be exact.

You press your lips together, clearing your throat against the tightness creeping in. “Thanks,” you say, quiet but sincere. “Really.”

Khol snorts, and the moment shatters. “You can show your thanks by knocking ten percent off the cocktails when we visit.”

You roll your eyes, feigning exasperation. “Get me the job first, and I’ll see what I can do.”

Anna grins, raising her glass. “Now, that’s the spirit.”

––––

You get the job.

You stand in front of the fogged-up mirror, dragging your palm across the wet glass. The reflection that stares back is warped, smudged—half-formed, half-there—but unequivocally yours.

A month ago, you wouldn’t have been able to say that with certainty. Back then, the figure in the mirror had been more ghost than person—distant, spectral. Fractured. Someone you watched from the outside, not as a host of the flesh you inhabit.

Now, though, the pieces are starting to slot back into place. Some are still missing, and others don’t quite fit as they once did. You doubt it will ever return to how it was… But slowly, a familiar shape is coming back into focus. More than the shadow of a woman, but you. Time moves like water carving through rock—gradual, barely perceptible, but steady. Inevitable.

The shifts are diminutive. A morning where you wake up feeling less crushed by the weight of grief in your chest. An afternoon where you suddenly break into laughter, and you realize it’s the first time you’ve heard it in weeks. A quiet night where you go to bed without feeling like you’re stuck frozen in an endless loop of wishing, waiting for the impossible.

You’re here, alive. Present. And for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, you’re doing more than just holding on.

(You think he’d be proud of you.)

And the thought doesn’t leave you aching the way it used to.

––––

“You think I can handle taking care of another living thing? Like a plant?” You ask Maru, glancing at him lounging by the window, right where a sliver of afternoon sunlight spills across the floor. “I mean, I raised you well enough, I think. But you’re pretty self-sufficient anyway.” Maru looks unimpressed. His tail flicks once—dismissive, uninterested—before he returns to grooming himself, utterly indifferent to both your question and your sudden enthusiasm for gardening. “Well, if your dad can grow plants in that dungeon he calls a base, I’m sure I can manage,” you mutter unconvincingly. “How hard can it be?”

–

By the middle of the second week into your little project, you begrudgingly admit that your tiny repotted begonia isn’t exactly thriving. You don’t want to be a pessimist, but the (browning) margins seem to curl inward—more than they should, if the reference pics on that “Indoor Succulents” blog you’re subscribed to are anything to go by.

You eye it dubiously, trying to stay gung-ho about the whole thing, forcing yourself to look up care tips again. It’s just a plant. Not rocket science. So you do the research, gather more supplies, and give it another shot. You reposition it closer to where the sun lands—earning a disgruntled hiss from the sunbathing feline—and sprinkle a careful amount of water just beneath the leaves, closer to the root. Then you lean back, waiting, tapping your foot impatiently like it’s supposed to just... fix itself.

–

The next few days pass with you watching it more than you’d care to admit—checking, hoping, second-guessing yourself.

You narrow your eyes at the leaves, more russet than Inca Flame red, still hanging limp like a sad testament to your lack of skill.

But you keep at it, because you’re nothing if not stubborn.

–

A single flower has bloomed.

You stand there, spray bottle in hand, caught in quiet awe at the metallic pink sprout peeking through the foliage. It’s small, delicate, barely more than a bud, but unmistakably there—nestled among heart-shaped leaves that, for the first time in weeks, look alive. Brighter.

A faint smile tugs at your lips. It’s not groundbreaking, not by a long shot. But it’s something.

The fragile blossom clings onto dear life, stubbornly seeking the sun rays, inching toward the warmth it needs to grow—larger, stronger.

You can’t wait to bear witness to it.

––––

You’re not entirely sure how you ended up in this situation; all you could recall past the sweat blurring your vision is the memory of being in front of the reception desk, pen in hand, scrawling your name onto the sign-up sheet for beginner boxing lessons.

It’s not… something you planned on doing, really. You’d been showing up for the past week, trying to convince yourself that fitness was something you could get into. Something you could stick with. But this one’s more of an impulse decision, fueled by a mix of post-workout endorphins and the misplaced confidence that sometimes follows after an extra few—unpremeditated!—minutes on the elliptical.

It all started with a casual glance at a flyer taped to the wall beside the water dispenser.

GET TOUGHER, FASTER, STRONGER! SIGN UP NOW!

The cheesy tagline stared you down as you were in the middle of refilling your teal green AquaFlask. And for some dumb reason—sheer curiosity, definitely not because it reminded you of a certain someone—you thought: Why not?

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you’d marched straight up to the nearest staff at the counter, credit card in hand, and asked to sign up. Now, as you stare at the buff woman currently goading you to hit harder, reality sets in and you feel a little lightheaded. Even slightly delirious.

“Up, up–” your trainer urges, somehow not even remotely out of breath, despite being thirty grueling minutes into the session. Meanwhile, you’re standing there, red-faced and sweating like a fucking pig. “Keep your arms up at all times, alright?”

You pant, nodding weakly, fixing your posture. She gives you an approving nod in return.

It’s part of the whole self-improvement thing, anyway. Pushing yourself. Fitness, jazz, and all that. You’ve never had much inclination for sports or anything remotely physically taxing, as far as you can recall.

…Or maybe that decision was made for you the moment you tried out for volleyball in high school and took a spike straight to the face. A memory so humiliating, that your brain did you a favor and buried it deep in the recesses of your mind.

But things are different now! You’re trying new things. You’ve done wall climbing, aerobics, even pulled a hamstring attempting HIIT Tae Bo. And if getting punched in the face is the next step in this… wellness journey, then, well, so be it. You’ll take it with a brave face and, hopefully, minimal bruising to both body and ego.

You slog through two sets of combos and thirty jab-straight-hook-uppercuts, punching like your life depends on it. You’re wheezing like an asthmatic child, and you’re about one bad punch away from toppling over.

Then, mercifully—

“Okay, that’s enough for today.”

Oh, thank god.

“You did good,” she tacks on, flashing you an encouraging smile, like you didn’t just spend the last half hour flailing at the focus mitts with all the grace of a wrecking ball.

You stare at her, unconvinced. Did I? Because from where you’re standing—wobbling, really—you’re pretty sure you looked closer to an overstimulated toddler throwing hands with gravity, but sure. It must’ve been in the fine print, to segue in a little positive reinforcement. Probably to keep people from bolting after the first session.

Not that you’re planning to. No, of course not. You’re just... reevaluating some things. Like your life choices. And your capacity to lift your arms tomorrow. As you trudge your way out of the yoga-studio-turned-boxing-area, still gulping for air and very aware of the soreness settling into your limbs, someone calls out.

“Hey! Wait up!”

You turn your head, blinking in confusion. A guy—mid to late twenties, give or take—jogs up to you, looking offensively too fresh compared to how you feel. “Oh, hi. Sorry, do you mean me?”

He laughs as he slows to a stop, running a hand through his shaggy hair. “Yeah, you. I saw you training with Coach. Just wanted to say—you’re improving.”

You blink. Wait, what?

A wave of mortification rolls through you. Shit, you didn’t know you had an audience. “Uh—thanks, I guess?”

You shift your weight awkwardly, clutching your boxing gloves tightly against your chest.

His grin turns sheepish, as though he realizes how that might’ve come off. “Fuck, sorry. That came out weird, didn’t it? I swear, I wasn't, like, watching the whole thing or anything.” He makes a vague gesture to his left. “The studio’s right in my line of sight when I did my TRX reps. Hard not to notice.”

You force a smile. “Ah, yeah. Figures.”

“I’m Byron, by the way,” he offers, sticking out a hand.

Now that you get a proper look at him, you notice he’s got this kind of… geeky charm going for him. Curly hair, sleepy brown eyes behind round, rimless glasses, and shy boy-next-door vibes—except for the fact that he’s jacked.

(Honestly? Work.)

You give him your name, still smiling awkwardly. You’re about to wave goodbye and turn away when— “So, what are you doing later?”

Um.

You hesitate. “I’m, uh… heading straight home after this?” Your voice comes out a little more uncertain than you intended, mostly because you’re not really sure why he’s still talking to you.

“Yeah, ‘course,” he replies quickly, glancing down like he’s suddenly nervous. “I just… thought I’d ask if you’d wanna grab coffee sometime?”

Oh.

It takes a moment for the question to fully register. The first thought that pops in your head is: Wait, how does he know I’m a barista?

… The second thought is one of pure disbelief. Holy shit, did I just get asked out? At the gym? By the Temu version of Peter Parker?

Your face burns hotter than it did mid-workout, caught completely off guard.

“I—woah, um.” You stumble over your words, eyes quickly darting away from him. “Sorry, I already have… a boyfriend. If—if that’s what you’re leading up to.”

You say it like a question. He picks up on it.

“You don’t sound too convinced,” he comments with a light chuckle, shaking his head. “If you’re not interested, you can just say that, you know.”

A prickle of irritation flares up, followed by something sharper—something that stings. You push it down. “No, he’s just… not around.” “Ah.” He clicks his tongue sympathetically. “Long distance?” “…Yeah.” You have no idea.

He shrugs, undeterred. “Alright, no pressure. We could always just hang out as friends, if you want.”

I… don’t think I do. “Um, maybe?” you answer instead, forcing out a laugh.

“Oh, come on,” he says, his grin widening. “You can even introduce me to your boyfriend,” he emphasizes the word out, “when he gets back. Does he work out? We could all hit the gym together.”

Social anxiety is afraid of this man, you think belatedly. Unfortunately for him, you’re the very embodiment of what fears him.

You’re so out of your element that all you can manage is, “He boxes too, actually.”

“Yeah? He any good?”

That gets an involuntary snort out of you. Unthinkingly, you say, “Could probably beat you up.”

Byron laughs, startled but amused, shaking his head as he raises his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright—message received.” He flashes you a wide smile. “Well, if you change your mind about the coffee, I’ll be around.” He jerks his chin toward the pack fly by the corner. “There, usually.”

Okay, nerd. Despite yourself, you can’t help but find the whole thing slightly hilarious. Then again, you find humor in the dumbest things. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

You offer him a quick, half-hearted wave, trying (and failing) to mask your embarrassment with an exaggerated, too-casual show of nonchalance. It’s so painfully awkward, you can feel yourself internally dying from the cringe of it all.

Without another word, you spin on your heel and start speed-walking away, practically running back to the safety of your personal space.

Smooth.

––––

It’s another relatively easy night at the bistro. You’re on the last two hours of your shift, and you’re carrying a single glass of roseberry mule to serve at table four. As you round the corner, you catch sight of a student, glasses perched low on her nose, completely absorbed in a thick coursebook on Programming Languages. Papers are scattered across the table, and she looks to be utterly engrossed in her readings, unaware of the world around her.

You don’t want to bother her more than necessary, about to set the drink down on the only clear space—by the iPad propped up on a tablet holder to her right—when something red catches your attention.

A familiar pair of crimson eyes stops you dead in your tracks.

For a moment, you feel like you’re suspended in time. The sharp memory of a similar instance where you’re in her place, and he’s there, keeping you company while he’s polishing a gun burns through your brain, and you don’t–you can’t think—

You stand there, rooted to the spot, wide-eyed and unmoving. Then, the girl’s gaze shifts to you, and a hot flush spreads across her cheeks, betraying her surprise.

With swift fingers, she locks the screen with a quick flick on the power button, pulling you away and breaking you from the echoes of the past.

“Oh, shit,” she giggles, a nervous edge to her voice. “That’s embarrassing.”

You shake your head, forcing yourself back to the present moment. “No—no, don’t worry about it,” you chuckle weakly, setting the drink down beside her with shaky hands. “Cute guy, honestly.”

That makes her giggle louder, her eyes bright with an almost conspiratorial glint. “Oh my god, you have no idea.”

Fuck—you can’t breathe.

––––

The night hangs thick with stifling heat, accompanied by the steady ticking of the clock as you catch your breath, your broken moans too loud in the heavy silence. The sheets cling to your feverish skin, damp and uncomfortable, as your body moves in a rhythm that feels unnatural now, but still—but always—familiar.

Your chest rises and falls in shallow, rapid breaths as you force the draconic toy deep inside you. The heat, the fire—it licks at your skin, making your whole body yearn for more. To chase more of the feeling, to chase more of the memory of him.

Errant strands of hair stick to your forehead, your chest flushed and burning, a quiet throb spreading through you with every friction, every desperate movement.

Your body aches, a relentless thrum urging you to push deeper, to find something—anything—to fill the gaping hole inside you, a wound you’ve tried to stitch shut over months, now threatening to tear its way open again, once more ripping from the seams.

A sharp pressure builds inside you. Your body stretches too far, too much, struggling to take in what it can’t quite handle. It burns in a way that hurts, but you need it. You need to feel more, to fill the emptiness, to grasp at something that feels real.

“Yours, yours–” you tremble, desperate. “Yours. Just yours. Please.”

You lie in the wake of it—pleasure fading into something heavier, regret creeping in like a shadow, waiting as always.

“I miss you,” you whisper in the dark. You always do.

You try to ignore the pull of it, the sharp descent that comes with the high.

You were doing so well.

But it’s fine. You’re fine.

Everything’s fine.

The words swirl and echo in your mind, until they’re swallowed by sounds that ring hollow. You let the moment wash over you, sinking beneath the weight of the tides, where sorrow and longing blur with the fleeting warmth of what you can’t keep.

Tomorrow will be another day. Another chance to try again.

For now, you let go of your grip on the fragile raft of sanity you’ve built, painstakingly, for months on end.

Tonight, you let yourself drown once more in the somber depths of loneliness and despair, confined within these four walls that feel—once more—like a penitentiary.

––––

The plane begins its slow descent, and through the window, the world comes into view—large swathes of land interrupted by winding roads that seem to follow no rhyme, nor pattern. A river glints faintly beneath the fading sun, while the sky turns a dull blue, a washed-out slate, streaked with the last embers of daylight.

Below, the small city stirs.

Tiny specks of color flicker to life, lanterns strung along the streets like beads on a thread, marking the season, an ending, and the inevitable turning of time. A chill hangs in the air, the wind whipping past you from the half-open window of the taxi, sharp and crisp in a way that you can only find in the province.

Your hometown.

It all rushes past in a blur of light and shadow, an eclectic mix of old and new—some buildings unchanged, others unfamiliar, as if they’d sprung up in the years you’ve been away. It’s been a while since you last came back, long enough for the roads to feel... foreign, almost. Though muscle memory stirs when the car takes a turn. One you could have easily navigated even with your eyes closed.

Only your sister lives here now, her and her family—a couple of hundred miles far. Far enough to feel like another world, yet close enough for the past to catch up the moment you lay eyes on the old two-story house tucked away on the quaint cul-de-sac of this suburban neighborhood.

The residential property was left to her, scrawled onto the title in an act of generosity, perhaps. Or maybe as a weight your mother never intended to carry, something meant to anchor her eldest child while she carved a different life for herself elsewhere. Free-spirited as she is, she left with the ease of someone shedding an old coat, slipping into the shoes of another, barely a glance over her shoulder.

But houses remember. And as you step out of the vehicle, your feet meeting the rough asphalt that once belonged to your childhood, you wonder if they remember you too.

"Maru, Maru!" Your five-year-old niece cries the moment she spots the grumpy feline peering through the mesh of his portable prison.

"What—no excitement for me too?" you tease, ruffling her hair. She giggles, scrunching up her nose.

"Auntie, hi! Hi!"

You snort at her enthusiasm, setting the carrier down. The second you pull at the zipper, Maru springs out, landing with a soft thud before stalking off with his usual air of disdain. Your niece shrieks with delight.

"Ah! Cat!"

"Well, there go the chances of her socializing with her brother," your sister remarks dryly from the doorway, sauntering closer. "Hey, stranger."

"Hey," you greet, hoisting a handful of paper bags. "Where do I dump these?"

She eyes the bags. "Any of those for me?"

"You have three kids, and one of them insisted on a Lego set. Do you know how much those cost?" You shoot her a flat look. "You’re getting socks."

"Wow, stingy." She huffs but takes some of the bags anyway, hitching one onto her hip as she grabs your other hand-carry.

You step inside, and the house greets you with a riot of lights and color. Plastic tinsel and bright string lights drape across every visible surface—along the bannister, around doorways—leaving no space untouched by the festive chaos. A Christmas tree stands proudly in the corner, nearly buried beneath an avalanche of baubles and sentimental ornaments collected over the years.

The room feels swallowed by the exuberance of it all, an almost overwhelming jamboree of holiday cheer.

It’s gaudy, excessive, and completely over-the-top, but beneath it all, the bones of your childhood home remain unchanged—familiar in a way that settles deep in your chest. The Narra wood floors are still scuffed with the marks of time, there’s still the distinct tang of turpentine mixed with waxy resin and citrus you’ve long since associated with home, and the odd decorative masks still line the far wall, their painted expressions frozen in mid-celebration.

Your eyes land on the canvas floater above the mantel—a whimsical cross-stitch of three women flying kites, their stitched dresses rippling in imagined wind. You remember it well, though you never quite understood why your mother had chosen that particular scene to painstakingly sew into existence. Still, it belongs here, another piece of the house's patchwork history.

Your gaze shifts to the couch, where Andrew, your sister's husband, is sprawled out, one arm lazily draped over the backrest, the other holding his phone.

He flicks his gaze up at you, offering a half-hearted wave before turning back to whatever has him so absorbed on the screen. Beside him, your three-year-old nephew is perched on his knees, bouncing with energy as he mirrors Bluey's movements on the TV with exaggerated enthusiasm, his tiny arms flailing in childlike glee.

You sigh inwardly, rolling your eyes. Typical.

“There’s a few more hours before dinner. Want to hang out in the kitchen while I roast the ham?” She asks casually, setting down your bags by the foot of the stairs. “Actually, scratch that—you’re in charge of the punch.”

“You just want a head start on the drinks,” you tease, the banter flowing easily between you. “Hey, where’s the little squirt?”

She points toward the small crib, near the island counter. “She finally stopped crying, thank god. Don’t wake her up, or you’ll be the one in charge of putting her back to sleep.”

The two of you slip into the kitchen, where the air already carries the promise of dinner—cloves and brown sugar blending nicely with the lingering scent of citrus. A tray of ham sits on the counter, prepped and ready, the scored surface glistening under the fluorescent light.

Your sister pulls a bottle of Luisita Oro Rum and Agimat Gin from the second-to-last cupboard and places them on the counter in front of you.

"Go ham," she quips.

You give her a flat look. "You think you’re funny.”

She shrugs, unfazed, and turns her attention back to where she’d left off before your arrival.

The two of you fall into a natural rhythm, the kind that comes from years of cooking together. You work your way through cans of Del Monte, the metallic clinks filling the space as you drain the syrup and dump chunks of mixed fruit into the large punch bowl.

Your sister leans against the counter nearby, arms folded, her gaze fixed on the oven door, as if sheer willpower alone could make the meat cook faster.

In the background, the soft drone of the TV drifts in from the living room, punctuated by your nephew’s occasional giggles.

There’s no rush, no need to fill the silence with anything more than the occasional clang of utensils against glass and the low humming of kitchen appliances. The day is winding down to a close, and for now, everything is alright.

“So, Mom called,” she says casually, one arm braced on the counter as she leans in, glancing at you. “Kept calling, actually.”

“Mm.” You reply noncommittally, shaking the last can’s contents into the crystal bowl, watching as the fruit chunks bob lazily in the pool of alcohol.

“She’s worried about you.”

You don’t answer.

“She was. She is.” Her voice shifts, more serious now. She watches you closely, noting your lack of reaction. “You know that, right?”

Your fingers tighten around the can opener, but you pull your gaze away from the bowl. “I know.”

She sighs, resigned, already familiar with this song and dance. Familiar enough to know there’s no winning this one, not tonight. Not anytime soon. “I am too.”

You blink, before looking away. “Oh.”

And maybe she does worry—your mother. But any hope of truly knowing is swallowed by the chasm between you, the one that keeps your conversations at surface level, never breaching the depths beyond.

Your body, born from hers, perhaps more alike than you realize, might have been brought into this world with the same pains that she’s carried. The pains of separation. The unresolved hurt of being unwillingly removed from your person—her former husband, your father—and that if you and your mother were closer, you could have opened up about your own situation. Perhaps then, you wouldn’t feel like a ship that has lost its ballast, drifting endlessly in the same turbulent seas for the longest time.

But you are your mother’s daughter, and she is her mother’s daughter. There is the truth that the women in your family are not the best communicators, nor do they wear their hearts on their sleeves. So you were born mute and overly sensitive. Pain drips from you, unnoticed, like a purposeless leak in the heart. You’ll carry it with you until you die.

“But you look… okay,” she observes, cocking her head. “Are you okay?”

You swallow. For the same reason you compare your mother to a storm you can't outrun and your sister to an intermittent drizzle, you find it easier to admit, “I haven’t… been okay for a while.”

Not wanting to bring the mood down, especially on a day like today, you quickly add, “Things are better now, though.”

She huffs out a laugh, shaking her head. “Could be a little more specific there, but I’ll take it.” She gives you an exasperatedly fond look. “You let me know if that changes anytime soon, ‘kay?”

Your lips quirk in the faintest semblance of a smile. “Yeah, okay.”

–

It’s ten minutes before midnight.

You’re leaning against the island counter that separates the kitchen from the living room, nursing a glass of the fruit punch (though it’s mostly gin, with the teensiest amount of fruit), watching your sister’s family at a distance as they eagerly wait for the clock to strike twelve. The blinds of the large living room window have been pulled up, giving an unobstructed view of the sky, ready for the first firework to light up the dark.

For a moment, you feel like an outsider, watching through a lens, as if you’re not quite part of the scene. There’s a strange sense of detachment—voyeuristic, almost—as though you're peering in on a private, intimate moment.

Your sister cradles the infant in her arms, and that all-too-familiar pang stirs to life—the same one that always does when you look at her.

You can't quite place what you're feeling, exactly. It’s tumultuous, and it’s complex. Andrew’s practically dozing off in his seat, and you see your sister shake her head in mild annoyance. Your nephew, fighting to keep his eyes open, starts to fuss.

Something tightens inside your chest.

“Andrew,” she hisses, startling the man awake. He blinks, disoriented, before spotting their son and the early signs of an explosive tantrum.

He sighs, and pulls the boy closer to him. “Hey, hey, little guy. Look at the sky. In just a couple of minutes, the lights are gonna go boom-boom.”

Your nephew sniffs, his eyes blinking up at him as he processes the words. “Boom-boom?”

“Yeah! Just like the one we watched on TV!”

The kid’s face visibly perks up at that, bad mood quickly forgotten. “Boom-boom!”

You watch as your sister’s gaze softens, and a small smile replaces the earlier frown on her face.

And in that instant, you understand.

You look at your sister and, for a brief moment, all you see is a wretched mirror of yourself. She is all of your fears, all of your failures, and all of what you could’ve been rolled into one. Barely in her mid-thirties, and yet already carrying the weight of a family: three kids, a husband who feels like a faded echo of your father—a man who didn’t quite measure up, who never did, and just as unreliable.

You feel the suffocating weight of it all, of being tied to a place that’s meant to be a home but feels more like a tomb, marking the passing of dreams unrealized. She’ll grow old here, buried in the same soil you both sprang from, fading into the landscape of this town that swallows its own.

You look at her and you almost feel the repressed pain of missing the last semester of college to give birth, the lament of a missed opportunity that life has stolen from her.

You feel her pain as if it’s yours. You feel it in the marrow of your bones—her blood flowing through you. “3…” You look at her, and it feels like seeing someone bound, held down by an anchor around her foot, unable to break through the surface of freedom. You look at her and you see dreams once aglow, reduced to cinders. You look at her and see—

She glances up at you.

Oh. “2…” In the fleeting moment where your eyes meet—eyes you two share with your mother—you feel so small.

Just a kid. Shortsighted and unfairly dismissive. Too blind to see your sister’s quiet victories, too selfish to admit you’ve diminished them just so you could feel less alone about your own failures. A child grasping for meaning, unfair in the ways only children can be. “1…” And in the fraction of a second before midnight, it's as if you’ve been doused awake.

You see her anew—what seemed like monotony is really the bedrock of stability; tenacity in place of routine. An almost single-minded doggedness to make something out of this life. You see the steadfast strength she possesses, the kind that gets her up every morning, to face the world and all its demands without question. With purpose.

You see resilience. Compassion. Traits that you’ve always lacked, that you’ve long resented, the same traits your mother never learned to embody.

And now you see your niece in her arms, born from this, and you name the indescribable feeling that dwells in you—borne from the pure look of adoration in your sister’s eyes for her youngest daughter—as envy.

You know, with utmost certainty, that she will be okay, because she has your sister as her mother, and she is so, so loved.

As you watch them, something inside you shifts—a deep, aching realization.

You see… home. Something you've always longed for but never truly found. “Happy new year!” The spell breaks. The two of you startle at the sudden eruption of fireworks, the distant chorus of car horns blaring from the streets outside.

Your niece and nephew jump and shriek, their laughter ringing through the room, celebrating something they barely understand but find joy in anyway. The baby in your sister’s arms lets out a wail at the commotion, and she is soothed instantly with murmurs of soft assurances. Her father struggles upright—then, with no small amount of effort, leans forward to press a kiss to the crown of her head.

The image before you is far from perfect, but it’s theirs.

“Auntie, auntie!” The little rascals cry out in unison, their voices overlapping in excitement. “‘appy n’year!”

A breathless, almost pained laugh escapes you. Still, you smile as you respond with your own, “happy new year!”

You’re tired—tired of running, of measuring yourself against the ghosts of your past. Tired of carrying the weight of a childhood that’s left you with more questions than answers, of making excuses for wounds that should have healed long since. You've spent so much time mourning the growing pains, the irreparable, that you never stopped to see what’s in front of you.

This moment, this realization, feels like the final missing piece in the fractured puzzle of who you are.

The new year arrives, marked by the crackle of fireworks and the loud cheer from your family.

This time, you won’t hesitate. You’ll choose to embrace the change, both good and bad, with open arms. With the quiet resolve of someone finally ready to move forward.

You lift your gaze just as a brilliant burst of red explodes into the night sky, its iridescent glow bleeding into a softer silver before fading into the dark.

A warmth settles deep in your chest—bittersweet, but steady. A quiet peace.

Happy new year, my love. . . . . . . .

. . .

The air at the threshold of Vagrant’s land is restless. Volatile. A hazy distortion ripples through it, folding and unfolding, like a lost mirage—an area of transition between worlds. Porch collapse, he calls it.

Sylus has stood here countless times, watching the way this anomalous disturbance twists the very fabric of this reality, how it flickers in and out of form, erratic. Impossible to predict.

It had taken him longer than he likes to admit to understand the phenomena for what it’s truly worth. Not just an alternate space caused by some spartan energy field. Not just any other protofield. But a thread. A connection. A door.

A fault line between realities, an entryway that hums with the possibility of you.

Since the moment the idea took hold, he had thought of little else. It has consumed him in every waking moment; his entire being seeming to bend toward a singular purpose—getting to you. He had torn through endless streams of data, followed every unstable pulse of energy, mapped its fluctuations down to the smallest inconsistency.

Nights bled into days, and days bled into weeks, until he can no longer keep track. Not that the passage of time meant much to him at this point.

He’s worked tirelessly through the stillness, through the storms of uncertainty, through the aching silence left by your absence. Ever since you’ve exchanged your temporary goodbyes.

He had measured everything he could—the unstable frequency of radio signals streaming through the interstice. He had traced the influx in real time; recording the rate of deterioration, isolating the waveform, and filtering out outside interferences.

But for all the data he gathered, for all the precision in his calculations, the core of this phenomenon remained just out of reach. His knowledge on the matter is rudimentary at most. He could waste years observing for abnormalities, trying to decipher how its presence has disrupted the very threads of this universe, but the why and how of it all will still elude him.

Still, theory matters less than function. He doesn’t need to understand the full depth of it. He only needs to harness it.

It’s a gamble.

Contrary to whatever reputation he’s earned for himself, Sylus has never been one to play his cards recklessly. He deals in certainties, in probabilities stacked in his favor, in risks that—while dangerous—are still within his grasp to control. He has never been the type to leap without knowing where he’d land.

But this is different.

He has never needed to, before. Never had a reason to throw himself into the unknown with no assurance of survival, no way to predict the outcome.

He had no reason to—until you.

Now, it matters less whether or not the odds of his survival are abysmal, that he has no precedent to follow. That your world might reject him entirely. None of it matters. Because if the choice is between staying and never reaching you, or plunging into the great, endless unknown—

He’ll take the leap, every time. Without hesitation.

He’ll leave this world behind, step beyond the edges of everything that has ever defined him, and venture into lands unseen, uncharted. Unknown. He doesn’t know what awaits him on the other side. If he’ll make it there in one piece. If he will make it there at all.

Sylus has never really questioned why he’s the anomaly in this world. The curiosities of his existence are yours to ponder. After all, he finds that he doesn’t care much of the answer as much as he cares about being with you.

Because wherever you are—that is home.

He takes a step forward, and the universe dissolves into a blinding light.

Sylus wakes to the sensation of weight.

Something presses on him heavily, sinking into his limbs like gravity itself is wrapping around him for the first time.

The ground beneath him is unfamiliar, uneven—tangible in a way he’s never felt before. His fingertips press into the damp earth, leaving the faintest imprint, yielding beneath his touch. The scent of soil rises around him; a rich, bitter brown.

This world does not recognize him, yet it cradles him like its own all the same.

Above, the sky erupts.

Fireworks split open the night, streaks of color exploding and dissipating in an instant—too fleeting to hold, too bright to ignore. A flashbang of incandescent reds and fluorescent greens, followed by bursts of crackling gold and shimmering silver scatter into tiny pinpricks before fading into the darkness.

The air is heavier here, denser in a way that feels almost… alien. It clings to the contours of his new form, seeps into his lungs with every breath.

And oh, how it burns. Not in pain, but in its sheer presence. It rushes into him not as mere oxygen but as something real. Something palpable. He’s lost in the sensation.

He exhales. Then winces.

Immediately, he feels it—the weakness. The brittleness of this new body. Gone is the invulnerability he once wielded so effortlessly, the certainty that nothing could touch him unless he allowed it.

That certainty is gone now, stripped away the moment he crossed the threshold.

He is flesh and bone. Finite. Mortal.

A lesser man might have feared it.

But in the middle of this empty field, miles away from civilization, Sylus can only laugh.

He tips his head back, reeling from the sheer impossibility of it all, eyes tracing the brilliant display above—as if committing it to memory, a coronation of sorts. Of existence. Of arrival. Of a life finally his own.

Reborn. And for the first time in his existence, he is alive.

––––

It’s summer—the summer that marks two years since he left.

Two years. It’s enough time to feel the weight of it, but not enough to make the events feel like something that happened a lifetime ago.

The seasons cycle once more, as they always do, pushing time forward with a steady, indifferent rhythm. And with that change comes a familiar pang—a bittersweet ache, neither grief nor regret, just the weight of knowing that nothing stays the same. Mono no aware.

You’re closer to thirty now, and the thought doesn’t terrify you as much as it did before. Your hair’s in a pixie cut—short and sleek, although the edges are a little ragged from the half-assed trimming you gave it a few days ago.

It would have made you feel stupid, once upon a time, for trying out something drastic for a new look. Instead, you just take it for what it is—one more thing you did because you wanted to. Like the rest of the choices you’ve made over the past two years. It’s yours. Uneven, impulsive, maybe a little questionable. But yours.

It’s liberating. Even if it makes your head look like a pencil.

The voice—the one that picks at your face, your body, your thoughts, everything down to the last imperfection—never really shuts up. It’s quieter now, easier to ignore, but it still lurks in the background, waiting for an opening, a moment of weakness. Maybe it always will. Maybe that’s just the price of being human.

But you don’t fight it anymore. You don’t let it drag you down to a breaking point. You carry yourself differently now, you'd say. No pep in your step just yet, but you don’t feel the need to drag your heels either. Literally and figuratively.

The change has come in waves—sometimes gentle, sometimes harsh—but it’s there, marking you, marking the passage of time. Just like the earth, just like the seasons, you’ve shifted and grown. And perhaps that’s enough.

The sky is ablaze now, a deepening canvas of pinks and purples as the sun sinks lazily to the west. The fiery orange light spills through the large windows, bleeding into every corner of the room, and the world outside seems to slow, caught in the hour before dusk.

You’re behind the counter, wiping down plates with the kind of ease that comes from repetition, the motion so ingrained in you that it barely registers anymore. It’s all routine—the rhythm of it, the quiet hum of the bistro, the clinking of porcelain. The air is thick with the sticky smell of warm pastries, and it’s the sort of evening that feels almost liminal. A moment suspended in time.

You hear the soft tinkling of the door chimes, signaling the arrival of another customer.

It’s a soft, unassuming sound, barely noticeable against the evening lull. You swipe your hands across your apron, turning on instinct, your mouth already forming the usual greeting.

“Hi, welcome to—”

The words die in your throat.

It’s a slow unfolding—almost a gradual realization that stretches across the seconds like the last rays of sun dipping beneath the horizon. He stands in the doorway, a figure outlined in gold, and his presence fills the space between you, no barrier that separates, and it feels... impossible. Unimaginable. Inevitable.

His height is the first thing you notice. He’s taller than you expected, and you know he’ll tower over you, even at a distance. His hair is dark now, the color of midnight, almost—not the silver you once traced with your fingers in your mind. The cut is still similar to what you’ve always known it to be, though a little more unkempt, as if he’s lived in this body long enough for it to take on its own wear.

Then his eyes. The red is gone—no longer the shade of crimson that used to see right through you, those sanguine pools you once loved. In its place, a stormy grey, deep and impossibly expressive, pulling you in like an undertow. The color is striking, alien in its own way, yet there’s a warmth buried beneath it—and the familiarity of it tugs at you.

Even with the changes, even though you’ve never met the person standing in front of you, you’ll know him anywhere.

There’s a shift in the room, a subtle, yet unmistakable change in the air. It’s as if the whole bistro has drawn in a breath—and you with it. Time stretches thin, each passing second expanding into what feels like an eternity.

Your eyes lock—and for a moment, nothing else exists.

It’s as if the world has shifted off its axis. Or, perhaps more accurately, it’s as though a piece that’s always been missing has finally snapped into place.

Something settles in you, something foreign and indescribably familiar at the same time.

Sylus smiles.

“Hello, my love. Have I kept you waiting?”

It feels like home.

____

“Now I found myself this kind of love, I can't believe it I'll never leave it behind I thought I'd never get to feel another fucking feeling But I feel— This love, this love, this love Oh, I feel it.”

End A/N: So this is done! Wow! I'm kind of proud of myself for writing something this long in the span of, idk, three months? Basically, the entire duration of my "vacation" back home. Now with another term and a busier schedule coming up, I really wanted to finish this series before life catches up to me. *sobs* Anyway, I'm so, so happy about the reception of this fic, and you've all been so sweet :') Again, thank you for reading! I'll see you in the spin-off, or whatever shit I put out next haha <3 Tagging: @xxfaithlynxx @beewilko @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @sunsethw4 @stxrrielle @mangooes @hrts4hanniehae @buggs-1 @michiluvddr @ssetsuka @imm0rtalbutterfly @the-golden-jhope @beomluvrr @bookfreakk @ally-the-artistic-turtle @sapphic-daze @sarahthemage @cchiiwinkle @madam8 @slownoise @raendarkfaerie @sylusdarling @luminaaaz @greeenbeean @vvhira @issamomma @shroomiethefrogwhisperer @blueberrysquire @lovely-hani @fiyori @peachystea @aeanya @sylus-crow @queen-serena88 @xthefuckerysquaredx @rayvensblog @poptrim @goldenbirdiee @amerti @angstylittleb1tch @reiofsuns2001 @j4mergy @touya-apologist @gladiolus-mamacitia @btszn @wrimaira

#love and deepspace #lads #lnds #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #lnds sylus #sylus x reader #sylus x you #lads x you #lads x reader #love and deepspace fic #self aware au #sylus qin

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