#whatever he is has to spin something on its head

[rosiebbydoll]

The Right Time - Sukuna x Reader- Chp. 2

Chp. 1 - Chp. 2 - Chp. 3

summary: Your life was blissfully chaotic. Being a single mom and raising a daughter with a bigger attitude than yours was a challenge, but you love every second of it. You decided to move to the city to be closer to work. You’ve been at your new apartment for about three weeks now and everything has been great. Until, your annoyingly hot neighbor decided to open his mouth.

cw: female reader, modern au (no curses), 18+, enemies to friends to lovers, mechanic!sukuna x librarian!reader, slow burn, fluff, smut, crack, angst, toxicity, Sukuna is emotionally constipated, Nobora is readers daughter, Choso and Yuji are Sukuna’s nephews, Toji is a present father in this, LOTS of family fluff, (more tags will be added)

wc: 10k (woops)

chp warning: Toji & Sukuna pov, fluff, tension, angst, crack, sexual content, toxic traits (from reader & Sukuna), mentions of violence

a/n: we are starting this chapter off on the same day, just a different pov! there is also some lovely backstory and some more tension from our fav enemies (who are so in love).

Toji was one of the last parents to walk out of the school. He had lingered behind to discuss pickup arrangements with Nanami, and of course, to indulge in his usual flirting with the single moms – a habit that never failed to make you roll your eyes.

As he sauntered toward the exit, he caught sight of your car spinning out of the parking lot, the tires squealing against asphalt. His head cocked to the side, that familiar crease appearing between his brows. Literal seconds later, Sukuna's car tore out of the lot too, leaving a trail of dust in its wake. Toji's shoulders tensed, a heavy sigh escaping his lips.

"Well shit," he muttered, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair, the silver rings on his fingers catching the sunlight. He rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the growing unease as he made his way to his car.

With practiced movements born from years of habit, he pulled out a pack of Marlboros, giving it two sharp taps against his wrist before extracting a cigarette. The familiar click of his butane lighter offered a moment of comfort as he lit up, taking a long drag that filled his lungs with familiar warmth.

Toji had always been meticulous about keeping his different social circles separate – not because he was hiding anything, especially not from you, but because he understood that some personalities were like oil and water.

He decided to pretend that your hasty exits were mere coincidence, though his gut told him otherwise. His instincts, honed from years of reading people and situations, were rarely wrong, and right now, they were screaming that something had gone sideways.

Before she passed, his wife had made him promise to look out for you, her eyes fierce even in her final days, and it was a promise he took as seriously as breathing. You'd been his ride-or-die since high school, his A1 through everything. You were the kind of person who saw the best in everyone, sometimes to your own detriment.

Sukuna, on the other hand... well, he was an asshole, plain and simple. The kind of man who wore his reputation like armor, each sharp word and cold glare another layer of protection. He had a way of letting whatever the hell came to mind spill from his lips without filter or remorse. Cold and usually preferring solitude, he was also an extremely cocky bastard.

Sukuna blames it on his success- definitely not his good looks. His car shop downtown wasn't just a business – it was his legacy, built from the ground up with calloused hands and stubborn determination. The place practically breathed with his personality: organized chaos, raw talent, and an undercurrent of barely contained intensity. The air always smelled of motor oil, metal, and ambition, the walls lined with tools that gleamed like soldiers standing at attention.

He started working at the shop when he was 19, just another grease monkey with too much attitude and raw talent burning beneath his skin. The turning point came when his brother passed away. That was a loss that reshaped his entire world. His brother left behind not just two wide-eyed kids who looked too much like him, but a decent chunk of change from a life insurance policy.

Most guys that age would've blown it all on fast cars and faster women, but Sukuna had always been cut from different cloth. Without hesitation, he put most of it into savings accounts for the boys – his nephews were his brother's last gift to the world, and he'd be damned if they went without. The rest? Well, that went into buying the run-down shop from the old man he worked for, a crusty bastard who'd taught him everything he knew about cars and nothing about people.

Seven years later, and the place is barely recognizable. What was once a dying garage with more rust than customers is now one of the most respected shops in the city. The walls that used to leak now house state-of-the-art equipment, and the floors that were once stained with decades of oil now gleam under LED lights.

He's got some loyal employees who understand his moods better than he does. They can read his grunts and scowls like a second language. His customer base keeps growing despite (or maybe because of) his abrasive personality. Toji being one of his most frequent visitors, though that has more to do with how often he destroys his cars than actual loyalty.

His father still hovers on the periphery of their lives, a silent presence that's neither fully there nor completely gone. Like a ghost that refuses to fade away completely. The old man watches the boys when Sukuna needs it, their relationship better with the buffer of distance between them. It's not perfect – nothing in Sukuna's life ever is – but it works, held together with the same stubborn determination that keeps his vintage motorcycle running.

Now when Toji moved to the city after his wife passed, he didn't know many people. He left you in the town you both grew up in, and surprisingly, you didn't hold it against him. He needed a change, and you supported him effortlessly. Besides, the city wasn't too far, only about a thirty-minute drive. You had to drive there for work anyway. You believe it was fate that he lived in the city because that's where you met Nobora's dad. And no, it wasn't fate for you and him, but fate because now you have Nobora. You only visited on rare occasions though, the library and being a mom kept you pretty busy.

Lucky for Toji , fate was on his side too. Because he met Sukuna at the most inconvenient time.

A couple years ago now- on a random Tuesday night, he decided to go to the bar. Being a newly single dad was a lot for him, so he paid his fifteen year old neighbor to watch Megumi for the night.

He was going out to do... something. He didn't exactly know what yet. The weight of grief and responsibility had been crushing him, making every day feel like he was walking through quicksand. You knew he wasn't doing well. You tried to call as often as possible, checking in with that gentle persistence that had always been your way. But even with the frequent calls and check-ins, Toji was still lost, drowning in the silence of his empty house.

So, that's why he found himself sitting at a bar, drinking his little heart out. The bourbon burned going down, but it was better than feeling nothing at all. To his surprise, women started flocking to him. They circled like vultures, rubbing his shoulders, playing with his hair, whispering lewd suggestions in his ears. The attention was suffocating, making his skin crawl with discomfort.

This was weird. He hadn't flirted with another woman since his wife. His nerves were shot, body stiff as a board as he laughed awkwardly at their advances, feeling like he was under interrogation.

It wasn't their fault – these women with their practiced smiles and careful touches. He was just extremely rusty, trying desperately to avoid getting turned on since he hadn't been laid in a while. Not that he came here for that. Did he? No. He definitely wasn't ready for that. His wife had only been gone for six months, and the thought of being with someone else made his stomach churn.

Women kept approaching him throughout the night, each one blending into the next in a haze of perfume and bad pickup lines. Then suddenly, there was one who stood out – long dark brown hair, so dark it was almost black, with short eyebrows and dark brown eyes. For a split second, his heart stopped. But no, she could never be her. This woman's smile was too practiced, too sultry as she greeted him.

"You all by yourself, handsome?" she hummed, sipping something fruity and too sweet. Toji gave her a quick smirk, glancing around at his unwanted admirers.

"Wouldn't call this being alone," he muttered, already tired of the game.

"Oh, I see, so you brought them all here with you?" she giggles, leaning closer. Her perfume is too sweet, making his head spin or maybe that's the bourbon.

Toji gives her a smirk back, but his heart isn't in it. She's trouble walking in stilettos, the kind of beautiful that usually comes with a price tag. Sure, she's hot – all long legs and practiced seduction – but he doesn't need this right now. Not with Megumi waiting at home, not with his wife's photo still on his nightstand, not with the wedding ring still leaving a phantom weight on his finger.

He's not trying to be rude, but subtlety isn't working. Even with his coldest shoulder, she's persistent, determined to break through his defenses. She lays her head on his shoulder, manicured nails trailing across his chest in a way that should be arousing but just makes him feel hollow. The bourbon isn't buzzing the way he wants anymore, and now all he can think about is his wife.

Fuck.

"Listen, doll—" he starts, but she presses a finger to his lips, cutting him off. The gesture is meant to be sexy, but it just pissed Toji off.

"Shhh, how about we go somewhere else, huh?" Her words slur together, her eyes heavy-lidded in a way that suggests she's had way too much to drink. The seductive act is slipping, revealing something desperate underneath.

Alright, I need to leave.

Toji pushes himself up from the barstool, carefully extracting himself from the drunk woman's grasp. She sways dangerously as he moves, and he has to steady her before she falls. "Don't go," she whines, clinging to his arm with surprising strength.

Christ. He's never wanted to hit a woman, but this is testing his patience. All he wants is to go home to Megumi, to the quiet of his apartment where he doesn't have to pretend to be okay.

"Yarozu." A deep voice cuts through the haze of his thoughts. The woman rolls her eyes and huffs, ignoring the man who called her name.

Toji's stomach twists. Great. This is probably her boyfriend or husband, coming to kick his ass for letting his girl drape herself all over him. He'd be pissed too in their position—

Oh fuck.

He definitely didn't come here to fight. Sure, he could probably win – he's handled worse – but he's too old to be throwing hands over some woman he doesn't even want. Hell, he doesn't even want to be here anymore.

Toji lets out an annoyed sigh, ready to explain himself before this turns ugly. But before he can speak, Yarozu is being pulled away from him. The guy is covered in tattoos, looking more annoyed than angry as he pries her off. "He isn't interested, Yarozu. Leave him alone."

Toji turns to leave, eager to escape this increasingly awkward situation, but the tattooed man calls out, "Hey, wait." His voice is gruff but carries no hostility. Toji stops, shoulders tensing. He really isn't in the mood for any petty relationship bullshit.

"Listen man, whatever this is—" Toji starts, but the guy cuts him off with a dismissive wave, his tattooed fingers catching the dim bar light.

"You’re not the first guy she's tried this shit with." He's still holding Yarozu back with one arm as she continues her drunken tirade, her perfectly manicured nails digging into his forearm. Despite her best efforts, he seems unfazed, like this is just another Tuesday night for him.

A smirk plays at his lips as he holds out his free hand. "I'm Sukuna." Yarozu keeps grunting and grabbing at him, but he ignores her with practiced ease.

Toji raises a brow, studying the man before him. After a moment's hesitation, he shakes the offered hand, noting the firm grip and the calluses. Toji studies that tattooed man in front of him. He looks tired, even sad almost. Kinda like him. Toji’s sighs, “Fushiguro”.

Yarozu frowns at their interaction. "Sukuna, baby, why are you being like this?" She whines, her attention suddenly shifting as she tries to reach for him instead of Toji. Her mood swings from seductive to needy in an instant. "We were having fun..."

"No, you were having fun. This guy clearly wants nothing to do with your bullshit." Sukuna's tone is harsh but carries an undertone of practiced patience, like someone who's had this exact conversation too many times before.

He turns to Toji, and there's something like understanding in his eyes. "Let me get her home before she makes another scene. You wanna grab a drink after?"

Yarozu gasps dramatically, her perfectly lined lips forming an 'O' of indignation. "You're such an asshole!"

"C'mon, you need to get home." Sukuna rolls his eyes, already steering her toward the door with the expertise of someone who's done this too many times.

Twenty minutes later, Toji and Sukuna are sitting at a quieter bar down the street, the kind of place where the wood is actually aged and the whiskey doesn't taste like lighter fluid. The tension from earlier has dissolved into something more comfortable, both men recognizing a familiar kind of pain in each other's eyes.

"I can’t apologize for Yarozu," Sukuna says, sliding a whiskey toward Toji. His voice is gruff but sincere. "She gets like this when she drinks, tries to make me jealous or some shit. Usually ends up making some poor bastard uncomfortable instead." He traces the rim of his glass with a tattooed finger, the gesture almost nervous.

Toji appreciates the straightforward explanation. No bullshit, no drama – just facts. It's refreshing after months of people tiptoeing around him, treating him like he might break. "Sounds complicated."

"Nah. We fuck sometimes, that's it. The complicated part is when she forgets that's all it is." Sukuna takes a long sip of his drink, the amber liquid catching the dim bar light. "Anyway, what brings a guy like you out alone on a Tuesday night? You don't strike me as the type looking for whatever the hell Yarozu was offering."

Something about Sukuna's blunt honesty makes Toji decide to return the favor. The words come easier than expected, maybe because this stranger doesn't look at him with pity. "Lost my wife six months ago. Got a kid at home. Thought maybe I needed to..." he pauses, swirling the whiskey in his glass. "Hell, I don't even know what I needed."

Sukuna nods slowly, understanding flickering across his features. There's no sympathy in his eyes, just recognition. "Yeah, lost my brother last year. Left behind two boys. Been trying to figure that shit out myself." The admission hangs between them, heavy with shared understanding.

They spend the next few hours talking about everything and nothing – cars, work, the general mess that is life. The conversation flows naturally, neither man feeling the need to fill silences with empty words.

The next morning, when Yarozu texts Sukuna her usual post-drama apology, he just sends back a quick 'whatever' and saves Toji's number in his phone.

Toji chuckles at the memory and finally pulls his Camaro into his reserved spot at the front of the complex. The familiar rumble of the engine dies as he shifts into park, his mind still replaying both the past and this morning's events. He's got a stack of maintenance requests to handle today. He lets out another sigh. Just another day of being a landlord. But it’s better than what he use to do.

The stack of maintenance requests on his desk seems to multiply every time he looks away. Being a landlord isn't exactly what he'd pictured for himself, but there's something satisfying about fixing things, about making people's lives a little better one repair at a time. The flexible schedule works well with his life, letting him balance work with being there for Megumi and the other responsibilities that come with single parenthood.

And now for Nobora and you too. He promised to pick up both kids at five to give you some extra time at work. Though if he's being honest, he thinks you're pushing yourself too hard lately. But telling you to slow down is like talking to a brick wall.

Toji settles into his office chair, the leather creaking familiarly beneath him. The morning sun streams through the blinds, casting striped shadows across his desk. He pulls up his maintenance scheduling app, trying to organize his day efficiently. Between the AC unit, the washing machine, and whatever new crisis Yamamoto's faucet presents, it's going to be a full day. Toji likes it that way. He likes to focus and work, helps the time go by and doesn’t let his mind wander.

He goes on about his day trying to finish every request he scheduled. Of course, tenants stop and talk to him, some even flirt. It’s nice to feel a since of pride to help others. He thinks his wife would be proud of him. He’s pretty lost without her. And without you? He might’ve been dead by now.

He starts to walk back to his office with his last job of the day finished. His phone buzzes – a text from you. It’s a voice memo. He raises a brow because usually when you do that you’re ranting. You claim it’s easier than texting fifty paragraphs. Toji presses play and he immediately lets out a sigh.

You start off with yelling at him for being “a piss poor land-lord” and continue with how he has some tenants who he should have never let move in here. You finally get to the point and explain why all happened with Sukuna. And you don’t miss a beat, you explain everything. From the porno you heard last night all the way up to you calling him “limp dick” and flipping him off.

Well fuck. Toji was right. He would love to revel in the satisfaction of it all, but he just knew that something bad would happen if you two ever met. You’re polar fucking opposites. And now you’re neighbors. Which is his own fault because he should have payed attention to that. How the hell did he miss that? Either way it’s done and over with now, but man is he proud of you. In high school you were picked on a lot (by Toji mostly) but you developed a thick skin and don’t take peoples shit. He’s damn proud. And Sukuna deserves every bit of it.

Toji quickly sends back a message apologizing and saying, “We can talk about it later”.

He leans back in his chair and lets his body stretch for a moment before checking the time again. He had about an hour left before he had to get the kids. He was finished with his work for the day and was bored.

So, he grabs his keys, deciding to head out early. He could swing by Sukuna's shop, maybe give him shit about this morning's encounter. Besides you, Sukuna is his closest friend, though neither of them would ever admit how much they actually enjoy each other's company. Some things are better left unspoken.

The familiar rumble of Toji's Camaro engine dies as he pulls into Sukuna's shop. The place is busy as usual – the sound of power tools and classic rock music spilling out from the open garage doors. He spots Sukuna's distinctive figure bent over the engine of a sleek black Mercedes, tattoos visible under his rolled-up sleeves.

"Yo," Toji calls out, unable to keep the grin off his face. "Heard you got your ass handed to you this morning."

Sukuna doesn't even look up from the engine. "Fuck off."

"No, no, please – tell me more about how my 'type' threatened to get you evicted." Toji leans against a nearby workbench, thoroughly enjoying this moment. "Actually, what was it she called you? Limp-dick?"

That gets Sukuna's attention. He straightens up, wiping his hands on a shop rag. "She made sure to tell ya, huh?” He chuckles.

"Course she did. We're fucking, remember?" Toji's voice drips with sarcasm. "You’re real good at talkn’ to women ya know?”

Sukuna throws the rag at him, but there's no real heat behind it. "Get outta my shop, Fushiguro"

"What? Ya mad?." Toji catches the rag easily. “You know, for someone who deals with Yarozu's drama, you sure are quick to judge other people's relationships."

Sukuna's jaw tightens at the mention of Yarozu. "Speaking of – she stopped by earlier." He stares at the ground intensely with his brows furrowed.

"Oh?" Toji raises an eyebrow, recognizing that tone. "How'd that go?"

"About as well as everything else today." Sukuna moves to the mini-fridge in the corner, pulling out two beers. He tosses one to Toji. "She wants more. I don't. Same shit, different day."

"Maybe if you stopped sleeping with her..." Toji suggests, cracking open his beer.

"Maybe if you minded your own business..." Sukuna mimics his tone, taking a long drink.

“I know you aint talking” Toji huffs and starts to down his beer, but immediately remembers he has to pick up the kids and sits the beer down. You would kill him if you knew he sipped on a beer before he picked up your daughter.

They fall into a comfortable silence, the garage's ambient noise filling the space between them. Sukuna fidgets with his beer label, peeling it back methodically, clearly wrestling with something behind those crimson eyes.

"So, she’s the ‘good’ friend you always talk about," he finally says, not meeting Toji's gaze, his voice unusually hesitant. "Why’d ya keep her hidden all these years?”

Toji snorts, a knowing smirk playing at his lips. "Look what the fuck happened when you did meet, dumbass.”

Sukuna tries to hold in a laugh and shakes his head. “Never been the best at talking with women.”

Toji rolls his eyes, “Bullshit. You’re just an asshole.” Sukuna can’t argue with that. He also knows he fucked up. He hasn’t stopped thinking about you all day, it’s been pissing him off.

He takes another drink, his expression thoughtful, almost distant. "She's something else."

"Don't," Toji warns, his tone shifting from playful to serious. "She's not another Yarozu."

"Wasn't gonna do anything, fuck head," Sukuna says too quickly

"Yeah, okay." Toji stands, checking his watch. The afternoon light catches on its scratched face. "Gotta go pick up the kids. Try not to piss off any more single moms today."

"Fuck you," Sukuna calls after him, but there's a hint of a smile in his voice.

As Toji heads back to his car, he can't help but wonder if he should be worried. He knows that look in Sukuna's eyes – it's the same one he gets before doing something incredibly stupid or incredibly bold. He decides to ignore it. Sukuna is a stubborn asshole, so he probably isn’t going to listen to Toji (not a surprise at all). He bites the inside of his cheek and starts his car to head over to pick up the kids.

His phone buzzes (again) as he's pulling into the school parking lot, the screen lighting up with your name. The text reads: "Hey, since you're picking up the kids, just take them to my place. I left snacks in the pantry. I'll be home around 7."

Toji sends back a quick "Got it" before parking under the sprawling oak tree, its leaves casting dappled shadows across his windshield. The late afternoon sun bathes the playground in golden light, where a handful of kids are still running around, their laughter carrying across the empty lot.

His phone buzzes (again) with another text from you: "I ordered pizza for dinner. Should be there around 6:30. And please make sure they do their homework before the movie."

"Yes ma'am," he texts back, unable to suppress his amused smile. You always think of everything, planning three steps ahead.

"Don't 'yes ma'am' me, you ass", comes your quick reply, making him chuckle.

The school bell rings, its sharp peal cutting through the afternoon quiet. Kids pour out of the building like water from a broken dam, their excited voices filling the air.

Toji spots Megumi and Nobora immediately – they're impossible to miss, always gravitating toward each other like magnets. Megumi wears his usual serious expression, the one that makes him look too old for his years, while Nobora bounces alongside him, talking a mile a minute with wild hand gestures that paint stories in the air.

"Dad!" Megumi calls out, his face lighting up like a sunrise as he spots Toji. The rare smile transforms his entire face.

"Uncle Toji! Uncle Toji!" Nobora shouts, her backpack bouncing with each excited jump. "Look what I made today!" She's already digging through her bag, pulling out a slightly crumpled piece of paper covered in vibrant colors and imagination.

Toji kneels down to their level, accepting the artwork. "Wow, is that a... butterfly?" He truly doesn’t know what the fuck he is looking at. He has several drawings in his office and at home designed by the artist Nobora, but he cannot tell you what any of them are.

"No silly!" Nobora puts her hands on her hips and rolls her eyes because it should be obvious of what she created. "It's me and Megumi and you and Mommy at the park!"

"And there's the swings," Megumi adds seriously, pointing to some wobbly lines in the corner with the precision of a museum curator. "Mr. Nanami said we did good coloring in the lines today."

"Yeah? That's awesome," Toji says, helping them both into their car seats with practiced ease. Toji and you both have two in your cars now because it’s easier than transporting the heavy fucking things every other day.

As they all get settled in the car Toji turns on the radio and the kids start humming to the songs. They don’t really know the words, but they are trying their best. This is when Toji feels at peace. Megumi will never know how much he means to Toji, and Nobora is a pretty good bonus daughter.

"We're heading to your place today, Nobora,” Toji says as he turns onto the exit.

"Really?" Nobora claps her hands, her excitement infectious. "Megumi! We can play with my new stuffed animals! We can have a tea party!” It seems she had already forgotten about the Gameboy disaster.

Megumi nods quietly, a small smile playing on his lips like a secret.

"Uncle Toji, you have to play too!" Nobora shouts as she kicks her feet in excitement.

"Oh yeah?" Toji chuckles, turning into the parking garage. “Am I the special guest?” Toji smirks back at them. The kids look at eachother and then frown. "No!" both kids shout in unison, dissolving into giggles that fill the car with pure joy. He gives a fake pout and holds onto his heart like the kids just shot him. They start to giggle and say he can sit by them. He chuckles and turns the car off and begins to unbuckle himself.

The kids are still yapping and Toji shakes his head, grinning as he helps them out of their car seats. They do not shut up as the walk up the stairs. Discussing on which stuff animals are invited to the tea party and who would be sitting by who. It is obviously very important. Nobora is sure to tell Toji he has a spot right next to her.

While the kids and Toji settle in at the apartment, you were still busy at work. You made it your mission to distract yourself. After that stupid fucking asshole- no we are not gonna think about him right now. You got caught up on returns and organizing many books, as well as cataloging. It was a pretty productive day. Except Ino noticed you were off from the moment you stepped in.

You both usually chat about anything and everything, but today you were barely ever seen. He overthinks the entire thing and thought you were mad at him. So, around seven, right before you left he decided to be brave and see what the hell was wrong with you.

“Do you hate me?” Ino asks as he slowly leans over your desk.

You stop typing and look up at him, “What are you talking about?”

Ino immediately leans over on your shoulder and pretends to cry, “Oh! Finally she speaks to me! I thought you decided to hate me forever since you have barely spoken to me.”

You roll your eyes and let out a sigh. “Ino you’re being dramatic. I just had some stuff to do today.”

He frowns, “You eat lunch with me everyday.” He leans in even closer to you, “I don’t even think you at lunch today.”

You dead pan at him and shove him away. “I was busy. I’m fine.” You watch as Ino pouts and he literally looks like he is about to cry.

With an exaggerated sigh you give him a soft smile and hold out your arms to hug him. He immediately accepts and bear hugs you- almost making your chair fall over.

“Look, I’m tired and I wanna go be with my kid, but I’ll explain everything later, okay?” You smile at him and he gives you a nod.

You both walk to exit, making sure every light is turned off and every door is locked. “I’m expecting a full debrief over coffee,” Ino states as you walk to your car.

You give him a wave goodbye, “It’s a date.”

You had a silent drive home. It was actually pretty relaxing. You didn’t even think of he who shall not be named. All you wanted to do was go home and see Nobora. You made sure to have a career, you didn’t want motherhood to stop you from that. But now you feel like you’re missing out. Nobora is getting at the age where she realizes you’re gone. You sigh at the thought and slowly pull into your parking spot.

The apartment stairs have never felt longer, each step a small mountain to climb after your exhausting day. Your feet drag slightly against the worn tile as you make your way up, already imagining the cheerful chaos that awaits in your apartment – Nobora and Megumi probably turned your living room into their latest pretend restaurant, with Toji enabling their every whim like the softie he pretends not to be.

You hear voices before you reach your floor, and your stomach drops when you recognize one of them. Of course. Because this day just needs one more encounter with your hot annoying dickhead of a neighbor. Stop thinking about him.

As you round the corner, you see them – Sukuna's holding a sleeping Yuji, the boy's pink hair tousled against his father's shoulder. Behind him, Choso struggles with several grocery bags, trying to act grown up by carrying more than he probably should, his small face scrunched with determination.

Your steps falter for just a moment, but you quickly steel yourself. No. You're not doing this again. Not today. Without missing a beat, you continue up the stairs, eyes fixed straight ahead as if they're invisible, as if the air they occupy is just empty space. You can feel Sukuna's gaze on you like a physical touch, but you don't give him the satisfaction of acknowledgment.

Yuji makes a small snuffling noise and burrows deeper into Sukuna's shoulder. Despite your resolve not to look, you catch a glimpse of his peaceful face, pink lashes fluttering against round cheeks. The sight tugs at something in your chest – damn kids, making it hard to maintain your righteous anger.

"Miss—" Choso starts to say in his child-like voice, innocent and sweet, but Sukuna cuts him off with a sharp look that could slice steel.

You're already unlocking your door, pretending you didn't hear anything, the keys jingling in your slightly trembling hands. The last thing you catch before slipping inside is Choso's confused whisper, "I thought you said she was mean and loud?"

You pause in your tracks and bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to hurt. Do not give him the time of day. Do not let him see he's gotten under your skin. The keys jingle as you open the door and it clicks shut behind you with finality, cutting off whatever Sukuna's response might have been. You lean against it for a moment, letting out a breath you didn't realize you were holding, feeling your heart hammer against your ribs.

The apartment is surprisingly quiet when you walk in. No chaos, no pretend restaurant, just the soft glow of the TV playing some cartoon on mute, its colors dancing across the walls. You drop your keys in the bowl by the door and slip off your shoes, padding quietly into the living room in sock-covered feet.

The sight that greets you makes your heart melt. Toji's sprawled on your couch, his long legs hanging off the end because he's too tall for normal furniture. Nobora and Megumi are curled up against him, both fast asleep in the way only children can manage. Your daughter's got her favorite unicorn plushie clutched to her chest like a lifeline, while Megumi's using Toji's arm as a pillow.

Their homework is spread across the coffee table, completed and ready for tomorrow, pencils and erasers scattered like evidence of their diligence. The sight makes your heart swell. Never in your life would you imagine Toji of all people being such a good dad. You know his wife is so proud and so are you.

Toji slowly looks up and nods his head. "They crashed about twenty minutes ago," Toji whispers, his voice barely a breath in the quiet room, careful not to wake them. "Pizza's in the kitchen. They insisted on waiting for you, but..." he gestures to their sleeping forms with his free arm, a soft smile playing at his lips.

You smile, taking in the peaceful scene before you. Empty juice boxes and half-eaten pizza crusts litter the coffee table, evidence of their earlier feast. There's a stack of drawings too – probably their latest masterpieces they'll want to show you in the morning, full of bright colors and impossible stories.

"Thanks for watching her," you whisper back, grabbing the throw blanket from the armchair and gently draping it over the kids. The soft fabric settles around them like a protective cloud.

Toji just nods, that soft look in his eyes he only gets around the children. It's moments like these that remind you why he's your best friend, why you trust him with everything. He's grown so much from the troublemaker you knew in high school, transformed by love and loss into someone steady and true.

You carefully scoop Nobora up, her little arms automatically wrapping around your neck even in sleep, muscle memory stronger than dreams. Her plushie dangles precariously from her hand as you balance her weight against your chest.

"I got it," Toji whispers, gently taking the plushie before it can fall. He shifts Megumi onto the couch with the care of someone handling precious china, making sure not to wake him as he gets up to follow you.

You carry Nobora to her room, her warm breath steady against your neck. The glow-in-the-dark stars on her ceiling cast a soft light as Toji helps pull back her covers. You lay her down gently, and she immediately curls onto her side. Toji tucks the unicorn plushie into her arms, and you both watch as she hugs it close, lost in whatever sweet dreams fill her mind.

Back in the living room, Toji's already gathering his and Megumi's things, movements quiet and practiced. "I should get him home," he whispers, carefully lifting his sleeping son. "You good?"

You nod, following them to the door. "Thanks again for today. Sorry about the whole... neighbor situation." The words taste bitter in your mouth.

Toji shifts Megumi in his arms, a knowing look in his eyes that sees right through you. "Don't apologize. Man needed to be knocked down a peg."

You roll your eyes but can't help smiling. "Night, Toji."

"Night," he replies softly, and you watch as he carries Megumi down the hall, disappearing around the corner. Their footsteps fade away, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the quiet of your apartment.

You're too exhausted to even think about the cold pizza waiting in the kitchen. After a quick change into your favorite oversized t-shirt, you collapse onto your bed, not bothering to pull back the covers. The events of the day weigh heavy on your limbs, and your last coherent thought before drifting off is hoping tomorrow brings less drama than today.

Just on the other side of your walls is Sukuna pacing in his living room, wearing tracks in the carpet as he moves like a caged tiger. He's unable to shake the image of you deliberately ignoring him in the hallway, the way you looked right through him as if he were made of glass.

Your complete dismissal burns more than your earlier insults, and he can't figure out why it bothers him so much. He's used to people either fearing him or wanting something from him - this blatant disregard is new territory, and it's getting under his skin like an itch he can't scratch.

"Uncle Sukuna?" Choso's voice breaks through his brooding. The boy sits cross-legged on the floor, homework spread around him like a paper nest. "Is that lady really mean?"

Sukuna stops pacing, looking at his nephew. Yuji's already asleep in his room, worn out from their grocery run, but Choso's still up, his innocent question hanging in the air. "No, kid. She's not mean." He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "Your uncle's just a fu—" he catches himself mid-word, eyes widening as he realizes what he almost said.

"You almost said a bad word," Choso points out seriously, his face stern in a way that makes him look like a miniature teacher. "That's fifty yen in the swear jar."

Sukuna snorts but dutifully pulls out his wallet. He stares at the jar for a moment, irritated at himself more than anything else. What the hell is wrong with him? One encounter with some mouthy woman and he's acting like... he doesn't even know what.

The reflection in the window shows a man who looks pissed off, unsettled, and – worst of all – intrigued. No. Absolutely not. He's not doing this. He's got enough complications in his life without adding another one, especially not one that lives next door and has already made it clear she thinks he's trash.

“Shit.” He mutters and is already aggressively shoving another fifty yen into the jar.

Your encounter with Sukuna on Monday sets the tone for the rest of the week. You make it your mission to avoid him while making sure he knows exactly what you're doing – a delicate balance of deliberate ignorance and pointed awareness.

You'd purposely talk to the boys, your voice warm and kind, and then make sure to not make any eye contact with him, as if he's nothing more than a shadow on the wall. The first day didn't seem to bother him. But by Thursday, you can practically feel the frustration radiating off him in waves.

Toji did manage to make him feel bad - which is a rare feat indeed. So, Sukuna tells himself he wants to apologize because you're neighbors after all. He didn't know how long he planned to stay at this apartment, and he didn't want to have to deal with you blatantly ignoring him. Well, that was the excuse he was giving himself for why he wanted to apologize. Or he could say Toji made him. Neither excuse feels quite true, but he's not ready to examine why.

He couldn't stop thinking about you. And that pissed him off even more. He’d rather have you call him “limp divk” for the rest of his days, as long as you were acknowledging his fucking presence. But no, you wanted to play your petty games. That's fine, he decides. If you wanted to play, he would play. The game is on, even if he's not sure what the prize is supposed to be.

Ignoring him made you feel powerful, a small victory in each deliberate non-acknowledgment. Hell, you wanted to cuss him out every time you laid eyes on him. It infuriated you how much his presence annoyed you. It annoyed you even more that his mere existence caused unwanted butterflies in your stomach. So, ignoring him and being deliberately cold was the only option that made sense.

The week drags on, your strategy of avoidance complicated by the fact that Choso and Yuji have become instant best friends with Nobora. You'd figured after the gameboy incident she'd be hesitant about being their friends. But to your disbelief, she's more than friendly and has been begging for them to come over all week. The kids' innocent friendship makes your cold war with their uncle even more complicated.

Now it's Friday. Nobora's with her dad, giving you a rare evening to yourself. Work was fine, though Ino spent most of the day talking about this new girl he's obsessed with. You're actually very happy for him. You hired him about two years ago and have watched him grow into his role. He's basically your little brother at this point. But it's hard not to feel a twinge of something as everyone around you seems to be finding connection.

Jealous wouldn’t be the right answer. You want to see the people you care about fall in love and be happy. It’s just been awhile. So, here you are sitting in the middle of your bed reading the directions to the shiny new vibrator you bought after work. It was kinda risky going into a sex shop, but like we already addressed. You’re desperate. It’s time to release some tension.

You’re now kneeling in the middle of your bed as you are reading the directions on how to charge the new toy. You have a draw full of them , but you wanted to treat yourself. This week was awful and spending a little bit of cash so you could have a mind blowing orgasm was exactly the right move. One point for retail therapy.

You treated this moment like a sacred ritual. The everything shower - exfoliating, shaving, moisturizing. Your baby blue pajama top buttoned just so, with cheeky underwear that wouldn't stay on for long. Chinese food waited in the microwave, a reward for later. Everything was perfectly planned for a night of self-care and release.

Settling onto the bed, you scrolled through your phone, finding a particularly steamy chapter in your latest book. Your underwear slipped off, forgotten in the blankets. The bright red toy buzzed to life, its vibration sending a tingle through your hand.

As you pressed it against your sensitive clit, your back arched immediately. Sensitive as hell. It had been so long since you'd truly enjoyed a moment like this. Your mind began to drift, seeking escape, seeking pleasure.

Your breath became heavy, eyes rolling back as you let yourself slip into complete bliss. The slick slowly dripped down, each sensation a reminder of how long it had been. Oh, how you needed this. Especially after that stupid fucking asshole who ruined your week.

That stupid fucking asshole who is your neighbor. That hot fucking asshole who smells amazing and looks like a god. That stupid fucking neighbor who you heard last night fucking the shit out of god knows who. Only you can imagine how he fucks. How he’d rut into your into you so good making you scream his name-

"Mph! Suku- fuck,"

You freeze as you hear the similar noise that kept you awake a few nights ago.

Oh fuck no.

While you were trying to pleasure yourself. Sukuna decided to answer Yarozus message and gave no time to get down to business once she got here. She was here for one reason tonight and that was to piss you off. Yeah you were fucking hot as you told him off, but you’re not gonna fucking ignore him and threaten to kick him out.

So here he is, slamming his hips into Yarozu as hard as he can while her face is pushed deep down into the mattress. He made sure he positioned his bed right against the wall too. He slaps and pulls on yarozu to get every little noise out of her. And she loves it.

Although, Sukuna isn’t really thinking about her. He never really does. But he is thinking about you. The fucking random ass woman who he just so happened to piss off. The random ass woman who is actually stunning and he can’t get her out of his head. But this woman pissed him off to no end, so here he is trying to piss you off.

You lie there in shock for a moment and listen. You can hear everything. Every slap, every breath, and squelch. And just like the color of your new toy, you see red. This motherfucker. Normally, you’d ignore it. But this is a declaration of war.

You sit up and pull your underwear back up. The toy gets placed on your night stand and you roll off the bed. With a huff and a deep swallow you walk over to the wall. Without even placing your ear next to it you can hear what’s happening as clear as day. So, without any hesitation you start banging on the wall. Not only that, you start moaning as loud as you could.

Yes, this is childish. You know it is, you would never want your daughter to act this way. However, you simply have forgotten to give a shit when it comes to this man. Within the past five days of knowing him he has awoken a beast inside of you that you have tried to keep tame for some time. And you are letting it run free.

Sukuna thinks he’s hallucinating. There’s no fucking way she’s doing this, right? At first he ignores it, well tried to. The banging on the wall gets louder and the moans coming from your mouth sound angelic, almost real. It’s hard to focus.

Yarozu finally lifts her head and looks back at Sukuna in confusion. The banging continues and your moans get louder. Suddenly a framed picture on the wall falls and barely misses yarozus head.

Yarozu gasps and Sukuna holds back a laugh. he pulls out of her and sighs, quickly puts on his grey sweats and heads right toward the door. You’re too busy banging on the walls to realize they have stopped and you suddenly hear a knock on the door.

The smirk on your face is devilish. You trot towards your door and open it. There is your asshole neighbor in only grey sweats and he’s glistening with sweat. If you didn’t hate him so much you’d ask him to come inside and finish the job.

“Can I help you?” You say sweetly and bat your eyelashes at him.

Sukuna holds a groan in his throat has he checks you out. You’re only in some underwear and a pajama top, which shows everything. He can see every beautiful curve you were blessed with. He can’t help but notice the way your hair drapes perfectly framing your face. The way your brow furrows and nose crinkles as you look at him in disgust-

Focus Ryomen.

He lets out a sigh and leans down, “What the fuck Is your problem?”

He’s so close as he speaks. You raise a brow and step closer to him. “What the fuck is your problem?” Suddenly a girl steps out behind him wearing a shirt that is way too big for her

“Sukuna, baby who’s that?” She purrs and reaches for his shoulder and he swats her hand. She just rolls her eyes and stands to the side.

Your blood boils as you stare daggers into him. His look is just as bad. His red ruby eyes melts into yours. You swallow thickly and clench your fists. “Keep it down or I’m calling Toji”

Sukuna scoffs and rolls his eyes. “He ain’t gonna do shit, baby,” he says in a mocking tone. Your eye twitches as you hear that stupid pet name.

As you glare into his crimson eyes, you feel a shadow creeping behind you and turn. Toji appears up the stairs with a pack of beers. His eyes immediately dart to you and shock covers his face.

Fuck, he definitely came here to drink with Sukuna didn’t he?

You’re starting to put two and two together. They for sure know eachother. There is no doubt about that. You didn’t think that they were that good of friends. Hell, he never really talked about him. You then feel helpless. Toji isn’t going to kick him out. You don’t even want him kicked out, he has two kids to raise. Just like you.

The tears swell up in your eyes as Toji walks closer and tries to brush the tears out of your face. “Hey pretty what’s-“ you swat his hand away and turn to the door, pulling your shirt down with one hand and cover your tits with the other arm.

“Fuck off toji.” You say coldly and hurry to shut the door. You make sure to lock every lock and dart to the bathroom, tears streaming down your face.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Sukuna watches with a blank face and Yarozu stands behind him, twirling her hair. “Hey Toji,” she smirks.

Toji quickly nods his head and heads into Sukuna’s place. Sukuna lets out a sigh and follows him.

Yarozu begins to step but Sukuna stops, “Go home Yarozu.” She pouts, but he doesn’t turn around to see her. She simply sighs, grabs her purse and heads back out. In only his shirt and her underwear.

Sukuna shuts his door and locks it. Just like you did. He rubs the back of his neck and sighs. “She left her clothes.” Toji says and his eyes dart toward the clothes thrown around the living room.

Sukuna huffs and walks over to the clothes, picks them up and tosses them off the balcony. Toji watches, his eyes widen a bit, but that’s honestly not surprising when it comes to those two.

He lets out a chuckle and shakes his head, “You don’t even like her, why the fuck do you-“. Sukuna cuts him off by grabbing a beer from him and flipping him off. Toji flips him off right back and smirks.

It’s gets silent for a long moment and Toji watches Sukuna as he twiddles his thumbs and sips his beer.

"Want to tell me what the fuck that was?" Toji asks, his voice low.

Sukuna drops onto the couch, running a hand through his hair. "Not really," he mutters.

Toji raises an eyebrow. "She's my best friend," he says, a warning implicit in his tone.

"I know," Sukuna responds, taking a long drink. "Believe me, I know."

"She's not just some random woman," Toji says, his voice carrying a protective edge. "She's been through enough."

Sukuna says nothing, which speaks volumes.

"I'm serious," Toji continues. "Whatever game you're playing, stop."

“Who says I'm playing a game?" Sukuna responds, but there's no conviction in his voice.

They both let out a sigh and stare up at the ceiling. Letting the silence consume them.

In your bathroom, you lie on the floor, tears streaming down your face. The cool tile against your back provides little comfort. Your mind races - everything blends into a chaotic emotional storm.

You're not crying from sadness. No, these are tears of pure frustration. Anger at Sukuna, at the situation, at yourself for being so affected by this stranger who seems determined to get under your skin.

You glance over to the vibrator as it lies forgotten on the nightstand, your evening of planned relaxation completely derailed. It truly feels like nothing ever goes to plan. And this fucking asshole is making sure of it.

With a defeated sigh you slowly sit up a wipe the tears from your face. You’re about to reach for your face wash when you feel a vibration on the bathroom counter. It’s Ino?

The call came unexpectedly. Ino's excited voice filled the phone, talking a mile a minute about a group night out. "Come on!" he insisted. "Me, my girlfriend, Nanami, and his fiancée. We need you there!"

You were hesitant. Group outings typically meant navigating potential awkwardness - endless small talk and the looming possibility of feeling like the perpetual single friend. But Ino's enthusiasm was infectious, his excitement bleeding through the phone in a way that made resistance futile.

Your outfit came together quickly. A black mini skirt that hit a little above the knee, paired with a tight white t-shirt that hinted at confidence without trying too hard. You added black tights underneath, chunky lace-up boots that could handle a night of dancing, topped with a well-worn jean jacket.

You took extra care removing the day's remnants - brushing out your hair, ensuring any trace of earlier tears was completely erased. This wasn't about looking perfect. This was about survival, about drinking away the stress that had been building for weeks.

The evening passed in a beautiful blur of music, laughter, and strategically consumed alcohol. Nanami's fiancé was stunning - the kind of gorgeous that made you simultaneously admire and slightly resent her effortless beauty. Ino's girlfriend, was a revelation - hilarious, the type of person who made friendship feel instantaneous.

You danced with strangers, laughed without reservation, drank far more than any responsible adult should. Karaoke became an adventure - you were pretty sure you sang something, though the exact song had dissolved into the night's liquid memories. The music, the drinks, the company - everything blended into a perfect escape.

The guys could tell something was wrong. You never go out. Ino told Nanami he’s been worried about you all week. You still have yet to tell him what the hell is going on. But they are happy to see you having fun. You deserve it.

Around 1 A.M., Nanami - ever the responsible one - called you an Uber, his quiet concern a counterpoint to the night's wild energy.

You said goodbye with dramatic kisses on cheeks and tight hugs. Ino has you on his Life 360 (he’s nosey and you didn’t say no when he asked) so he plans to watch it to make sure you get home. The ride home was a blur of streetlights and half-remembered conversations, the city sliding past your window like a watercolor painting.

You slowly stumble up the stairs, making sure you don't trip. The hallway seems to sway slightly as you try to keep your eyes open. You keep humming whatever song they were playing at karaoke - something pop, maybe? The memory is fuzzy, blurred by alcohol and laughter.

Finally reaching your door, you thimble around your handbag for your keys. They slip from your fingers, clattering to the ground. "Shit," you mumble, giggling as you bend to retrieve them. The lock seems particularly challenging tonight, your coordination reduced to a comedic struggle.

Unbeknownst to you, Toji and Sukuna are watching your entire performance. Toji was just about to leave, and Sukuna was seeing him out when your drunken arrival caught their attention.

In your current state, you might normally be mortified. Instead, you look up and see them staring. Your response? A defiant middle finger.

Toji frowns and sighs, a mixture of concern and exasperation. Sukuna, however, can't help but chuckle. "Hey there, drunky," he calls out, his voice a low rumble that makes you shiver despite your irritation.

The door finally opens with a triumphant "Ha!" from you.

"Need any help?" Toji asks, stepping forward.

You look up, still fumbling through your bag for your phone, and raise a challenging eyebrow. "Oh, now you're asking if I need help?" The sass is sharp, cutting through your alcohol-induced haze.

"Pretty calm-" Toji begins.

"Don't call me that," you interrupt, folding your arms and shooting a glare that could freeze fire.

Sukuna can't resist adding fuel to the fire. "Don't piss drunky off, Toji!" he shouts, his laughter echoing in the hallway.

Toji tries again, reaching to fix your disheveled hair. "Pretty, c'mon now-"

"No, Toji," you cut him off, your words slightly slurred but no less venomous. "Go suck his dick or something. I'm mad at you."

Toji rolls his eyes. You were pissed. He hasn’t seen you this mad since you found out you were pregnant (a story for another day).

Sukuna, never one to miss an opportunity, smirks. "Not really interested in him, but you can come over if ya want."

You glare back, and he winks. In his mind, you're beautiful, especially when you're fired up. Every encounter he's had with you - when you’re not ignoring him - has been a hurricane of emotion, and he loves every moment of it.

"Oh, I'm sure I'd be on a long waiting list," you retort, laying your head against the doorframe. The alcohol is catching up with you, making it hard to stand.

Toji huffs and steps closer to you, “Pretty, let me help.”

Before you can fully process it, you're nodding yes to Toji's offer of help. He swiftly picks you up, and you wrap your legs around his torso, your body going pliant with exhaustion.

Toji carries you into the apartment, with Sukuna following close behind. His eyes scan the space - moving boxes still needing to be unpacked, the signs of a recent move scattered everywhere.

Yet, it still felt like a home. Framed family photos and vintage art prints hung over the cream-colored walls, arranged in those trendy asymmetrical clusters you'd probably seen on Pinterest.

Nobora's toys were neatly corralled in a woven basket in the corner, a halfhearted attempt at containing the chaos of childhood.

It looked like every piece of furniture had been meticulously picked by you. The mid-century modern coffee table with its gentle curves, the overstuffed armchair in soft leather that practically begged to be curled up in, even the delicate ceramic vases arranged on floating shelves.

You had good taste. He was almost too distracted until he noticed Toji struggling to help your drunk ass.

"Need any help?" Sukuna asks, a hint of skepticism in his voice.

Toji doesn’t look at Sukuna, too focused on your care. He simply gives a nod and asks, “Can you get a shirt for her? I'm gonna help her change."

Sukuna rolls his eyes but complies, moving to your dresser. He opens several drawers, careful not to disturb too much. Realizing he might upset you further by rummaging, he opts instead to take off his own shirt and bring it to the bathroom.

Toji helps you undress, completely un phased . When Sukuna raises an eyebrow, Toji scoffs, "What? I watched her give birth. This isn't the first time I've seen her naked."

You giggle, raising your arms for the shirt like a child. Sukuna watches as Toji pulls the shirt over you, noting how the fabric falls loosely on your frame.

"Need to wash my face and brush my hair," you mumble, your words slightly slurred.

Toji helps you to the sink, supporting you as you carefully remove your makeup. Sukuna can't help but chuckle at the sight - you're a mix of determination and drunken clumsiness.

You use Sukuna's shirt to pat your face dry, then turn to Toji with a mischievous grin. "Mhmm, this smells like the asshole," you giggle.

Toji starts to laugh, the tension from earlier melting away.

"That's because it is the asshole's," Sukuna's voice cuts through, momentarily sobering you.

Your eyes widen at the sight of him shirtless, and he winks. You glare back - still angry, still defiant.

Toji helps you into bed, and you crawl to the center, wrapping yourself in soft sheets. As he goes to get water and medicine, Sukuna explores your room, his curiosity getting the better of him.

A bright red toy on the bedside table catches his eye. For a moment, his face heats up with thoughts he quickly tries to dismiss.

When Toji returns, he leaves water and medicine, then leans down to kiss your temple. "I'll be back in the morning to check on ya."

You wave lazily. "Bye, asshole," you call to Sukuna, who sighs and responds, "Go to sleep, drunky.

After closing your bedroom door, Toji pauses in the living room. A photograph catches his eye - a memory from his wedding day. You, him, and his late wife at the courthouse, where you served as their witness. The image pulls at his heart, a bittersweet reminder of love, loss, and enduring friendship.

Sukuna watches silently as Toji studies the photo, recognizing the depth of emotion playing across his friend's face.

"I'm actually gonna crash on her couch," Toji explains, breaking the silence. "Make sure she's okay. I'll call her baby daddy in the morning to keep Nobora for the day." Thank god Megumi was at the sitters.

Sukuna raises an eyebrow and nods, a simple acknowledgment of Toji's protective nature.

As Sukuna walks out, he can't shake the thoughts of you. It's unprecedented - he's known Yarozu for almost a decade, and she barely crosses his mind. But you? In less than a week, you've occupied more mental space than anyone has in years.

There's something about you - your fire, your refusal to back down, the way you move through the world with such unapologetic intensity. You're not afraid to show your emotions, to be loud, to take up space. It's intriguing in a way he can't quite define.

What the hell is wrong with me?

The thought echoes in the empty hallway, a whispered confession to no one but himself. With a final sigh, he returns to his own apartment, your presence clawing at his mind like a persistent memory that refuses to be forgotten.

Each step feels weighted, charged with an energy he can't explain. He's realizing something, a truth that both irritates and intrigues him.

You were going to consume him entirely.

A slow, inevitable destruction he would welcome with open arms.

summary/notes: sorry this was another chaotic one! we will slowly but surely see those two warm up to eachother (maybe) lmao! I had a blast writing Toji and Sukuna’s pov. I also realize their backstory could’ve been the beginning to their love story. ah well, maybe in another universe. they are just besties, trust.

I am also still figuring out the mechanics of tumblr so I will have links and everything updated as soon as I can! my asks are open, so if you have any questions I will be so so happy to answer! I really hope you all enjoyed this chapter and I love you all so much! mwah! <3

taglist is open: please comment and let me know if you want to be on it!! (:

@sukubusss @poopooindamouf @tojiswifeforlife @777pluto @emochosoluvr @bookfreakk

@withtanxp @pandabiene5115 @fava-boi

[gumii-bearr]

❝ you hitting on me? ❞

summary: megumi doesn't like clubs, but then he sees you.

featuring… megumi fushiguro

content warning: MDNI (18+), afab!reader, alt!megumi, piercings and tattoos, reader is a babe fr, pet names, car sex, rough sex, fingering, riding, dick piercing (what who said that??), teasing, edging, choking, crying (omg), spanking (a lil bit), unprotected sex (don’t do that!!!!!), bit of subspace??, alcohol mentioned, smoking mentioned (don’t smoke, it’s bad for you!), vaping mentioned, these two are so horny for each other like wtf

author’s note: this was a request by a lovely anon!!! ... also its 4k words

Megumi doesn’t like going out. It’s not his thing, really. He prefers to stay at home to play video games or be his own company, and if he has to be social he prefers a more intimate get together over… whatever the hell Yuji is dragging him along too. 

“Trust, it’ll be fun,” Yuji nudges Megumi’s shoulder lightly. Megumi keeps his hands stuffed in the pockets of his black hoodie, a resting annoyed expression plastered across his face. He’s not sure how Yuji roped him into coming to this gig, maybe it was because Megumi kind of owed Yuji for turning down hanging out with him for the past… many times. 

Megumi doesn’t respond, just wordlessly follows behind Yuji as he weaves through groups of people socialising, vaping and drinking outside the bar Megumi was conned into coming to.

Yuji mentioned something about his friend’s band playing at this bar tonight and there may have been mentions of meeting up with Nobara but Megumi kind of tuned him out after he started going on and on about how Megumi was being anti-social and bringing up the numerous times he cancelled on Yuji (it was a ploy to make him feel bad and it unfortunately worked).

The moment they walk down the graffitied hallway, Megumi is again reminded why he doesn’t like going out. The bar is packed with drunk people and it smells of alcohol and sweat. Megumi inwardly cringes at the whole atmosphere and nearly, nearly, spins on his heel and leaves when some drunk girl bumps into Megumi while giggling and slightly dry heaving.

Before Megumi can even make a comment, Yuji is grabbing his arm, “don’t be a party-pooper, Fushiguro, we haven’t even seen Nobara yet!”

“I didn’t say anything,” Megumi deadpans.

“Yeah, but your face said it all,” Yuji retorts, “come on!” Yuji tugs on his friend’s arm, dragging his friend toward the loud thumping music.

His head hurts already. The music is loud and the random LED lights flying over the crowd are bright and annoying. Megumi is annoyed, to be fair, he’s always slightly annoyed but right now it’s increased tenfold by the overstimulating nightmare that is this club.

Megumi doesn’t even know where Yuji is going. Yuji is staring at his phone, then looking around, then back at his phone again. He’s talking to Megumi but the music is so loud that Megumi doesn’t know what the hell he’s saying. 

“There she is!” okay, he caught that.

Yuji walks a little faster, Megumi attempting to weave through the crowd of people without touching anyone (it’s not working, he’s very uncomfortable). The crowd seems to dissipate as they reach the back of the club by the bar, numerous tables dotting the back wall. Megumi spots Nobara as she leaps up from the table, waving her arm around obnoxiously.

“Itadori!” she’s yelling and if Megumi knows anything about Nobara, it’s that her voice really carries. “Fushiguro!”

Megumi raises his hand from his pocket as a slight wave, his lips forming a tight line. Nobara is already shoving a drink into Yuji’s hand then reaching over to give one to Megumi, “dunno what it is but it’s getting me drunk!”

Megumi tunes out whatever Nobara is saying the moment he sees you. 

You’re chuckling as you watch Nobara and Yuji feed off of each other’s excitement. You’re holding a drink in your hand, absentmindedly swirling the ice around with your straw. 

You’re also trying to remain super nonchalant at the fact you’re totally checking out Yuji’s friend.

He looks completely uninterested in what’s happening, his tired eyes glancing at anything other than the social situation in front of him. His hair is messy and framing his gorgeous face. His hoodie sleeves are rolled up and your eyes trace down his veiny arms adorned with pretty tattoos all the way to his hands. He’s got a couple of nose piercings and an eyebrow piercing, his whole vibe is dark and brooding and you’re so into it.

Where the fuck has this cutie been?

“Y/N, this is my friend Fushiguro,” you sit up a little straighter at the mention of your name. Nobara tugs on Megumi’s arm bringing him closer to the bar table, “say hi, you emo bitch.”

Megumi eyes you and you have no idea what he’s thinking. “Uh, hey,” he says awkwardly. Oh god, he’s a dork. You must have him.

He’s remaining as poker-faced as possible as his eyes glance over you, from the fishnet stocking adorning your legs to the subtle colour of your glossed lips. You’re smiling at him softly through mascaraed lashes and he finds himself peeking down at your lips.

Megumi thinks you’re really pretty.

He mostly just listens as you, Nobara and Yuji talk about college and work, opting for tapping his finger against the glass in front of him. He likes the way you talk, hand gestures accompanying your enthusiastic ramble about your college degree. He also likes the way you laugh, though he finds himself becoming slightly annoyed by the fact that Yuji’s the one making you laugh. 

He decides he needs a smoke, his head is pounding from the loud music and the flashing lights; he needs a break.

Megumi gets up from his seat, nudging Yuji’s arm, “‘m just going out for a smoke.”

Yuji waves him off and Megumi sets off toward the smoking area outside the bar. It’s colder outside but god, it’s so much quieter, just the bustling of cars down the street and the occasional police siren. He pulls a cigarette out of his pocket, flicking his lighter and holding it to the end until the smoke fills his mouth. 

He leans against the wall, cigarette perched between his lips as he scrolls on his phone. He debates it for a while, but eventually gives in and searches your name up on instagram. He finds your account, noticing you’re already friends with Itadori. He scrolls through your posts, feeling like a fucking teenager stalking your social media–

“Fuck.”

Megumi’s eyes snap to you, now with an oversized leather jacket pulled around your shoulders as you rifle through your purse. There’s an unlit cigarette pressed between your glossy lips and your brows are furrowed.

Megumi fishes his lighter back out of his pocket, he walks over to you and nudges your arm, holding the lighter out for you.

You look up at him with your pretty eyes, a smile pulling at your lips, “thanks, Fushiguro.”

You take the lighter from his hand, attempting to flick the lighter to life to light your cigarette. You try a couple more times before Megumi chuckles softly, taking it from your smaller hands and lighting it the first try.

He wordlessly cups the end of your cigarette, shielding it from the wind as he lights your cigarette for you, his darker eyes flickering up to yours briefly. 

The two of you stand in silence for a moment before you speak.

“I like your tattoos,” you say sweetly.

“Hm?”

“Your tattoos, they’re cool,” you repeat with a soft chuckle.

“Oh, thank you,” Megumi replies, absentmindedly running a hand along his inked arm. He feels his heart race a little when you reach a manicured hand out and run your finger along the dragon twisting around his forearm.

“Nobara told me you weren’t much of a talker,” you say, your smaller hand still fiddling with his larger more angular hands as you admire his tattoos. It’s strangely intimate of you to touch him in such a way.

“You talked about me?” Megumi teases, taking another drag from his cigarette with a smirk tugging at his lips.

“All good things, don’t worry,” you retort, finally letting go of his arm to bring your cigarette back up to your lips.

“Didn’t take you for a smoker.”

“Trying to quit, just smoke when I drink,” you shrug. You sigh then turn your head to face him, you look him up and down, “you got a girlfriend?”

Megumi lets out a laugh, coughing slightly on the smoke still swirling around in his chest, “no, why?”

You grin, “‘m hitting on you.”

“Oh, you are, are you?” Megumi presses.

“You’re pretty cute,” you shrug.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” Megumi asks, turning his head to blow the smoke away from you.

“No, no boyfriend… why? Are you hitting on me?” You ask curiously with a shit-eating grin plastered across your pretty glossy lips. 

Megumi looks at you and the two of you hold eye contact for a moment. His eyes flicker to your lips briefly before he squashes out the rest of his cigarette, “I’ll buy you a drink.”

“So you are hitting on me,” you tease.

Megumi takes the cigarette from your fingers, stealing your last puff and inwardly beaming at the cherry flavour of your lip gloss before squashing it out for you, “I’m buying you a drink.”

Megumi does indeed buy you a drink, bringing it back to the table for you, even getting you a straw.

“Thank you, Fushiguro,” you smile sweetly.

“Megumi is fine,” he says, pulling his chair out to sit next to you.

You suppress a smile, “okay, Megumi.”

The both of you miss as Yuji reluctantly slips Nobara some cash. 

The two of you talk all night. Megumi is a little more laid back after you manage to get two drinks into him. The time slips away from you and you find yourself not even interested in what Nobara and Yuji are talking about as you talk to Megumi. 

Megumi lets you toy with his fingers, your nails dragging along his tattooed hand and up his arm. You suddenly grow curious, wondering if he’s got any other tattoos underneath his clothes, you feel like a bit of a perv coming onto this guy you just met, but you’re so drawn to him and he seems to be just as into you.

You catch Megumi’s eyes drifting down to your tits before he quickly clears his throat to answer whatever question you asked him. You think it’s cute and you decide to tease him a little by wriggling a little closer to him, your fishnet-clad thigh pressing against his. 

He knows what you’re doing and he’s not even mad about it. He lets you laugh and hang off him, lets you toy with the hem of his hoodie sleeves and lets you bump shoulders with him. In all honesty, he lets you because you’re hot and you’re into him.

“God, it’s so late,” Nobara sighs, wincing at the brightness of her phone.

Megumi checks his own phone; 12:54am. God, it is late.

“Open your phone,” you mutter, your chin resting on his shoulder.

“Why?”

“Just open your phone,” you giggle.

He does as you say and he nearly has a fucking heart attack when his phone opens to your Instagram that he was totally not stalking just a few hours ago.

“Fuck,” he knows he’s caught red-handed when you start to laugh softly, his hand falling slack in his lap.

“Aw, you’re stalking me, Gumi?” 

Megumi feels his chest tighten at the little nickname and he rolls his eyes but doesn’t offer any kind of explanation as he hands you his phone to do whatever it is you wanted to do.

You scroll to his contacts, quickly putting your name and number in his phone (you also make sure to follow your Instagram from his phone) before clicking it shut and handing it back to him. 

“Don’t forget to call me, kay?” you give him the prettiest doe eyes and quickly stand up, grabbing your jacket to join Nobara as she leaves. “It was nice to meet you, Megumi.”

He sits there dumbfounded as you and Nobara leave, he watches your back, watching your little skirt ride up over your ass a bit as you walk away. Fucking hell.

“Dude!” Yuji nudges his arm, “you got her number!”

“Shut up,” Megumi retorts.

“Told you you’d have fun.”

“Shut up!”

Megumi shoves a laughing Yuji away as he reaches for his own stuff to leave. The club is mostly empty by now, Megumi not realising how much time they’d spent here because he was so fucking distracted by you.

He and Yuji go to leave when Megumi notices your purse is still hanging over your chair. He quickly grabs it, scanning the crowd with his tall frame in hopes you’re still hanging around. You’re not, so he quickly pulls on Yuji to catch you before you go. Not that you’ll get far without your keys.

-

“Fuck,” you stand by your car and realise you left your purse in the club. You’re almost two blocks away from said club and Nobara has already left, leaving you somewhat stranded. You sigh, pulling your phone out of your pocket to text Nobara and ask her to turn around and take you home because you’re too tired and your feet hurt too much to walk all the way back.

“Hey, Y/N,” you perk up at the sound of your name, spinning on your heel and watching as Megumi catches up to you, your purse slung over his shoulder.

“Oh fuck, thank you!” you sigh with relief as Megumi hands you back your purse. You fish through your purse for your keys, “did Yuji drive you?”

“Yeah, but he’s already left,” he says.

You give him a look, “he has, huh?”

“Thought I could drive you… since you’ve had a couple,” Megumi tilts his head at you and you grin knowingly.

“What a gentleman,” you tease. “My place or yours?” you joke.

Megumi just looks at you and there’s a thick tension hanging in the air. He suddenly surges forward, capturing your pretty glossy lips in a hard kiss.

You kiss him back almost instantly, lifting your arms to wrap around his neck. Even with heels on, Megumi is taller than you and you have to arch your back to catch his slightly chapped lips as he leans over you, his large hands landing on your waist to pull your hips against his.

“Here’s fine,” he mutters against your lips with a cheeky smirk, you can only laugh softly as one of his tattooed hands comes up to hold the back of your head, forcing you to deepen the kiss.

He forces his tongue into your mouth and you whine softly. He tastes of tobacco and spiced rum and it makes you fucking dizzy. You thread your fingers through his messy black hair, tugging on it as he moves you to press your back against the cold car window.

“You bring my purse all the way here just to kiss me?” You quirk a brow at him, panting slightly.

“Maybe,” he grins, trailing his lips down your jaw to your neck. “You leave your purse on purpose so I’d bring it to you?”

“Maybe.” 

Megumi’s hands trail down your waist to your ass, gently kneading the soft flesh over your tiny skirt. Your pretty nails push up the hem of his hoodie, feeling up his toned as fuck abs that tense slightly under your touch.

He kisses you again, his thumb coming to rest on your throat as his fingers squeeze slightly, god you really want him to choke you while he fucks you–

“Unlock the car, Y/N,” he says against your ear, his voice low and sexy. 

You pull your keys out of your purse and unlock your car (you’re lucky your car is parked in the dark at the back of the parking lot). 

You clamber over each other in the backseat until you’re straddling Megumi’s lap, your fingers in his hair once again while he kisses and sucks on your neck. His hands knead your ass, his fingers slipping down to lift your tiny skirt over your ass.

“Mm, touch me, Gumi,” you whine against his ear.

Megumi smiles against your neck before pulling away from you. You whine a little at the loss of contact but he quickly kisses you again, one of his hands snaking up the bottom of your top to grope your tits. You hold his hand over your top, forcing him to squeeze your soft skin.

You let out a soft moan at the feeling of his cold rings nipping at your hot skin. You grind your hips down against his, feeling his bulge rub against your wet panties. He groans at the feeling, his free hand curling into the plush skin of your ass before he reels it back to deliver a smack! to your ass.

You moan at the slight sting, hands holding Megumi’s face to kiss him as he forces your hips to grind against his hard-on.

“You���ve been teasing me all night,” Megumi pants against your lips.

“I just wanted you t’fuck me,” you retort playfully.

“Such a slut,” he kneads your ass again before reaching his hand down further to run his middle finger across your slit over your panties. “Someone’s excited, hm?”

“Shut up,” you whine as he traces his finger over your clothed clit. You curl your fists into the fabric of his hoodie, moaning against his shoulder as he presses his finger a little harder against your clit.

He suddenly reaches both hands down, ripping apart your fishnets for better access. He pulls your pretty lacy panties aside, the pad of his finger prodding at your soaked hole. He traces his fingertip around the opening, chuckling as you whine and hump his lap looking for friction.

“Don’t tease me,” you grumble.

“You’re so cute when you’re needy,” he teases. You pout and he chuckles, pressing a wet kiss to your lips as he plunges his finger into your awaiting heat. 

You moan at the feeling, pressing your face into his shoulder as he pumps his middle finger into your tight cunt. You’re so fucking tight and you’re only taking a finger– he can only imagine how heavenly you would feel wrapped around his cock.

Your little hand presses against the buckle of his belt and Megumi delivers another hard smack! to your reddened ass. You moan out again, your trembling hands clutching his hoodie.

“So fucking impatient,” Megumi presses a second finger into your cunt, peering over your shoulder and watching as your slick starts to coat his palm and probably his clothed thigh.

“Mm, hah–” you sigh, feeling as Megumi scissors your poor little cunt open, his fingers prodding and curling against the spongy spot inside you. Your pussy makes lewd squelches as Megumi fucks his fingers into you. You grind your hips against his hard cock in his boxers, the friction rubbing your poor neglected clit.

You feel your lower belly start to burn as you whine and hump against Megumi’s clothed cock, your hole beginning to tighten and spasm around his fingers.

Megumi suddenly pulls his fingers from your soaked little pussy. You let out a frustrated whine as the burn in your belly subsides and you pant against Megumi’s neck. 

His fingers prod at your lips without warning and you open your mouth just slightly and he forces his fingers into your mouth, pressing down on your cute little tongue.

You suck on his fingers, your smaller hand curling around his wrist as you make cute little noises. Megumi kisses your temple before his lips ghost over the shell of your ear, “I want you to cum on my cock… can you do that f’me, baby?”

You nod your head quickly.

“Words, baby,” he coos, his hand kneading over the harsh red welt blooming on your ass. 

“Mhm… I can do it,” you pant, a thin sheen of sweat coating your skin. “Please.”

Megumi’s hand reaches for his belt buckle, quickly undoing his belt and unzipping his pants. If he wasn’t so impatient, he would have taken you home and had you spread your legs for him to fuck you with his tongue and his fingers. Then he would have forced you onto your knees and fucked your face until you cried before he put his dick anywhere near your cunt.

But this is just as good.

Megumi pulls his cock from his boxers, groaning as he pumps himself a few times. Your eyes nearly bulge out of your head at the sheer size of him, but also the fact that underneath the pink head of his cock is a little silver barbell. 

“You got a condom, baby?

“N-No,... you have your dick pierced?”

Megumi almost forgets he has it half the time, “yeah… feels good, don’t worry.”

You bite your lip, suddenly a little jealous of how he exactly figured out his piercing felt good. Megumi notices your flushed face and the way you chew on your lip. His large hand gently cups your face, forcing you to look at him so he can press a soft kiss to your lips.

He reaches for your hand, bringing it down to wrap around his hard cock. It’s heavy in your hand and you gently squeeze, jerking him off.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” Megumi kisses at your skin, “promise ‘m gonna take you on a date tomorrow.”

You giggle at his attempt to make you feel better, “you better, cus if you’re gonna fuck me raw you better buy me dinner.”

Megumi chuckles through a low groan, grabbing your wrist and forcing you to stop squeezing and jerking him off because if you keep doing it he’s gonna cum like a teenager because you’re the prettiest fucking girl he’s ever seen and now you’re on top of him with your top pushed over your pretty tits and your pussy waiting for him.

Megumi kisses you again, his tongue pressing against yours as you lift yourself up a little, your hand wrapping around the base of Megumi’s big fucking cock to line him up with your sopping hole. 

Megumi’s hands land on your hips, his dark eyes meeting yours as his tip prods as your hole. You feel his piercing catch on the outside of your hole and you tip your head back and moan as you sink down, Megumi peppering kisses across your tits as he helps you lower yourself down on his cock.

You’re so fucking tight around him when he finally bottoms out, your pussy wrapped so snug, pulsing slightly as you pant and moan.

“S’big, Gumi,” you whine.

“I’ll be gentle,” he says as he lifts your hips, slowly pulling you back down on his cock. “You gotta help me out, princess.”

You pant, only just noticing how foggy your windows are. The two of you are coated in a thin sheen of sweat and you lean back, planting your hands on the tops of Megumi’s knees so you can bounce on his cock.

You start off slow before you get lost in the feeling of his cock and the piercing dragging against your tight walls. Megumi’s hands bruise your hips as he helps you bounce on his cock, his eyes unable to look away from where your pussy sucks in his cock.

Your slick is forming a white ring around the base of his cock, your wetness dripping down the inside of your thighs and down onto his pants. You’re fucked stupid on his dick as you babble and moan incoherently, unable to stop bouncing as you chase your orgasm.

You pull almost all the way off his dick before forcing yourself back down, your eyes screwing shut at the feeling of his cock kissing your cervix. Megumi’s hand presses against the slight bulge in your tummy, the feeling making you fucking dizzy.

“Harder, please Gumi, fuck me harder,” you cry out, your finger sinking down between your thighs to rub circles on your clit. 

Megumi feels like he gets harder at the nickname, “fuck, baby,” he coos, his hands bruising your hips as he bullies your cunt, the tip of his cock bruising your poor cervix. One of Megumi’s hands wraps around your throat, squeezing on your pretty neck. You choke on your own moans as your orgasm nears.

“I’m gonna– Fuck, I’m gonna cum,” you cry, tears pricking the corners of your eyes, mixing with your mascara and slipping down your pretty cheeks.

You feel your belly start to burn and your nails scratch at Megumi’s forearms as he lets go of your neck to press his own thumb against your sensitive little clit, forcing your orgasm out of you.

You cry when you feel the coil in your belly snap, your cunt spasming around Megumi’s cock and gushing around him.

“That’s it, princess. Fuck, that’s a good girl,” he eggs you on, your legs shaking at the feeling of your orgasm crashing into you. “You’re so tight, baby.”

You don’t respond, your vision turning white as your cunt clamps down on him. Megumi groans and grunts at the feeling, bouncing your hips on his lap and using your fucked out body to chase his own orgasm.

Megumi’s cock twitches inside you and you just whine and cry as he pumps you full of his cum, thick white ropes painting your insides. He forces your hips down onto his cock, finally ceasing his movements and just panting, attempting to catch his breath.

Your body shakes and you mewl softly, babbling incoherently. Megumi coos, pulling you against his chest and running a hand down your back to bring you back to earth, “shh, shh, you’re okay.”

“Mhm,” you hum.

“Too much?” he asks, petting your hair and kissing the crown of your head.

You shake your head, “best sex of my life,” you sigh.

Megumi chuckles, his hand gently rubbing up and down your back, his other hand fixing your shirt back over your boobs. “I’ll take you home now, kay?”

“You gonna stay?” you ask, peering up at him with a fucked out expression and dried mascara stuck to your cheeks.

“You want me to?” he smiles.

You nod, “mhm… otherwise how will you make me breakfast?”

Megumi laughs, lifting your head to press kisses to your face. 

After a moment longer, Megumi lifts you off of his softening dick, his cum leaking from your abused little hole. You sigh at the empty feeling, your thighs aching from the stretch. Megumi fixes your panties back into place, pressing another kiss to your forehead.

He manages to carry you and put you into the passenger seat, fastening your seatbelt for you before starting up your car and actually driving you home–

“Wait, where the hell am I going?”

You can only tiredly giggle from the passenger seat.

author's note: YEESH! i need a cold ass shower. dunno how i feel about it but!!! it’s here!!!

[suguann]

Being a camgirl comes with its fair share of ups and downs, but you never expected one of the downs to be one of your unboxings from a fan going horribly wrong during a live stream—the proof of it still buzzing between your thighs beyond your finger's reach. 

A rush of embarrassment comes with knocking on your roommate’s bedroom door and asking him for help because you’re nearing the brink of overstimulation and can’t think straight enough to get the words out. It’s worse when he stands there and says nothing—all imposing with two tattooed arms crossed over his chest—while you try to get through a sentence without moaning. 

Simon looks at you with a cocked brow and something akin to amusement as he watches you squirm in his doorway. 

Then he finally says, “Get on the bed,” in a steady and low voice, opening his bedroom door wider.

You fidget under his scrutinizing gaze as you settle back against his pillows, biting back whimpers with a too-hot face and sweat dripping down your back. 

Him settling a knee on the bed makes you jump, “Let’s take a look, love.” 

Simon crawls up the bed, forcing your knees open, and you’re suddenly very aware of how broad and big he looks, towering over you—every part of you laid bare for him to see. A large hand presses right below your belly button, jostling the toy inside you, and this time, you can’t hold back the squeal that rips from your chest. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, voice imperceptibly deeper, his lips twitching like he’s trying to hold back a smile. “Okay, you’re going to feel a slight stretch.”

You bite your lip. “A-alright—”

Slight doesn’t even come close to the fingers sliding into you, spearing your sensitive walls open and pressing into a spot where you’ve never been able to reach with startling precision. You remind yourself that he has to do this, that he’s just being…friendly, or whatever makes the lines less blurred. 

None of this stops the fact your lower stomach burns with the promise of another orgasm when his fingers brush against the egg vibrator before accidentally pressing it deeper inside.

“Ah, there it is.”

At the sight of your scrunched nose, he asks if it hurts. You shake your head; eyes squeezed shut in an attempt to hold back the stinging pleasure racing up your spine. “N-no,” you whimper.

“Relax, okay?”

Simon doesn’t comment on how you’re implying that it feels good. So good, you think, his thumb just barely touching your clit as he twists his hand to try a different angle. Then he pushes down on your belly again, and his long fingers finally grip the vibrator.

“Oh!” you moan at the feel of it dragging down your front wall, your fingers gripping the sheets. 

He has to tell you to relax again, his voice cracking, but you hardly hear it over your heart beating loudly in your ears. His fingers drag the toy out slowly, almost too slow that you can feel it bumping against every slippery ridge inside you.

“Ah, sorry,” he says when you twitch—unapologetic—using his thumb to rub soothing circles into your stomach. “You’re so wet. I need to make sure I don’t lose it again.”

You nod, cunt clenching down at his words.

And then Simon’s fingers curl up: your thighs start quivering, breath caught in your throat, and your jaw locks up until your orgasm ripples through you. It’s unending, the strongest one yet, and just when you think it’s over, you feel the press of his palm against your clit.

“W-wait! Simon,” you moan, pushing at his hand. “No more, I‘m sensitive!”

He gets you to fall over the edge one more time before finally slipping the vibrator out of you, letting it hum softly on the bed, and your exhausted body sinks into the mattress once again. Simon gathers you into his lap, rocking you back and forth.

You swallow lungfuls of air against his chest, head still spinning and walls spasming from the aftershocks. 

He murmurs in your ear about how good you are, kisses your temple, and rubs your sides, and it’s… enlightening. Moments pass before you finally return to yourself, and when he pulls back, his brows furrow at your pout.

“All good?”

You shake your head and go with honesty. “I didn’t think you’d cuddle me afterward.”

He smiles, thumb flicking your bottom lip. “You wanted me to fuck you?” 

Your mouth falls open. “N-no—”

Then he leans down, lips brushing against your ear: “Don’t worry, love. Good girls get fucked hard.”

[eraserbread]

it's just one of those things... your husband, nanami, likes you close.

but, your husband is actually a very sane individual and decides its best not to keep you leashed down. however, it didn't make it easier when you brought up the idea of visiting your family during the spring.

nanami loves your family, but he loves them in his way. he loves them from far, far away—perhaps not even a phone call away, just a yearly birthday card kind of closeness. It's not an energy he wishes to be around.

but, he wants whatever makes you happy, so he lets you go for a week.

a grueling, seven-day week. one filled with work, overtime, stress and anger, all to an empty house to crawl back to. it's okay -- its all he can tell himself as he tucks into bed lonely as hell.

he wills himself to sleep, begging his mind to leave you alone. let you have your space without his voice in your ear. he thinks you want this -- this... disgusting silence.

little did he know, you were five cities away waiting by the phone.

just waiting. hoping at least a good night text would fall your way. you know he's up thinking about you. he has to be.

so, when you get home a week later. you're pissed and touch starved and nanami starved. you had a mind to let him have it, to spew everything you've been pining over while he's been too busy to text or call.

it also doesn't help that you got home four hours before him, having time to cool down and shower off. a part of you wants to call him -- perhaps he's getting drinks or dinner with a friend, but if he didn't contact you for a week, you'd be sure not to contact him. its the only way you know how to teach him.

he arrives home when you're wrapped in your pajamas, glass of wine in your hand, and waiting for this exact moment.

"welcome home, my beautiful wife."

he begins, and it brings a small smile to your face. it's already seeming like he's redeeming himself. "you know I love you."

"really? i don't know... just thought i'd see it more when we're apart," you mumble, chewing on your lip over the rim of your glass. you can't see nanami's expression, but you can feel the quirk in his brow - the tightness in the corner of his lips.

"well, don't be vague. you're mad at me." he knows, yet he's still so calm. you refuse to glance back at him, even when he's taking off his shoes and pulling off his tie. it's something you'd usually help him with. this time, you help yourself to your wine.

"look, a week apart did us both a world of good, I promise you."

"yeah? would your hand agree with you, there?"

he laughs. "not everything's about sex, dear. I'm capable of holding out for a week." another wordless sip of your wine, and he's approaching you. "but, just because I can, doesn't mean I want to go into day eight without it."

it takes every fiber of your soul to say, "'m sorry, nanami. i'm just not in the mood tonight."

if you didn't know him so well, you wouldn't have caught the slight twitch in his brow at the news. however, he takes it well with a small smile on his face. "of course. i'll be in my office."

you sip your wine, cursing him internally for his politeness. he could have anything he wanted from you if he just said it. but, he never will. if its your will to go to bed without giving yourself to him, then so be it. he won't beg at your feet like a child.

but... what if you wanted him to?

you're not keeping track of time anymore, but you feel renewed with a headful of wine and time spent with nothing but thoughts of him. it's genuinely unnerving to you just how in love you are. nanami is so gentle, strong, beautiful and polite. it fucking makes your head spin.

then, you feel like a monster..

the feeling wills one foot in front of the other, all the way to his office door. it's not closed, just cracked. golden desk lamp lighting spills out into the hall in rectangular designs. you find yourself fixating on it in your drunkenness.

the door squeaks as you push it open, and you peek inside to see where he was amongst the organized chaos of books and work papers.

"ken?"

surprisingly, he's not staring right back at you. he's face down over his desk, resting so that you can't see his face—only the back of his head and all his disheveled blonde hair.

when you approach, he stays completely still. worry begins brewing in your chest.

"you know you can come to bed..." you whisper, leaning against the side of his desk. his pretty eyes flutter open at the softness of your voice and touch, quirking a smile.

"didn't think i could lay next to you and keep my hands to myself." he sits up into your hand, shivering as you massage over his scalp. he's like a little orange kitten, nudging your hand with sleepy eyes.

"don't you dare go ghost on me for a week ever again. do you know how obsessed I am with you?"

"i can guess." he chuckles softly, swallowing something down as he looks up at you. "I'm so sorry. just figured you would want your time to yourself."

"that doesn't mean you can't text me."

"then, i'm throwing my hands up and taking my wrongs." there he goes again, not even so much as debating his reasoning; he just wants you. if being the bad guy means he can lay down his gorgeous, tipsy wife, he'll be the worst person in the world.

there's newfound speed behind his actions as he spins his chair around, reaching out to grab you by the hips. it's so fluid and familiar, but it gets your pulse racing, the beat between your thighs mimicking the rhythm of his heart. he's so close to everything -- to you, to all of it.

he kisses your tummy where the hem of your shirt kisses the waistband of your shorts. he's breathing you in, memorizing the sound of you, it seems. your hands find the back of his neck, thumbing circles into the fuzz, there. it's a moment he'd never speak about again, but the ones you cherish the most. he just holds you. like, it's been over five minutes now...

"i'm sorry. i love you so much."

he nods into your stomach, kissing the ticklish sliver of bare skin there. you're dewy with the after-breath of him, but you love the warmth. you want him back when he pulls away.

"i love you." he nods, giving you those eyes when he looks up at you. your heart fucking pummels and rushes through your body, nearly bringing tears to your eyes -- he's so beautiful. "and I love this fabric on you."

"please. please take it off, kento. i love you so fucking... so fucking much." you're breathless already, and all he's done is kiss you. it's a little embarrassing, but neither of you care. tomorrow morning when he kisses you awake, you'll shrug off your demeanor on the alcohol but you weren't that drunk. you just missed him.

"take it off, please. take it off..."

"huh?"

"please, don't fucking tease me i'm so horny right now. nanami kento, i love you so much, please."

"wow, girl." he trails his lips to your waistband, taking it between his teeth shortly. "are you begging for it?"

"fuck my pride, i don't have it with you anymore." you gasp, tightening your fist in his hair to lead him just... down. of course, he's too fucking strong. he doesn't budge. "kentooo-"

he stares up with wide eyes for just a second longer before giving in. he mumbles, "all right, all right." just before yanking your shorts and taking you apart. he drives his chair forward as he slides open your cunt on two fingers, showing you his tongue and diving in. he's done this hundreds of times, but you'll never be used to the feeling.

he knows every inch of your body - how you vibrate when he flicks your clit that one way or dips his tongue the other. he has your orgasm down to a science, but he still takes his time massaging around your labia, kissing the crook between your thighs.

you were already so close, you cuss. "fuck - what ar- what are you doing?!"

"if you would just have some patience," he responds vaguely, holding your thigh and kissing across the inside. with rushing breaths, you try to calm down, swallowing as you watch him. "you were about to finish, I could tell."

"so, you stopped?"

"i know you've been drinking... so you won't last past this round." of course, only he would know that and actually apply logic to it. it hits you dumbfounded. "I'm selfish. just wanted you to cum when I'm inside a'you."

there's absolutely nothing you can say to translate your thoughts, all you can do is breathe out a shaky moan. you were so fucked off of his tongue, right now.

"desk? bedroom? hm?"

or

you want me to fuck you on my desk or in our bed?

bed sounds better, that way you can pass out immediately afterwards. your mind swims thinking about being back in his arms tonight.

it seems you said that out loud, because he gives you a small smile, then carries you all the way to your bedroom.

he fucks you slow and deep tonight, letting you rest on your back as he held your legs over his waist. you're mewling in reaction, biting down on the inside of your wrist to keep the embarrassment at bay. nanami's being so devious, fucking you like this. he knows it'd take you longer to cum, but he wants that.

he wanted to savor this. you. all of it. all he can do as he stares down at you is admire. he loves the way your breasts rise and fall with each shaky breath. he loves the way your neck dips every time he hits that spot or touches you there.

inside of your warmth is home for him. he just loves you so fucking much that you're the only thing on his mind when he cums alongside you.

he even thinks his left eye drops a tear when he collapses in bed with you. though, he'd never, ever admit it.

then, he kisses the top of your head as you drift away into spinning dreams and whispers:

"god, what did i ever do before you?"

[ddejavvu]

Could you do a criminal minds x reader where reader is viewed as super sweet and dresses brighter and stuff like Penelope but one day they have to come in like super late/by surprise so everyone is in their normal clothes and the bau sees that reader has a big ass, super cool tattoo? And they’re all surprised and stuff

You're looking less-than professional in your backless halter top when you take your seat at the round table, but no one bats an eye until you stand from the chair to leave. Hotch's call of 'Wheels up in 20' means that the room clears as everyone hunts for their gobags, and the second you turn your back to your coworkers a litany of reactions fill the space.

Of course, the most dramatic is from Garcia, but you hear enough to count all of your coworkers, except one. Hotch's brows are raised when you turn back to see them, though - apparently he's not above being startled.

"Woah, hot stuff," Prentiss calls, a grin spreading over her face, "You've got some nice ink back there!"

"I didn't know you had tattoos," JJ muses, staring at you with curious amusement like she's recalculating your image in her mind, "That's really intricate. I like it."

"Oh, it's-" You reach a hand up to stroke awkwardly over the inked skin, "I kind of forgot you'd never seen it before."

"Turn around again!" Garcia gushes, "I wanna look at it."

You spin on command, and Hotch and Rossi are kind enough not to gawp with the others, passing you on their way to the door.

"You've got guts, kid," Rossi grimaces, "I've been in a lot of pain before, but I don't know if I'd willingly sit there for all of that."

"I wouldn't," Hotch shakes his head with a good-natured smile, "Haley and I got small, matching ones in college, and I had a hard time with that one."

"Is that based off of Norse mythology?" Spencer pokes his head around your shoulder to stare bright-eyed at you, "Some of the symbols remind me of-"

"It's just a sick-ass tattoo, Reid." Morgan shoves at his shoulder. peering avidly at the art, "Don't ruin this for everyone."

Reid takes the shove like a champion, smiling kindly, albeit awkwardly at you as he moves for the door himself, "I like it."

"Thanks, Reid," You call, flinching slightly as a hand traces one of the symbols on your back.

"Ooh! Sorry, pumpkin," Garcia calls, the hand drawn away in a flash, "I got too grabby. I just think it's really cool," she takes your hand, leading you towards the door while the others follow to continue staring at your tattoo, "I'd show you my own body art, but it's not really in a spot that I can display in the workplace."

"Well this I've gotta see," Morgan teases, "Let's all huddle in the bathroom on the jet, babygirl, and see what you're hiding."

"It is not for your eyes, Derek Morgan," She huffs, though she's grinning at his attempt. The look in her eyes suggests that the tattoo is not for his eyes because it's something to do with him, and you're eager to giggle over whatever part of her body she's tatted 'babygirl' over later.

For now, though, you rifle through your gobag and shrug on a cardigan, effectively covering your back and its ink.

"It is a crying shame to cover up that artwork," Prentiss laments, "I bet it looks awesome peeking over tank tops."

"You'll see it again at the hotel," You laugh, "I have plans to use the jacuzzi before we leave."

"A jacuzzi sounds fantastic," JJ sighs, "But let's all of us agree that Morgan isn't invited - I wanna see Garcia's tattoo."

[i-yap]

Jason todd x reader - clingy thoughts

(guys i have no motivation to start writing most days so like whenever I get comments or requests in my inbox I get rlly excited and actually feel like writing)

if jason could, he would melt his skin so it could stick to yours . He is so touch starved but more than that he is just ...starved. like he hasn't ever had anything properly good in his life. and then you're just there and he doesn't think something better could exist

he wants to look at you, he stares a lot. even when he is cuddling you, he's looking at your hands, your hair, whatever he can see in the position

he likes casual intimacy more than fancy intimacy. like linking pinkies when walking, resting your head on his shoulder on the bus, your legs being pressed against each other when you're sitting on a rooftop. something you'd do without thinking but he is constantly thinking about it.

he isn't the lift and spin sort of guy ( like after a mission or something) he is a holds you and falls to the ground from the pain of being separated from you for too long. he is the don't to dare pull away, tears in his eyes, body shaking sort of guy.

he hates being away from you, even across the table is too far. wants to sit next to you or hold your hand if you're sitting across. make sure the table isn't too big. the distance hurts him, its like he has an internal radar that if you cross , his head goes red .

give him any sign that you are just as clingy or even that you don't hate his guts and he will just freeze. he doesn't know how to reciprocate touch, feelings, words, everything but he really really wants to. so just because he stiffens up when you hug him doesn't mean he is gonna let you leave the hug .

his sweetest words come out at like 4am , when you're in the bathtub, sitting on a roof, eating snacks on the floor of your room or lying in bed . you cant be facing him cause he will forget whaT he wanted to say once he sees your face. he is super tired from crime fighting or after s'x or after a nightmare. don't make a big deal out of it cause he wont take it well and will get embarrassed.

he is just so protective, you rlly cant blame him.

[monstersholygrail]

Dragon hybrid meets fairy reader and tries to eat her by grilling her with his fire but sees that she’s actually fire proof? Obviously dragon falls in love instantly and eats her in another way ✨

How cool!! That’s a super fascinating combination and possible power dynamic between the two monsters.

Consider, the big bad Dragon of the mountain and one of the last of his kind, comes down to the forest below in order to hunt. His large stature doesn’t allow for very sneaky attacks but what does he need for stealth when he can breathe fire??

He thinks it’s his lucky day when he sees a clueless Fairy all lost in their own world, not paying attention to their surroundings. Fruit ripe for the picking, he thinks. He unhinges his jaw, fire building up in his throat and giving him that warm spark throughout his body. Just as he’s about to cook his meal, he sees the Fairy turn around and meet his eye. But instead of fear and panic crossing her face, she merely smirks.

The confrontation startles the dragon and the fire that bursts forth from his throat is weak and flimsy. Still, for any normal creature it would’ve made them a nice medium rare. Not his first choice but he wouldn’t complain. But when he looks at the Fairy she’s left standing, her curious yet alluring body still perfectly in tact. Not even a scorch mark on her skin!

Her clothes though… the Dragon supposes whatever magic this creature possesses doesn’t include her clothing as the Fairy is left standing completely naked before him.

Of course, the mighty Dragon has to inspect and investigate how such a small creature compared to him was able to thwart his fire attack. The Fairy, feeling very smug about having outsmarted the Dragon that towers over her, agrees to be played with. She was certain he would never guess.

The Dragon inspects her body, sniffing and searching for the warmth he senses within her. That warmth most evident between her fleshy thighs. The Fairy is surprised when the Dragon brings her to the ground, his tongue dipping into her cunt in search of the heat. The Fairy moans and her heat grows, making the Dragon all the more curious.

His giant tongue laps at the Fairy’s pretty cunt. He watches it as it grows slick, puffy, and hotter by the minute. He growls, wanting answers and his pace quickens, tongue swirling through her folds, trying to get to where she runs hottest.

Realizing it’s inside her the Dragon leans back, making the Fairy whine in protest. The Dragon releases another tunnel of fire from its jaws, though this one purposefully remaining gentle as it curls and travels inside the Fairy’s cunt. The Fairy gasps, her body shaking with pleasure as the Dragon fucks her with his fire. Thrusting in and out of her pussy as it longs for the mysterious heat inside her.

With the heat licking along her walls in a way that has her head spinning and her body tingling, it doesn’t take long for the Fairy to cum all over the length of the fire inside her. The Dragon can taste it as it travels through the tunnel and he growls, breathing more fire, forcing it to burrow deeper inside her. The Fairy moans, her body limp and allowing the Dragon in even deeper.

As the flames course through her body and intertwine with her very essence, the Dragon finally understands. Her heart beating with the strength of a Dragon and a Fairy. A half-breed. His flames leave her and he moves to rest beside her weak form, his tail curling around her form protectively.

Originally having been looking for a meal, the lonely Dragon found something much more special instead.

[cyberrmusee]

hear me out- HEAR ME OUT- rivals satoru and suguru where they’ve been fighting each other over dumb shit since middle school and competing for better grades, whatever.

and one of them has a crush on you… so the other fucks you first. and sends pics/ maybe even is on call with the other??

this is evil i fear

- ⭐️

cw: m@ting press, mentions of bre3ding, dub con? sorta, phone s3x sorta?, m@sturbation, rivalry, bi suguboo and satoru :3

i hope this lives up to ur expectations at least a lil bit😭

satoru and suguru, had known each other forever, for as long as they could remember. They had also been competing for EVERYTHING as long as they could remember.

satoru had always been number one at everything he ever tried, sports, cooking, gaming, welding, hell anything you could think of, he’d tried it and mastered in no time. It would drive suguru up a wall.

But there was one thing satoru could never beat him at… charming a woman. Sure he could get one in bed easy, no problem, but when he actually liked a woman? oh he was fucked. That is to say, he practically had ZERO actual game, no matter his looks or status, especially since it was YOU.

Someone who wasn’t fascinated by his wealth, talent or status. The very reason he fell for you, the moment his status and wealth didn’t woo you, it was like something clicked in place for him, something chanted over and over in his mind "her, its her" and from the moment he AND his rival realized, he knew he was screwed.

Suguru however? oh this is his specialty. His natural flirtatious behavior and laid back demeanor, combined with all that damn smooth talking he does, he could have any woman within a ten mile radius, head over heels for him in 48 hours flat. He was just that good. It was the thing he prided himself most on, the one thing he could do, that his rival could not.

he’d caught sight of how satoru stared at you on campus, the yearning— longing in his gaze. the way his cheeks would tint pink whenever you walked past him without a care in the world, because to you, satoru wasn’t even on your radar.

it wasn’t until suguru noticed his white haired rival picking up on his moves, similar jokes, smirks and flirtation tactics— that he officially had set you in his sights. no way was he gonna get the girl with his fucking moves.

it started as just the usual, antagonistic, petty rivalry at first. he never planned to take it too far, just flirt with you enough to let his enemy know to fuck off with using what he deemed rightfully his. he didn’t even want you—though somewhere along the way he noticed the way your lashes fluttered when you spoke to him, the way your gloss sat on your lips and your shy smile when you listened to him and— holy shit the way your tits sat on your chest, just perfect. fuckin perfect.

it didn’t take long for you to give in to him and all his charms. not because you were easy, no but because he was too good at this, too charming, too laid back, too addictive. something about him had you craving every bit of his attention, affection and god his touch, you wanted him so bad, more than you’d care to admit out loud, your inner voice screamed at you “more more more more” until finally you caved and found yourself in your current situation.

he had you pent up beneath him, legs spread wide and slung over his shoulders, your body folded like a lawn chair in the meanest mating press he could manage, his hands on either side on your body as he slung his hips forward over and over and over. bed creaking under the sheer weight of both your bodies. wooden mast of the headboard banging against your bedroom walls. god, your poor neighbors.

his angry mushroomy tip hitting spots inside you that you didn’t even know existed until now. your maw slacking open to whine out “s-sugu s’too much! can’t t-take it!” your head was spinning, your velvety walls hugging him tight, greedy cunt pulling him in deeper as you cunt wept around his shaft and he hissed at the bliss of pleasure. “you c-can take it pre-pretty girl—hah…fuck” his hair pulled out of his messy bun, raven locks swaying with the mass of his moving body, as he fucked you deeper deeper deeper with every thrust. “s’all wet like this f’me hm?” he grunted as he moved a hand to swipe at your puffy lips, covered in your own thick, clear arousal, bringing his fingers back up and stretching them apart to look at the glistening string of your essence between them before shoving the digits in his mouth, groaning as he savored your taste. “mmmm so fuckin’ good, pussy so sweet.”

you only crooned in response as his veins swept over every orifice of your gummy insides deliciously. tummy bulging slightly from the monstrous size of his weighted cock as he bullied the hilt of your cunt. eyes rolling back as that ball of heat built slowly in your lower tummy with every plap plap plap! of his hips against yours. “suguuu! m’gonna cummm!”you cried out as a thin sheen of sweat began to form on your skin, as the squelching noises of your greedy cunt, your moans and his grunts filled the room. through the haze of lust and sex in the room, your phone buzzes from your nightstand and had it not lit up, suguru would’ve missed it, but oh- oh, he could not miss the name that popped up on the screen.

“satoru 🩵”

he was calling and oh he had the biggest shit eating grin plastered on his face as he reached for the phone and put it up to his ear, between his shoulder and cheek, answering. "hey gorgeous was just calling to see if you maybe-" his rivals voice rasped out before he cut him off "she's busy." he grunted as his hips never slowed.

for a moment he sat in silence at the sound of sugurus voice, denial settling in his bones, but the unmistakable sound of skin slapping against skin, whines and cries sounding off in the background— he had you, fuck, he actually had you, and sounding like that? satoru hated to admit it was making him unimaginably hard as he huffed through his nostrils on the other end of the line. “you fuckin’-”only to be cut off by suguru yet again, hissing at the way your pussy clenched around him, your orgasm on the horizon as you whimpered underneath him “hold on, gotta m-make her cum first, why don’t you just s-sit tight and enjoy the show?” he panted out as he tossed the phone back on the dresser leaving his rival to hear how he put you through the mattress from the other end of the line.

he yanked you down the bed, pulling you more onto his dick, every crevice of your poor cunt so filled with him you swore you were seeing stars and he was he in your lungs. his arms snaked around your waist as he tilted your lower half up and leaned his body forward just a tad more to find that reallll special spot inside, your mouth forming an “o” shape as he hit it “ah there it is” he smirked as he pistoned his hips roughly, pulling sounds from you, you didn’t even know you could make.

satoru from the other end of the phone, would never admit to the way he yanked his pants and boxers down at the sound of your moans and cries. the way his cock pearled thick beads of shiny pre-cum at the tip just from hearing the way you sounded— so desperate, so pretty.

no he would never admit that he muted himself on the call and fisted his cock so pathetically and angrily as he listened to the one man he couldn’t stand most, fuck you silly, the way he should be. he’d never admit how he was picturing your body and— sugurus too? as his hips bucked up into his hand, pumping his cock, moaning and whining desperately as he tried to match the strokes suguru was giving you.

and god he’d never admit that he came so hard from listening to the sounds his rival made when he came, the grunts and moans that sent him over the edge as hot spurts of his seed spilled out of him and into his hand while sugurus spilled inside of you, because your greedy cunt wouldn’t let him pull out in time or so he claimed.

he didn’t need to admit it though, because while he may have thought he muted the call, he didn’t, and suguru couldn’t miss the faint grunts emanating from the other end of the phone as he picked it up right after finishing “you know, if you want a threesome, you should just ask.”and with that, he hung up.

a/n: this has been sitting in my drafts for like a month or two bc i forgot i wrote it i’m sooo sorry if it’s, terrible i did notttt proofread it😭

[slytherinshua]

໑　 KISSES WITH TXT 　 ( 투모로우바이투게더 )

genre fluff , headcanons , txt x reader   cw kissing (obv) , not proofread and prob a bit messy   wc 806   request no   note still in my txt feels BAD like its not okay im so tired i love them   net @kstrucknet @moadiarynet

CHOI YEONJUN 彡 최연준

he’s so smooth with his kisses

almost too smooth

he’ll come up behind you with an arm around your waist and spin you around to press a quick kiss to your lips

and then he’ll leave you dazed and wanting more but he’s already walking off with a cute little smirk on his face

or he’ll interrupt your sentence with a kiss making you forget what you were talking about in the first place

he always catches you off guard but it leaves your heart fluttering 

other times his kisses are slow and passionate

he loves taking his time to savour the feeling

he’s almost too desperate sometimes, kissing you like it's the last time he’ll ever get the chance to

which is wrong because he kisses you all the time

but he just can’t help losing himself in you

kisses are used to celebrate, to commemorate, or to apologize 

it's his way of communicating, of teasing, of acknowledging— the way yeonjun kisses you speaks a million words

CHOI SOOBIN 彡 최수빈

there’s nothing softer than soobin’s kisses 

his lips are just so perfect that even when the kiss is rushed or a bit messy, you could hardly complain 

you love to kiss his neck because it will make him flustered and shy 

he’ll tell you to stop with his cheeks flushed, but he doesn’t really mean it 

when he talks too much and you can’t get a word in, kissing his cheek always gets his attention 

his brain pauses whenever you do cause he doesn’t expect to be kissed 

even though he should by now because you can never resist kissing his dimples 

if you can’t reach his lips, there are simple ways to get him to bend down enough 

a tap on his shoulder or gently grabbing his wrist will give him the silent signal that you want to kiss him 

and it has him smiling because he thinks you’re adorable every time you want him to lean down so you can initiate the kiss first 

CHOI BEOMGYU 彡 최범규

beomgyu always kisses you when you need it the most

his kisses are soothing and loving, healing whatever part of you that was hurting instantly

kisses away your tears when you’re crying and delicately presses his lips to any part of your body that was aching 

when the mood is light and playful, you like to tease him by not giving him any kisses while he begs for it

when he’s playing video games next to you, he’ll pucker his lips expectantly while his eyes stay glued to the screen

you act like you have no idea what he wants 

it drives him slightly crazy, but he also loves it

because it means once he’s finally had enough of not getting what he wants, he’ll tackle you and kiss you until you’re both breathless and your jaws hurt from smiling so much 

when you brush his hair back and give him forehead kisses, he practically melts into a puddle 

he adores your delicate soft kisses more than anything 

as a slow and patient lover, he cherishes the quiet moments with you the most

KANG TAEHYUN 彡 강태현

taehyun won’t ask for kisses out loud, but there’s always a pleading look in his eyes whenever he wants to be kissed

eyes shiny and observing you to see when you’ll notice that he’s desperate to get his lips on yours 

if he gets too impatient he will definitely tug on your arm or something to get your attention 

loves when you hold his face in your hands and run your thumb across his cheekbone or jawline 

he’ll turn his head to press a kiss to your palm and his smiles are breathtaking 

his kisses are so romantic with the perfect push and pull 

he always knows where to put his hands or how to guide you perfectly 

and when the time comes to break away from his lips, your heart always sinks a bit in your chest

because he has you addicted like nothing else 

HUENINGKAI 彡 휴닝카이

his kisses are soft and sometimes teasing 

hand kisses are some of his personal favourites

he’ll get down on one knee or bend down to kiss the back of your hand in the most chivalrous way possible just to see you giggle 

will also kiss your knuckles one by one while holding your hand in his

he loves when you run your hands through his hair while kissing him 

he’s addicted to the feeling and needs it like oxygen 

he’ll sigh in content and pull you closer because nothing could ever be more perfect than your lips on his and your hands in his hair

he loves to nuzzle his nose against yours too!

he’ll leave a trail of kisses across your face whilst breathless giggles escape his parted lips 

and delicate pecks to the apples of your cheeks or under your eyes are what follows

txt taglist (bolded could not be tagged): @kangtaehyunzzz,, @eternalgyu,, @90steele,, @ddeonudepressions,, @cham3li,, @wolfmoonmusic,, @98-0603,, @weird-bookworm,, @candewlsy,, @blossominghunnie,, @amara-mars,, @wccycc,, @seunghancore,, @ujisworld,, @sobun1est,, @bananabubble,, @talkingsaxy,, @sxmmerberries,, @talking-saxy,, @nicholasluvbot,, @cupidslovearrows,, @50-husbands,, @hursheys,, @stannwjnss,, @gong-fourz,, @nonononranghaee,, @forever-atiny,, @stantxtforabetterlife,, @loserlvrss,, @lexeees,, @cupidslovearrows,, @hyukabean,, @nicholasluvbot,, @i03jae

[unknownsvoid]

THAT GIRL IS POISON!!!

♬⋆.˚ | now playing: posion - Bell Biv DeVoe

✮⋆˙ | summary: as a succubus, you find this boy with pent-up energy and decide to take it upon yourself to make him your next victim - turns out he's a lot stronger than you anticipated.

✮⋆˙ | featuring: ticci toby/toby rogers.

✮⋆˙ | cw: smut content. succubus reader. reader has red skin, wings, a tail, horns and powers. switch reader and toby. somnophilia content. mentions of blood, scratching, spanking, breeding, aphrodisiacs aka drugging, rapists, incels, abusers, (not reader nor toby). loads of degrading, praise, etc. reader gets called whore, slut, etc. nipple play for toby's part. oral (giving).

✮⋆˙ | author's note: i love writing and sometimes it's good, but today, this is NAWT good. dear lord. word count: 2.5k+

divider cred: @cafekitsune

Toby. That was his name. Your next victim.

You have had your eye on him for ages. He piqued your interest when you were wandering one night in a forest after having fed on some insignificant man. He didn't last long and was, honestly, quite useless, coming undone all too quickly.

You didn't want to kill anyone that day, but it was either that, or ending up powerless and lazy. So, you consumed his blood, allowing the excess to trickle down your pretty, pink lips. Carelessly, you left his carcass there to decompose in the near future. Apparently, this forest had its dangerous perks, so you doubted any human would venture around anytime soon, unless they were down-right stupid.

You were about to leave when you sensed something. Interested, you decided to investigate the cause – perhaps even identify a culprit. That's when you saw him, Toby, leaning against a tree with hatchets in hand. You concealed yourself behind a nearby tree, careful not to get too close and risk him seeing you. His aura was powerful, causing your legs tremble.

Sheesh. just how pent-up was this human? Sexual energy emanated from him intensely, enough to make one's head spin. Could he be a virgin? No, virgins don't typically exude such energy. Unless he was an unusually pent-up one? Your eyes dipped down to look at his hatchets, dried blood coating them. Animal blood? Is he a hunter? No, the scent was too close to human blood. This human couldn't potentially be a murderer could he? Not that you cared of course. You've encounter many disgusting humans, rapists, abusers, incels, etc. Of course, you were happy enough to kill them if it meant they weren't going to hurt anymore people. He just didn't seem quite the type to... murder someone, not even a bug quite frankly.

Then again, you necessarily can't judge a book by it's cover now, can you? You snap out of your thoughts when he suddenly twitches, repeatedly. You assumed it was due to the cold air. It was a chilly night anyway. Then he twitched again and let out a quick curse. Tourettes? Perhaps. It was rather cute to witness. He let out another sharp curse accompanied by a shaky head movement. You couldn't help but snicker at the slight gesture, which caused him to jolt his head up and stop leaning against the tree. His grip tightened on his hatchets as he glanced around to locate the source of the noise. You immediately jump into action and teleport away from the scene to avoid being caught. You didn't from stop there. His aura had you captivated, obsessed even. After months of research, you discovered that he belonged to a bizarre group of deranged individuals, monsters, or whatever were. He was a procey? prokey? Something along those lines. It turned out your inference was correct; he was a murderer. It was his job. A strange job, but then again, who were you to judge? You fuck people to survive. And another inference of yours was correct, he is a virgin. Perfect, right? And blah, blah, blah. Now you are here. Outside his window, peering in at his sleeping face. He look charming right now. His messy, chestnut-coloured hair in all different positions on his pillow. His lips slightly dry and open to certain degree, letting out soft snores here and there, drool dripping from his mouth because of the gash. His chest heaving.

You use your powers to unlock the window from the inside. Once you hear the click, you push the window open and sneak inside, being as silent as humanly possible (pun intended). You stroll up to his bed and take in his sleeping features once more before letting your powers ensure he remains in a deep sleep. You climb up onto his bed and straddle his hips. You cup his cheek and lean down to crash your lips against his sleeping ones. He tasted so sweet and then aroma of his sexual energy made you feel dizzy already. Your tongue explores his mouth, trying to slip as much saliva into his mouth as possible. You knew how much of an affect it had on people. Your saliva is a exactly like an aphrodisiac, pulling out as much arousal form your victims as much as possible. You pull your lips away from his, watching as your mixed saliva drips from his lips. You look down, a smirk etching onto your lips as you notice that a bulge was forming in his boxers, pushing up against your thong from under your skirt. One kiss and he was already hard? Cute. You feel your arousal also picking up after his so you slowly rocking your hips against his bulge, feeling it pulse and throb against you. Moans slip from your lips. You can practically feel the slick pooling in your panties. You don't stop, instead picking up your speed, rocking your hips against his clothed dick. Your eyes follow back up to look at Toby. His eyebrows crinkled and mouth opened wider than before. Moans leaving his lips as well. You could tell he was close so you stop your ministrations, chuckling softly when a whine slips from him in his sleep.

You shift your position lower until your mouth was right over his clothed dick. You hook your fingers on the band of his boxers and push them down. You gasp at his size of his cock. You were expecting it to be a little smaller. He was girthy and long, very long actually. Seven inches - bare minimum. Your shock swiftly turns into lust and greed. You lift your hand to push the uncircumcised skin covering his tip down. You peel it down until his pretty, bubble gum-tinted tip was in show. A fat blob of pre-cum drips from it, but you don't let it go to waste. Using your finger to scoop up the fluid and then moving it to your lips, sucking it off of your finger. Salty. You move your head down to sink your wet mouth onto his sensitive cock, looking up at him, observing him as he twitches and emits more groans and moans. You sink your mouth down onto him further, letting your jaw rest when his tip comes in contact with the back your throat. Your lips stretched around the girth of his cock before you tighten your lips and bop your head up and down briskly, swirling your tongue around his tip, letting more of his pre-cum drip onto your smooth tongue. You hear his breaths quicken, along with his heart rate. Your tail wags, enjoying the taste of him. After a couple more bops of your head, you peel your mouth off of him to wrap your hand around his sensitive dick. You give his cock slow pumps while flicking your tongue against his tip. You begin to move your tongue a little lower to tease the underside of his tip, pausing when he jolts a tad in his sleep. "Sensitive there, hm?" You say, a rhetorical question he wouldn't be able to answer anyway. You wrap lips back around his tip and keep abusing that g-spot of his. You notice the way his hands lazily grip onto the sheets. Close, aren't you? My mouth feel that good....

You think to yourself before speeding up your hand and tongue, watching his breath hitch and teeth clench slightly before unclenching again and his jaw goes limp. Soon enough, thick ropes of cum bursts into your mouth. You waste no time to lap it all up, swallowing it in multiple gulps, before popping your mouth off his tip and pulling your hand away from the base of his cock. "Still hard? You don't give up do ya', huh, Toby?"

You don't mind honestly, sucking his cock made you soaked. Some of your pussy juices dripping out of your flimsy thong and onto your thighs. You lift yourself up to hover over his cock. The heat coming from your pussy causing his cock pulsate in response. You slip you slip the wet fabric of your thong to the side and you push your pussy down on his cock. A moan comes out of your mouth as you start to glide your cunt up and down his cock, you and Toby sharing a shiver every time your swollen clit comes in contact with his sensitive tip. You lubricate his cock with your juices, slipping your hand down to grip onto his cock to make it easier as you push your hole down onto Toby's cock. A shaky breath falls out falls from your lips when your cunt sucks his tip in ever so easily and then you go down ever further, giving yourself a break when you make it halfway. He gives a nice stretch, you'll give him that, and you haven't even got all of him in yet. You changed that in an instant and give yourself a final push until your pussy slams down onto his cock, taking his cock in its full glory. Your thighs tremble and you adjust to the stretch - drawing your hips up nice and slow before slamming yourself back onto his cock. Pathetic whines leaving Toby's mouth, but you swallow them up with your mouth. Your aphrodisiac-like spit dripping into his mouth. You keep going, but then something peculiar happens. Something that never happened before. You halt your movements and your heart drops to see that his eyes are beginning to flutter open. His eyes stop fluttering and gape open. "Wuh-what the fuck?!" He says, glaring up at you before groaning. He looks down and his face churns in confusion, "Who are you?!" He looks you up and down, drinking up the sight of you. You were pretty, red skin glistering in sweat, horns pointy, wings complimenting your body, and your tail, with a heart at the tip of it, wagging. He gulps down his own spit to deal with his dry throat, a tint of yours still in it, causing his head to go all loopy. You smile nervously down at him and he speaks up again, "What are you?"

"Um... a succubus?" He paused at your answer, looking down again to stare at your pussy gripping onto his cock for dear life. He shrugged, if his virginity was going to be taken by you, a succubus (whatever the fuck that is). He may as well make it worth his time, right? He glared at you once more, clearly not trusting you quite yet, "continue then... slut."

A smirk formed back onto your lips and you oblige, bouncing up and down his cock without warning. His eyes roll to the back of his head and he winces from the sudden pleasure. His mouth falling agape and letting out series of pleasured noises. His tics trigger a bit from the pleasure he was receiving, which makes him to thrust upwards a couple of times, causing his tip to slam up against you. You grip onto chest, running your hands upwards until you reach up to his nipples. You tug and tease at them, while sliding up and down his cock which makes him whimper from the sudden attention. He was close and you could tell. You could feel his sexual energy growing stronger. You move your hands down to scrape your nails across his chest. But then Toby decides to throw you off guard while you weren't paying attention. You didn't even notice when his hands gripped onto your hips. He flips you over so you're both in the missionary position. He wastes no time to fuck his cock in out of your sopping pussy, a white ring forming around the base. His pace was slow, annoyingly so. You wanted him - no need him to go faster. You need his cum; his cum; you need him.

"H-hah... you can- fuck - go faster than that. D-don't be - shit - so shy!" You say with smug grin. His face perked in surprise at your words but he let out a snigger. He clasped down onto your hips, having firm hold on them, "Such a whore."

He sneers once more, "You like that, slut? Being called a whore?"

He takes note to your words and hastens his past, beginning to drive his cock in and out of your cunt. Your sloppy arousal acting as an lube as his hefty cock slams in and out of you, leaving you stunned. His thrusts were extraordinarily hard for a virgin. Speaking of that, how the fuck is this guy a virgin?!

His movements were unexpectedly accurate for a virgin, almost like he isn't a virgin at all. Your arms wrap around him as his menacing cock tormenting your pitiful pussy. His tip was no better, abusing your unfortunate pussy. You weren't thinking straight. Your eyes whirl to the back of your head. God, you were close already. That's a first.

The more his hips move, the more your orgasm reaches closer. You didn't notice he was muttering, probably something about you or him. Your eyes spin back to look up at him, sweat from his forehead dribbles from his forehead and onto your tits, leaving musty droplets on your skin. Brown eyes enjoying the sight of his cock drilling in and out of your sweet, sweet pussy.

"F-fuck! fuh-feel... so guh-good." He manged to get out with many stutters and bemoans. Wails, sighs, grumbles and whimpers of pleasure shared from the both of you fill the room. You were both completely drunk from each other's pleasure. You feel the similar feeling like always when you were about to cum. The tense feel of how how your stomach squeezes. He cries out in pleasure when he feels your pussy compresses around him like a fastened rope.

His flow began to falter and his grip on you was wobbly, delving his nails into your skin, or it feels like that at least. You know that's gonna leave a gnarly bruise on your hips, but totally worth it. The more he moves the more you got closer, but he was leaving you teetering on the edge. You whine and grasp onto his hands that was clenching onto your hip, pulling it away with ease. You guide it towards your clit, guiding his inexperienced fingers to draw slow circles on your clit, "ya close, slu-slut? Each plunge of his hips and soft tweaks against your hardened nub causes you to orgasm. He follows you as well, cumming with you. The intense feeling of your orgasm making your brain go numb and your nails into his back, raking downwards. That's bound to make him bleed. He wasn't paying attention - his head rolled up so you can see his adam's apple. His cock spurting his thick, ward seed deep into your gummy walls. As you both gradually come down from your high, he drags his cock out of your pussy with a pop!

He was about to say something but weakly collapsed onto you - tired. Probably from the energy you drained from him. "Cute..." Was the only thing you could reply with. You could stay for an extra thirty minutes. He deserves it after all. Plus, you could use this as an advantage. Apparently there's more people like him in this shitty mansion...

part two? -> here ya go!

[senualothbrok]

Hello my friend!! Regarding your amazing “Tight Fit” fic from @daisyofwaterdeep’s 10/10 scenario, I’m obsessed with how Gale would act around Tav after the whole debacle:

Just adorably a mess. Shy, flustered. Stumbling over words.

Trying not to mention it in conversation. Trying to act normal. Occasionally failing on both counts with verbal flubs: “I wholeheartedly support whatever Tav decides. Our leader knows breast—BEST! I mean best!” etc. etc.

Praying Tav doesn’t hate him. Trying not to get aroused every time Tav smiles at him.

Going out of his way to be extra kind to Tav while simultaneously trying to avoid her.

Forcing himself not to daydream about it during the day, thinking about it literally every night. Reimagining every detail while in his bedroll. Instantly so hard he has to finish himself off or he won’t be able to sleep.

Climaxing so hard he’s legitimately concerned about his orb.

Berating himself internally, reminding himself he needs to learn some damned self-control…but then recalling Tav’s breath on his neck, the feeling of her fingers eagerly stroking him, and any hope of self-control is instantly lost

Would love to hear your and/or @daisyofwaterdeep’s thoughts 💖

Hello my dear friend! I 1000% agree with your thoughts on this and I have written something to describe how I think it might go. Hopefully this is enjoyable!

A Generous Portion

Summary: Gale is a flustered mess after you are locked in a room together. Sequel to A Tight Fit.

Set in early Act 1. Featuring matchmakers Karlach and Astarion, gentleman hero Wyll, I've-had-it-up-to-here Shadowheart, and oblivious Lae'zel.

Word count: 1.7k

AO3 link

Disclaimers: Non-18+. Blushy, flustered, awkward Gale. Sexual tension.

****

“Gale.” Wyll's voice is warm with delight. “You've outdone yourself.”

Gale beams as he passes a steaming plate to Wyll. The stew Gale ladles out is thick and rich, and your stomach rumbles at its buttery fragrance. He grins as he hands out generous portions to a nodding Shadowheart, a grunting Lae'zel. 

“It’s not every day that we cross paths with a butcher.” He bobs his head. “A good cook makes the most of every opportunity.”

You see none of the uneasy stiffness of the past few days, none of the squirming mania that has possessed Gale whenever your eyes have met. Karlach claps before she takes her plate from him, and he gives a playful half bow that makes you smile.

“Besides, a hearty meal is the best cure for a weary body and mind. And as far as hearty meals go–”

Since the last time you were alone, Gale has been avoiding you. He has fled from every look and conversation, as though it were a matter of survival. And yet, you have often felt his attention on you, stripping you bare. You feel it now, as his focus flits over your outstretched hand, as he serves you.

“–There’s nothing like some good Waterdhavian sausage.”

His eyes meet yours. Panic flares in his face. He jerks his head, a grimace clenching his features as he flinches away. You settle back in your seat next to Astarion, feeling strangely guilty. Astarion's smirk does not escape you. Nor does the bright flash of Karlach's eyes.

For an eternity, there is only the scraping of plates, the soft stirring of bodies. The sizzle and hiss of the campfire, punctuated by little hums of satisfied chewing. The stew is exquisite, and you almost forget the crackling tension around you as you devour it. It spills from your lips, trickling down your chin in your haste. You wipe it away with your fingers, sucking them clean, wasting nothing. 

When you look up, Gale is staring at you. He spins away, clearing his throat as he examines his stew with obsessive intensity. The flush of his cheeks makes your core swell with memory. The ghost of his hardness twitches against your fingers. You shift awkwardly.

When Wyll breaks the silence, you look at him with a newfound appreciation. 

“This is delicious, Gale,” Wyll says politely. “Truly delicious.” 

Relief surges in Gale’s frame. “It's my pleasure.” 

“We're spoiled to have you cooking for us.” 

You have never been so grateful for Wyll's courtly upbringing, his natural tact. You send out a missive of frantic admiration with your eyes. Wyll’s gaze flickers to yours for the briefest instant before returning to Gale.

Gale is chewing his lip, composing himself. His furrowed brow eases. He waves his hand in an approximation of dismissal.  

“I try my breast.”

You drop your spoon. Astarion bursts into laughter. Shadowheart buries her face in her hands.

“Best!” Gale is fully crimson now, his pitch higher than you have ever heard it. “I try my best!”

“I can't watch anymore,” Shadowheart murmurs under her breath. Karlach jostles her quiet. There is an excruciating pause. You glance at Wyll, pleading.

Wyll's jaw feathers as he leans forward, his smile tight and wide. 

“And tell us, Gale, where did you learn to cook?”

Gale combs frenzied fingers through his hair. His gaze darts around like a fish evading a net. 

“I learned from the best.” His words are slow and strained at first, snowballing as he recovers. “My formidable mother. A master cook, who could work miracles with modest and extravagant ingredients alike. She taught me everything I know.”

Wyll hums approvingly, patiently. You are beyond thankful to see Gale’s breaths levelling, his voice lowering to its usual timbre.

“In fact,” he draws himself up, “the last time I made her a meal, she said my food might even match hers.” 

Wyll lets out a courteous titter. “Well-deserved praise.”

“Your food is pleasant even to a Githyanki palate,” Lae’zel remarks matter of factly. She seems oblivious to tonight’s disasters - or perhaps indifferent to them.

“Awesome grub, mate.” Karlach gives an enthusiastic thumbs up. “Can't get enough.”

With each affirmation, Gale’s body uncoils a little. The alarming scarlet of his skin is fading to its usual golden bronze. You are desperate to give him relief. You nod furiously. 

“I love your food. I’d eat anything of yours.”

All heads turn to you – vistas of disbelief, delight, despair. Karlach lets out a guffaw as Astarion snickers. Shadowheart and Wyll press their hands to their temples. Lae'zel stares at Gale with disdain as he begins to cough, clutching his chest. He hacks and heaves, until you are genuinely concerned that he is choking.

“Are you alright, Gale?” 

“Fine!” he gasps, his hands whipping around him in frenetic arcs. “Absolutely fine!”

Anxiety seizes you as a flash of lavender peeks through the opening above his chest. Hurriedly, you pour him a glass of wine, moving forward to kneel beside him. 

“Well.” Astarion springs up, gesturing to Karlach pointedly. “This is as good a time as any for that thing you mentioned, Karlach.”

For a second, Karlach looks just as confused as you feel, her brow scrunched as she considers. The recognition that blooms on her face is like victory. She leaps up to join him.

“Right! That thing! That I wanted to show you. And Shadowheart. And Wyll. And Lae'zel. Right now! Somewhere else!”

She pulls them up in turn. You stare at each of them, bewildered, imploring. Gale wheezes beside you. 

“What are you–”

“Must dash!” Astarion calls out, grabbing and jostling at arms and elbows. “Places to go, people to be!”

You glare at your companions’ retreating backs. When Gale takes the glass from your hand, his fingers brush against yours. He looks away as he throws the wine down with a groan.

*****

“Are you sure you don't need anything?”

“Yes, I'm fine, thank you.”

“Because if you need anything, I can–”

“No, I'm quite alright, Tav. Thank you very much for your kindness.”

The politeness between you is painful. Gale’s hands jolt from his lap to his sides, his fingers rippling and fisting. You suddenly realise how close you are, your face an arm’s length from his knee, your eye line parallel to the crook of his…

You lurch back, perching on the log opposite him. Gale’s features writhe as he fumbles at his robe. He looks absolutely miserable. You cannot help but feel stung. Your friendship and affection for him had come so easily. You cannot say you do not miss it, and the promise of what it might become.

“Would you rather I left?” you ask finally. “If I'm bothering you, I can go.”

Is it shock in his widened eyes? Disbelief? You cannot tell. He shakes his head with surprising force. 

“No, Tav. You never bother me. You could never...”

He trails off, gaze fixed on the campfire with a fervour like fear. You sigh. You cannot skirt around the edges of it any longer.

“Gale, have I done something wrong?” 

He looks up then. His eyes quiver, sunlight on a brown sea. 

“Have I upset you in some way? Because if I have, I apologise. I never meant to cause you any distress, or any kind of offence–”

He winces, as though you have struck him. 

“Of course not,” he exclaims, a little too loudly. He bites his lip. A stray strand of silver falls over his eye. You ignore your urge to brush it away.

“You have nothing to be sorry for. You could never do anything to upset me. You're...”

Something in his tone simmers beneath your skin. It is breathy and hoarse, and you are reminded of the way he had moaned over your parted mouth as you grasped the bulge rising between you. Your skin throbs as your gaze drifts over the fullness of his cupid’s bow, the hard curves of his chest, the shadowed dip between his legs. You swallow.

He whirls away from you, as if he can read your thoughts. It is your turn to clear your throat now, to stare into the campfire as your face burns and you battle against the images that flood you. When, without warning, he jumps up and bounds away, you do not have words. Rudeness is a trait you did not think Gale possessed. You sit, stunned, wondering what to do with yourself.

You are taken aback when he returns from his tent. He stoops and stumbles slightly as he takes a seat beside you, close enough that his scent of sandalwood and sweat sends your head spinning. With gentle deliberation, he places a basket in your lap. You marvel at the peaches that fill it, sunset-blushed and plump, ripe to bursting. 

“Gale,” you breathe. “What is this?”

He rubs at the back of his neck. “Forgive me… but I couldn’t help but overhear you and Lae'zel the other day.” His throat bobs, his crow’s feet crinkling. “You were telling her about the food you love most, so when I saw these peaches at the market, I couldn’t help but…”

It takes all of your self control not to throw your arms around him. You press a peach to your nose and close your eyes, breathing deeply, savouring its fragrance, sweeter than the sweetest wine. The tickle of its down, the feel of its flesh, firm and soft at the same time. A little gasp of joy escapes you.

When you open your eyes, he is smiling - beaming - at you. He looks away quickly.

“Thank you, Gale,” you manage. “This is incredibly generous. How can I ever repay you?”

He dips his head. There is the hint of an arched eyebrow, a sideways curl of his lips, as his dark eyes flicker back to yours.

“Your pleasure… is all I desire.”

For a while, you simply look at him, speechless from relief, beauty, gratitude, yearning. The air around you is taut to snapping, the space between your bodies at once too much and too little. You open your mouth and sink your teeth into the peach in your hand. It bursts into a spurt of nectar, coating your lips and chin and fingers, sticky and smooth on your skin. You let out a small moan.

He trembles. A purple haze flares as your tongue follows the trail of juice winding down your fingers, catching the drips on your wrist. You lick your lips as he watches, still and rapt. Laid bare.

You hold the bitten peach out to him, an unspoken offering. He hesitates for an eternal moment before he leans forward, bathing you in his indigo glow. 

He holds your gaze as he bites down.

*****

Read the sequel, A Perfect Storm

Liked this fic? Check out my other work

[onyourowndaisymae]

under where?

content + warnings: nsfw, x fem!reader, flashing, discussions of oral

prompt: "Imagine sitting across from the brothers and nonchalantly spreading your legs to reveal no underwear under your skirt. Just IMAGINE their reactions…" (via: @shyvien-obeyme)

there's a tension in the air, a mixture of seven different reactions to the same action. seven demons who knew their master had such a commanding presence, had fallen victim to "stay" time and time again-- yet here you are, bringing all of them to their knees without uttering a single word.

lucifer pales when your legs spread. a low, possessive growl threatens to rock his chest, but he swallows hard and averts his gaze. you can see his cheeks flush a little. he meets your gaze-- he's very determined to show you he doesn't see you as a piece of meat-- and opens his mouth to scold you for such vulgar behavior. but there's this heat in your gaze, almost inviting as your eyes smolder with want. his mouth closes. he takes another look between your spread legs. fuck. you're so wet it's obscene. were you really that needy, working yourself up like that over there? he can only imagine what's running through your head, what depraved thoughts linger beneath that cheshire smile. no matter. just say the word and he's whisk you away to his room, alone, ready to please his master until dawn breaks through the darkened skies.

mammon whines, the sound loud and uninhibited, his cheeks engulfing in flames-- yet he can't bring himself to be ashamed. it takes everything in him not to pounce on you. he wants to yell, too. why? why're you so comfortable spreading your legs like that in front of all his brothers, huh?! don't you know the kind of filthy thoughts running through their heads?! the conflicting feelings make his stomach flutter. he wants to close your legs, guarding your entrance like a dragon to its hoard, greedy to keep its greatest treasure private. but he also wants to fall to his knees in front of you. to wait for your permission before burying his face in your cunt, fucking you on his tongue in front of everyone. he's getting impatient now that the thought's entered his mind-- so can you please stop looking at him like that and let him touch you already, before he loses whatever mind he has left?

leviathan can feel his shame rush to his face, burning heat pooling at the back of his neck. it's embarassing how quickly his pants grow tight and cumbersome. this-- this is too much for him. he needs to hide away, now, burrowing into a fort of blankets in his bathtub until a century or two passes and he's sure everyone's forgotten about this moment in time. but he can't. because you're staring at him. your eyes crawl up his body, lingering on his shifty feet, his quivering hands, his tented pants-- your gaze makes his head spin. he's going to pass out if you keep watching him like that. you wet your lips briefly, eyes darting to meet his before your gaze falls between his legs again, and he swears to every authority in every realm that he can feel his cock throb in need. please say something, do something. either let him retreat to lick his wounds or ride him until he's a puddle of drool and slick underneath you.

satan's cheeks flush, but he keeps his gaze steady as he thoroughly observes your sopping wet cunt. he wants to think of something clever or witty to say, but his mouth is so dry and his brain is so fuzzy-- do you know what you do to him? he's aware that you're teasing him. it's frustrating. all these eyes on you, and yet you're only looking at him. like a cat that got the cream, you're smirking, lounging in your chair like he can't see the slick gathering around your entrance. it would be so easy for his finger to slip inside you, finger fucking you senseless until you're so sensitive you writhe and dig your nails into the arms of that chair. but that would be too easy, wouldn't it? no, you're teasing the avatar of wrath. while patience is not his favorite virtue, it will be the one he has tonight-- because the moment you're finally underneath him, he's going to toy with you as much as he wants, prowl around your exposed body until he decides to pounce. after all, you're the one who wanted to play cat and mouse.

asmodeus can feel his lips curl into a grin. oh, you naughty little thing! a giggle escapes his lips as he watches you with rapt attention. oh, that slippery little cunt of yours is so cute! would you mind if he got a closer look? he wants to bask in this moment. you're biting your bottom lip and grinning right back at him, and it takes everything in him not to break the tension by letting honey filth spew from his lustful lips. sure, there's a lot he could say, but don't actions speak louder than words? in that case, he wouldn't mind running his tongue along that pretty clit of yours to taste your slick himself. he can't think of a better way to express his love for you than to ravish you as thoroughly as the tried and true avatar of lust can. the room is delightfully hot and intense, making his head spin as surges of lust bounce off the walls. oh, darling, the anticipation is killing him-- won't you just share all the dirty thoughts caught in that pretty little head of yours?

beelzebub suddenly feels like he shouldn't be here. he notices the change in the air before he notices your legs spread, ever perceptive to the emotions of his loved ones. and all of those feelings lead him to you-- specifically, that wet spot between your legs that's got everyone so riled all of a sudden. it makes him nervous. at first, he worries you've exposed yourself on accident. he looks away as his cheeks turn pink, ashamed of how quickly his mind begins to wander. but then he hears you shuffling-- so naturally, he looks back at you-- to find you pulling your skirt up further, bunching it around your thighs to give everyone a clearer view. he realizes now that you want everyone to see your cunt. now he doesn't feel so bad about staring, about the groan sitting in the back of his throat. he'll never push, never question your motives or try to touch you without explicit permission, but he can't help the way his mouth waters and his erection stirs in his pants. and judging by the way you're staring at him like a five course meal, it seems you don't mind much either.

belphegor's eyes widen in shock, before a predatory grin engulfs his face. oh. you're in for it now. you've given the game away by exposing yourself as a needy whore, and it's clear from your haughty smirk that you think you've won this game. that's cute. but you're playing with demons-- manipulative, scheming, needy demons that'd do anything to bury themselves deep inside of the very hole you're so determined to tease them with. or maybe you're just teasing one particular demon. because your eyes linger on his just a bit too long to be coincidental, flitting away to the ground or a nearby wall before meeting his again. are you feeling nervous now? you should be. make no mistake-- he sees what you're doing here, and he's already thinking of ways to handle it. you're clearly getting aroused by all the attention. he wants to help, but he's just feeling so tired. you're already so prepped and eager-- maybe he should let you sink onto his cock in this very room? he's curious to see how well you can perform with an audience.

[novemberheart]

{overview} Kyle wakes up

{warnings} fem reader, a/b/o dynamics, poly 141, short chapter, ghostsoap

Chapter 28 <- Chapter 29 -> Chapter 30

John had rubbed your back till you fell asleep again.

Not that you stayed asleep. Your eyes fluttered open, raw and sore. You peered over at Kyle. You feel like his anesthesia should've worn off by now. Has anyone even come to check on him?

“Gazza,” you mumbled softly. You pressed your lips against the bruise forming under his cheek. He didn't even twitch. You rubbed your eyes, carefully pulling yourself out of bed. You grabbed your phone, your hand resting against Johnny’s shoulder from where he slept on the floor.

“Yes, Bonnie?” he gasped awake, his hands held onto your thighs. He thought you were upset. You were, but that wasn't why you had woken him.

“I’m going to the bathroom. I want to find a nurse or doctor or something too,” you explained, your fingers straightening the sloppy bits of his mohawk. He yawned, nodding his head in agreement. He placed a kiss against your stomach before moving to get up. His back snapped as he stretched.

“Alright, peaches,” he sighed. “Thank you for waking me,” he added, giving your bottom a slight pat. “We’ll be back,” he said over his shoulder to the alpha who was just starting the sit up himself. Your eyes burned at the light from the hall, Johnny's hand resting above your brow to block it.

“Mac, this is the mens room,” you mumbled. Even through your squinting, you could see that.

“Aye, I have to go too. Don't worry I won’t let anything happen,” he affirmed. You shrugged, glad it was empty. You came out of the stall, trying your hardest not to look over at Johnny as you washed your hands.

A man entered. A big one. You could see his shadow moving behind you and you quickly kept your eyes trained on your hands. He took a few steps towards you and your head snapped over to Johnny wondering why he hadn't said anything.

You saw Simon’s reflection in the mirror. You squealed, not bothering to dry your hands, spinning on your heels. He grunted as you threw yourself at him, his hands gripping your sides as he hoisted you up.

“You lost, pup?” he grunted, letting you lift his mask and kiss at whatever skin you could reach. Johnny chuckled, pushing the two of you out of the way so he could wash his hands.

“That’s new,” you murmured against his jaw. He had a large, angry bruise where his jaw and neck met. You could feel him shiver. He hummed in agreement, pressing a firm kiss against your chin.

“Just a scratch,” he grumbled, nipping at your cheek. “Got a fever, pup,” he tsked, almost disapprovingly. His arm extended out, his hand resting against Johnny’s shoulder pulling the man towards him. Your mouth fell open as theirs collided. It was rough and needy and you forgot how to breathe just watching them. It was short, a string of saliva connecting them as they pulled away. Johnny swiped it away with his tongue. They turned to you, evil smirks on both their lips. They kissed your cheek softly, a mean comparison to how they were just acting. Simon didn't bother to set you down, carrying you back down the hall.

“Makin’ your beta better?” Simon asked, jostling you a bit. Your eyes grew wet suddenly, making him sigh. “S’alright, pup. The doctor says he’ll be fine. You're just here to speed up the process a bit so he doesn't hurt as long,” he soothed. You felt heavier in his arms, the weight of the pack on your shoulders. That wasn't for you to carry. It was his and John’s responsibility.

The room wasn't as dark before, John had turned on a soft lamp he had found somewhere. The machine was beeping faster than before. You tried to wiggle out of Simon's grasp and he let you.

“His heart rate picked up,” John spoke, his hand resting over his face. “I called a nurse. Should be here soon.”

Kyle's fever was back. His skin had lost its warm glow, and it would've looked cold to the touch of it were it not for the sheen of sweat covering his skin. You gained some hope when he started to twitch. It started with his good foot, then his fingers, the muscles on his face quickly following.

He didn't wake up.

Your hand reached out, your fingers tangling with his as you knelt on the bed. You swore you could hear him gasp, his body relaxing almost instantly.

“Kyky?” you questioned softly. You looked behind you at John, whose eyes were wavering back and forth between the two of you.

“Where’s the bloody nurse,” he growled, making his way out of the room.

“Stop holdin’ back,” Simon instructed, nodding his head downwards. You did as you were told, your cheek resting against Kyle’s shoulder. You breathed in his scent, a high whine leaving your throat. You couldn’t stop yourself this time. Your arms wrapping around his chest as you buried your face into the crook of his neck. Your legs tangled around his good one as you sobbed quietly against him. “That’s what he needs,” Simon grunted. Simon’s large hand rested against the back of your neck, giving you an encouraging squeeze. “Needs a push to wake up,” Simon continued.

Simon had been in Kyle's shoes before. Granted, at the time you hadn't known him yet, but he remembers what it was like to be trapped inside his body without being able to escape. He could hear everything, smell everything yet he had no way to express it. Kyle was trying. Trying to show that he was there and would be fine. All Kyle needed was a little push from you to gain the energy to come out of it.

It was what had woken Simon up that first day. The smell of you had infiltrated his brain, turning it into mush besides one lingering thought.

Wake up.

“His heart rate is goin’ down,” Johnny breathed a slight tremor in his own body. Simon shushed you gently, you growing restless from not receiving any comfort from Kyle. “Johnny get in next to her,” he commanded, his hand gripping his shoulder. Johnny obeyed, gladly cuddling up behind you. You sniffled harshly, your eyes peering at his over Kyle’s shoulder. He winced, his heart twisting painfully in his chest.

“It's alright,” was all Johnny could manage, his thumb brushing under your eye. Johnny didn't stay there for long, the nurse came back into the room.

“He’s responding?” she asked. You refused to pull your face away.

“When she leaves. Started twitchin’,” Simon explained.

“He was mumblin’ something too. Couldn't make it out though. Sounded a bit like your name though sweetheart,” John added. You gasped your head snapping over to meet his.

“Really?” you begged. John nodded his head, an affirming lift in his cheeks.

“That’s fairly common,” the nurse spoke. “He could tell you were gone and was trying to figure out where you were,” she explained. You tried not to feel any less special, curling your head under his chin. “Everything seems to be back to normal. Next time you plan on leaving let me know,” she sighed, patting the edge of the bed.

You couldn't go back to sleep. You requested Johnny curl up in bed with you. It hadn't helped.

“I need you to wake up,” you whispered. Your fingers danced over Kyle’s cheek, the skin twitching under the feathery touches. “I know you hear me. You'd probably smirk if you could,” you huffed. Despite that, you pressed a kiss against his cheek, which was probably feeling a bit raw with how little your lips had left it. When you pulled away you noticed the soft curve of his lips. “I knew it,” you grumbled with a relieved smile on your face.

His eyes fluttered open.

You wanted to squeal but you kept your mouth shut. You wanted a few moments with him alone.

“I missed you,” you murmured. Another soft smile graced his face. He leaned his forehead closer to yours, urging you to come closer. You rested your head between his and the pillow. “Are you hurt? Do you want me to go get a nurse?” you questioned, already beginning to pull away. He made a noise that sounded a bit like a strangled whine.

“Just you,” he croaked. Your body felt warm as you cuddled back up against him. “Price?” He groaned.

“He’s on the floor sleeping,” you explained softly. You felt his body relax. “Mac is here too,” you spoke, lifting the hand that was splayed across Kyle’s chest. “And Simon is hunting down breakfast somewhere,” you finished. You purred softly, breathing him in. His chest rumbled for a moment before he stopped himself, a small wince on his face.

“You were saying how much you missed me?” Kyle urged, making you roll your eyes.

“Would you like me to keep going?” You hummed. He hummed in agreement, a soothing warmth spreading through his chest.

You babbled on for a few moments. Taking a bit of pride when his heart rate picked up from your words.

“Food,” Simon grunted, entering the room again. His eyes softened when they met Kyle’s. “I’ll go get a nurse,” he murmured, his knuckles brushing over Kyle’s forehead. Your heart warmed at the interaction. As Simon left he patted John awake.

“You alright?” He asked instantly, his hands gripping onto the railing of the bed.

“Never better,” Kyle croaked, making you giggle. John rolled his eyes, his lips resting against Kyle’s hairline.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his jaw clenching. You bit your lip, adjusting yourself slowly so you were facing Johnny in an attempt to give them some privacy.

“Not your fault,” Kyle said slowly, his voice cracking. “Things happen,” he finished with a clear of his throat.

“Just came out of nowhere,” John sighed. “I-I,” he started. He couldn’t find the words. The feeling you get from watching a vehicle in front of you flip three times, knowing one of your greatest loves was in there without so much as a seatbelt was hard to put in words. “We’ll take care of you now,” John promised. “That situation has already been handled.” That sent a shiver up your spine. You knew first hand what John's idea of “handling” was. Yet if it was aimed at someone who deliberately hurt Kyle- you wouldn’t oppose it.

“I trust you,” Kyle groaned softly. You felt lips skim the back of your neck and you turned back over so you were cheek to cheek with Kyle. A happy rumble echoed through him before he cut himself off.

Simon reemerged with a nurse.

Hi everyone! Hope you enjoyed this short chapter! See you in four days for chapter 30!!!! Ahhhh! 🧡

[mahowaga]

THE TRAGEDY OF SOFT THINGS | G.S.

SUMMARY: some people rot like fruit. suguru was more delicate–he fell apart like silk unraveling, quiet and beautiful. by the time you noticed the first thread had frayed, it was too late.

PAIRING: geto suguru x fem!reader CONTAINS: romantic decay, hurt/comfort (kind of?), there's more hurt than comfort tbh, doomed romance, no curses au, college au, angst, hanging onto something long gone, really, denial, a failed attempt at portraying suguru's break down WC: 22.0k WARNINGS: implied abuse/violence, depictions of grief and loss

I. THE BEFORE – the stillness before the storm Before Geto Suguru, there was silence. Not peace. Just a silence you didn’t know you were drowning in.

You met Geto Suguru on a Tuesday.

You remember because the campus bookstore smelled like old wood and ink that day, and the light slanted through the dusty windows in thick, golden bars–the kind that made you think of slow afternoons and things that didn’t quite hurt yet. The air was warm but shy of oppressive, caught in that strange seasonal limbo where summer hasn’t ended, but autumn has already begun to whisper against your skin. It was the kind of weather that makes people linger in doorways. In aisles. In silences. And you’d lingered–at the back of the line, behind someone tall with ink-dark hair tied back into a smooth, neat tail that gleamed like polished obsidian beneath the sunbeam caught in the skylight.

He stood still with his head slightly tilted, reading the spine of a book like it was a person he didn’t want to interrupt. His body language didn’t shift, didn’t twitch–not a finger tap, not a foot shuffle, not even the absentminded hums so many others carried like background static. He didn’t glance at his phone. He didn’t sigh. He simply existed–calm and quiet, like a still pond untouched by wind.

There was something striking about that. Something unnerving, even. As if he was waiting for a thought to finish forming before the world could resume.

He wasn’t beautiful in the way most people notice–not sharp-jawed or golden-skinned or chiseled. It was quieter than that. The kind of beauty you only notice if you, too, are quiet. The kind that hides in the slope of a nose, the line of a neck, the thoughtful furrow between brows as he’d turned over the philosophy section like a priest inspecting relics.

You’d watched as he picked up a copy of Pedagogy of the Oppressed, thumbed through the opening chapter, then tucked it under his arm with something that wasn’t quite reverence, but close.

You bought a refill pack of notecards and a secondhand copy of The Bell Jar. The irony didn’t hit you until later.

There was no conversation. Not then. You didn’t speak, didn’t even look at him properly when he paid, just the flicker of movement as he passed a bill to the cashier, voice low and smooth, syllables wrapped in velvet.

You stepped out a moment after him, the bell above the bookstore door giving its usual tired jingle. A gust of wind blew down the sidewalk–just strong enough to stir the world without truly moving it–and a loose paper leaflet came spinning from somewhere, catching in the air like a reluctant bird.

It collided with his chest–fluttered, folded, stuttered against the fabric of his coat–and stuck.

He looked down at it. Didn’t flinch. Just pinched the paper between two long fingers and examined it the way someone might a fortune from a cookie. His eyes moved slowly across whatever was printed there. Then he turned slightly and offered it to you with a soft-spoken,

“Yours?”

His voice startled you–not because it was loud, but because it wasn’t. It was the kind of voice that didn’t force you to listen but made you want to. Like the last line of a poem murmured before sleep.

You shook your head, surprised by how dry your throat had suddenly become.

“No,” you said. “Not mine.”

He nodded once–not disinterested, just matter-of-fact–then folded the leaflet in half. Once. Twice. Precise as origami. Then stepped aside and slipped it into the metal bin bolted to the sidewalk, careful not to crush it, like it deserved more than just to be discarded.

You stood there for a moment, both of you, as the paper disappeared from view. Neither of you spoke, but something about the silence felt ceremonial–like a moment held its breath between two strangers.

You smiled, small and unsure, caught between amusement and curiosity.

He did not smile back. But he looked at you–really looked–and something passed behind his eyes. Not recognition, not yet. But attention. Like you were worth remembering. Like something about you had registered.

Then, without another word, he turned and walked away, the black ribbon of his hair tie gleaming faintly under the sun. A single strand threatened to slip loose near his temple, but didn’t.

You watched him until the crowd swallowed him. You didn’t know then that you’d just met the axis around which your world would gently, inevitably tilt.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

Suguru was a sociology major, minoring in education–a combination that made perfect sense, once you got to know him. He wasn’t interested in studying things just to name them. He wanted to understand why they broke. Who they broke. And whether or not they could be fixed.

He didn’t talk much in class. Not unless he had something to say. And when he did speak, it wasn’t to fill silence or impress the room–it was because something had troubled him. Because he had turned it over in his head like a river stone and wanted to offer it up to the rest of you. People listened when he spoke, but not in the way they listened to loud voices or charismatic leaders. Suguru had no desire to dominate a room. His voice was low, sure, but steady–and more than that, certain. Each word felt like it had passed through a dozen internal checkpoints before it made it past his lips.

There was something surgical about the way he used language–a kind of quiet discipline that suggested he understood the weight of every syllable. It was never arrogant, never overbearing. It just was. Like he had taught himself how to wield precision where others wielded volume.

He thought with his head, always. He had the posture of someone who had spent years thinking before speaking, watching before reacting. But you noticed–quietly, privately–that he felt with his hands.

His fingers lingered on old book spines, brushing the faded lettering like they were braille. He ran his thumb along the edge of his notebook when he was listening closely. He tapped twice on the corners of desks when he finished reading, like punctuation. You once watched him, absentminded, pick a thread from a stranger’s sleeve in the middle of a group discussion. Not because it bothered him, but because he noticed it. Because he couldn’t not notice. And he smoothed the fabric down after, gentle and unassuming, like kindness lived in his fingertips rather than his words.

Geto Suguru existed like someone who did not want to take up too much space, but had too many thoughts to keep inside. He moved like he was trying to stay out of life’s way, and yet–it bent toward him anyway.

You were quiet, too. Always had been. You lived on the edges of conversations, the margins of group projects, the gaps between loud parties and louder people. The world around you was too fast, too sharp. It moved in jagged motions, demanded too much. You’d learned to survive by staying soft, by going unnoticed. But around him?

Around him, silence wasn’t absence. It was shared space.

With Suguru, quiet wasn’t something to fill–it was something to keep.

You remember sitting across from him in the student lounge once, both of you reading, neither of you talking. His leg brushed yours. He didn’t move it. Neither did you. An entire hour passed like that. And somehow, it felt like a conversation.

It made you brave. He made you brave.

You asked him to walk with you once. Just once. After class, when the sun was slanting low and the sky was the color of soaked lavender. You said it like a joke, like a shrug, so he’d have an out. You were already bracing for a polite refusal when he looked at you–eyes half-lidded with soft surprise–and said,

“Alright.”

Not like it was a favor. Not like it was a decision. Just like… of course. Like walking with you was already part of the plan.

That walk didn’t lead to anything dramatic. There was no kiss, no confession, no moment of cinematic tension. You just walked. Shoulder to shoulder. Your footsteps fell into rhythm without trying.

He asked about your book. You asked about his essay. He spoke more than usual, but still slowly–like he was measuring not the words themselves, but the space they’d take up in the air between you.

He told you he hated talking in groups. That he found it hard to know when it was his turn. That sometimes, he got tired just thinking about how many ways a conversation could go wrong. That it was easier to listen. To study. To wait.

And then–softer–he added, “But I don’t feel that way around you.”

It was said so plainly, so absent of performance, that it took you a moment to process. You didn’t know what to say. You only nodded, smiling and warm, and kept walking.

Later, long after you’d parted ways, you realized: he had just given you something rare. A sliver of himself. And you had tucked it away like a pressed flower between pages.

You didn’t know it yet, but that was how it would always be with Suguru.

He wouldn’t hand you his heart all at once. He would give it to you bit by bit, in wordless gestures and half-lit moments. A thought. A glance. A brush of fingertips against yours when reaching for the same door.

And somehow, you would come to treasure those more than anything loud ever could.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

You’d both sit on the stone bench near the library courtyard–the one tucked behind the foreign language department, mostly forgotten except by the squirrels and the occasional smoker. A willow tree loomed there like a sleeping giant, its long green strands brushing the top of your heads like fingers in prayer. Its roots had cracked through the pavement over time, crawling out in thick, tangled webs like veins beneath skin, reminding you that nothing–not even concrete–could truly contain what wanted to grow.

The bench was always cold, no matter the weather. But Suguru never seemed to mind. He’d sit with one leg folded over the other, fingers draped loosely around the paper cup of coffee you’d sometimes bring him. Always black. Always two sugars. Sometimes he’d drink it. Sometimes he’d let it go cold beside him, forgotten while his thoughts wandered.

He spoke more with you. Never all at once. Never casually. It started with small things–a comment on a passage you’d underlined in your copy of Brave New World, a dry observation about a professor’s mismatched socks, a brief murmur about how odd it was that people always talked during movies, even when they claimed to love them.

You didn’t know it at the time, but those small things were Suguru’s way of reaching across a void he didn’t quite know how to cross.

And when he did start to speak–really speak–it was slow. Cautious. Like testing the weight of his own voice. Like he was trying to remember how to be a person who trusted someone else with the shape of his thoughts.

He told you about his childhood.

He didn’t dramatize it. Didn’t say it with bitterness or grief. Just with a kind of observational distance, like he was explaining the growth pattern of a plant he’d once watched through a window.

“My parents weren’t bad. Just… busy. I was a quiet kid, so they let me be.”

He said it like a fact. Not a wound. But you heard the ache in it anyway–the subtle way his mouth tightened on the last syllable, how his eyes didn’t quite meet yours when he said let me be.

He told you about the first time he saw someone die.

“It was on a subway platform. I was fourteen. An old man just collapsed. Right in front of me. No one moved. Not at first. People just kept looking away. Or pretending they hadn’t seen.”

His voice didn’t shake, but his hands curled slightly on his knees.

“Eventually, someone called for help. But it was too late. I kept thinking, how many of them were thinking someone else will do it?”

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to.

He looked down at his shoes for a long moment before saying, softer this time,

“That moment did something to me. Twisted something. I started noticing it everywhere–the ways people look away. The ways they don’t get involved.”

And then he asked you:

“Why don’t people help each other? When it matters?”

You thought for a long time before answering. He liked that about you–that you didn’t rush to fill silences, didn’t treat questions like contests.

“Do you think that’s something that can be taught?” you asked.

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at the willow branches swaying above, their leaves hushing the sky.

“I hope so,” he said. Then, after a pause that felt heavier than the rest, “That’s why I’m studying this.”

That was the first time you saw the shape of his hope. Not loud, not idealistic, not romantic. It was quiet. Worn down around the edges like something he’d been trying to keep alive with sheer will.

He told you about his plans. He wanted to teach. Maybe high school. Maybe middle school. Younger, maybe, depending on where he could make the most difference. He wasn’t interested in private institutions, prestigious names, or cushy salaries. He wanted the kids who slipped through cracks. The ones no one bet on.

“I want to be the kind of adult I didn’t have,” he said. “Someone who actually listens. Who notices. Who doesn’t write them off just because they’re tired or angry or quiet.”

You didn’t realize you were smiling until he gave you the smallest glance–half amusement, half embarrassment.

“That’s idealistic, isn’t it.”

“No,” you said. “It’s rare.”

He looked at you then, like he was trying to decide whether he believed you. Eventually, he gave a short, quiet hum and turned back to the sky.

“People are just… so busy surviving,” he said. “They forget how to be kind.”

You never forgot that line. Even long after, even when kindness was no longer part of the equation–you remembered that. Because it wasn’t cynical. It was weary. It was someone trying to understand why the world didn’t match the softness they still wanted to believe in.

He never said any of these things in class. Not in seminars. Not to the boys who sat with him in the back row. Not to the baristas who flirted when they handed him his change.

But he said them to you. Like you were a clearing in the forest. A place he could stop to breathe.

That mattered more than anything else he’d given the world.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

You learned the rhythm of him.

It was never announced. It arrived slowly, like sunlight easing across your bedroom wall in the morning–quiet, certain, irreversible. It wasn’t something he taught you, but something you absorbed through presence, through repetition, through the kind of noticing that love trains you into without asking.

He took his coffee black with two sugars. Not one. Not three. Always two. And not stirred too much–just enough for the sweetness to settle like a secret at the bottom of the cup. He never used bookmarks–he said they were a crutch. Instead, he folded the corners of the pages with the kind of deliberate care one might use folding origami or sacred letters. Precise creases. No rush. Always the top-right corner, never the bottom. You once asked him why. He said it just felt wrong, folding the bottom.

He got headaches when he read in moving cars, but he tried anyway. You saw him once, on a bus ride back from a student conference, eyes pinched against the sun-streaked window, a paperback half-open in his lap. He’d looked like someone trying to win a battle with his own body–stubborn, patient, losing.

He hummed under his breath when he thought no one could hear. Never full songs–just fragments. Themes. Melodies. You recognized Chopin’s Nocturne in E-flat Major once, so faint it felt like a memory more than sound. When you asked him if he played, he shrugged and said no. When you pressed, teasing, “Then how do you know Chopin?” he blinked like the question surprised him. Then he said, “I don’t,” and never brought it up again.

And always–always–there was the hair tie.

He wore it like a promise, a ritual looped around his dark hair, black and slightly fraying at the edges. It was thin, overstretched from habit. You never saw him buy a new one. You wondered if he ever had. His hair was always tied back–sleek, disciplined, not a strand out of place. It gave him the air of someone who needed order, who kept parts of himself bound and tucked away, not out of vanity but necessity. His hair was his armor. His control.

You never saw it down. Not in class. Not during study sessions. Not even that time he got caught in the rain without his umbrella. His tie had held.

Until midterms.

You met him at the campus cafe–the one with terrible lighting and off-brand espresso that somehow still tasted like comfort. The place was humming with anxious energy: people murmuring definitions into cups, highlighters uncapped like weapons, professors pacing in and out with stacks of exam sheets. The world had taken on that sharp, caffeine-shimmered sheen of academic survival.

Suguru was already at the table when you arrived, hunched slightly over his notes, one hand curled around a steaming mug, the other pressing his pen hard enough into the page that the indentations were visible from where you stood.

He looked tired–more than usual. Not the kind of tired that came from a bad night’s sleep, but the kind that clung to the bones. His eyes were ringed with the purple shadows of too many nights thinking when he should’ve been resting. His collar was wrinkled. His shirt was one button too high. His fingers had ink smudges.

And there, for the first time, a single strand of hair had come loose.

It fell from the tie, slow and deliberate, curving down the side of his face like a silk ribbon unfurling in protest. It wasn’t messy. It wasn’t dramatic. It was just undone–the first note of a song that hadn’t yet realized it was a lament.

He didn’t notice. Or maybe he did, and didn’t care.

You didn’t say anything, but your eyes lingered. Just for a moment. Because something about it–the softness of the strand against his cheek, the way it moved when he tilted his head–felt like a secret. Not a scandalous one, but a quiet, sacred one. A crack in the carefully composed surface of him. The kind of detail that only you noticed, and didn’t want to give back.

It was the smallest thing. And yet you remember it more clearly than the words you exchanged that day. You remember the way your fingers itched to tuck it behind his ear, and how that instinct startled you. Not because it was romantic–but because it was tender.

Because that was the moment you realized: he was letting things go. Not just that strand of hair. Not just sleep. Something deeper. Something internal.

You didn’t have a name for it yet. Not then. But later, when you looked back, you marked this moment as the first time Geto Suguru began to unravel.

And you–foolishly, lovingly–told yourself it was just a strand of hair.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

You weren’t dating. Not yet.

There were no confessions. No gestures. No lightning strikes in the street. No spilled drinks and rushed apologies. No breathless declarations beneath a night sky heavy with stars.

But there were long walks home that neither of you needed to take.

His dorm was in the opposite direction. You knew that. He did, too. But neither of you ever mentioned it. He walked beside you anyway, hands in his coat pockets, his steps always half a beat slower than yours–as if matching your rhythm required effort, but one he was willing to make.

There were shared umbrellas in sudden rainstorms, the canopy small enough that your arms would brush with every step. You remember the warmth of his sleeve against yours, the damp scent of the world around you–wet pavement, wet leaves, the smell of Suguru’s cologne bleeding faintly into the cotton of your shoulder.

There were shoulder brushes in crowded hallways. Shared glances during lectures. The quiet thrill of finding him already at your favorite table in the library, a second cup of coffee–black with two sugars–waiting beside him like a bookmark made of steam and intention.

There was the warmth of him beside you on library couches, his thigh close enough to yours that the fabric would catch and hold, pulling gently when one of you shifted. He always smelled like cold air and books, like something you didn’t know how to want yet but already missed when it was gone.

There was the way he said your name when no one else was listening. Softly. Not possessive, not dramatic. Just deliberate. Like your name was something he’d thought about before saying. Like it mattered that it was you.

You learned that Suguru didn’t need big moments. He was the quiet kind. He moved in undercurrents. He offered pieces of himself the way some people offered tea–carefully, attentively, waiting to see if you would sip or turn away.

And you–you took everything he gave you and folded it into the hollow beneath your ribs like it had always belonged there.

You didn’t notice how much he’d started to mean until the night he stood outside your dorm building in the rain.

It was late–late enough that even the cars had stopped growling down the roads, and the streetlights hummed like lullabies. The rain had begun as a mist, turned to a drizzle, and now lingered in that strange threshold between rainfall and silence. The world smelled clean and cold, and your coat was too thin for the season, but you hadn’t cared. Not with him there.

He’d walked you all the way again–his coat buttoned all the way up, hands deep in his pockets, hair pulled back neatly despite the damp. You stopped at the front step. Said goodnight. Waited for him to say the same.

But he didn’t. He just stood there. Looking at you the way he always did–like he was trying to memorize something without letting you know he was studying it.

And then, without shifting, without warning, he said:

“You make it easier to breathe.”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t even romantic, not in the conventional sense. It was simply honest. Bare. A truth laid out between you, untouched by expectation.

You didn’t know what he meant. Not really. Not then. You didn’t know the weight he carried, or how rare it was for him to say something that vulnerable without retreating into silence right after.

But you nodded. Not because you understood–but because you wanted to. And something fragile took root in the space between you.

Not love. Not just yet. But the soil was there. The rain had come.

And somewhere beneath the surface, the first thread of something soft and unspeakable began to pull taut.

It began, like all tragedies do, in a moment so quiet you almost missed it.

II. THE BLOOM – when love feels like spring Love with Suguru was a soft unfurling–like petals after frost, like warm hands on cold skin.

Falling in love with Suguru isn’t something that happens all at once.

There’s no shift. No sudden acceleration. No dizzying realization that leaves your chest hollow and gasping. Nothing cinematic. Nothing loud.

It’s quieter than that. Slower.

It’s brushing his knuckles by accident in the hallway and not pulling away. It’s noticing the way he opens milk cartons like they’re puzzles–fingers pressed gently at the seam, folding the corners down with practiced precision. It’s waking up in the middle of the night and wondering what his voice sounds like before he’s put the day on like armor.

It’s watching how he reads. Not just the words, but the white space between them.

It’s learning his pauses. The way he inhales before asking a question. The tilt of his head when he’s listening. How he twitches his pen cap between his fingers while thinking, then snaps it back on with a quiet click that always feels too final.

You fall in love slowly, like a house warming to the morning sun–windows catching golden streaks, floors holding footprints. It’s not something you notice in the moment. It’s something you realize retroactively, like a bruise that blooms hours after the impact.

And the strangest part is–it’s mutual.

You don’t expect it. You don’t look for signs. You’re just sitting beside him in a seminar, your desk a half-inch too close, your sleeve brushing his. You’re halfway through pretending to take notes when he reaches into his bag without looking and places something beside your notebook.

A granola bar. Oat and honey.

You glance at him. His eyes stay forward, watching the professor explain something about systemic poverty and generational responsibility.

There’s a folded note under the wrapper. Neat. Slanted handwriting.

You looked tired today. I brought an extra.

You don’t even remember mentioning you liked this kind. You didn’t think he noticed, even if you had. But he did. Suguru notices things like that.

You learn, in that moment, how he gives affection: not in declarations or dares, not in loud laughter or flirtation. He gives it through presence. Through consideration. Through small, deliberate offerings–each one a thread in the quiet tapestry of his regard.

He doesn’t fall in love like most people. He falls in love the way he exists–softly. Silently. But all at once.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

The change in him is small at first.

So small, in fact, that if you weren’t already watching him the way you do–with the kind of attention that feels like prayer–you might miss it.

He’s still reserved. Still purposeful in his speech. Still someone who listens more than he talks, thinks more than he reacts. But something inside him has shifted. A gentle tilt. A redirection of light. And it’s not loud, not dramatic–just new.

You see it in how he lingers after lectures to help the TA collect handouts and erase the board, sleeves rolled up, fingertips smudged faintly with dry-erase marker. You see it in how he straightens stacks of papers with too much care, tapping them against the desk edge twice–that same quiet rhythm he always taps with when he finishes a book. A pattern his hands remember before his mind does.

You see it in how he joins group discussions again. Not with the sharp certainty he once used–that scalpel-precise logic that cut clean through questions like he was afraid of being misunderstood. No, now it’s different. Softer. He still disagrees, still challenges people, still hates them, but there’s less armor in it. Less tension. When someone pushes back, he doesn’t tense–he tilts his head. He listens. He hums in thought, runs his thumb along the edge of his notebook.

He laughs, sometimes. Not often. But more than before. A dry, surprised sound, usually at something you’ve said–and when it happens, it feels like striking gold.

He starts carrying a second pen in his pocket. Not because he needs it, but because you always forget yours.

He begins to fold his sleeves to the elbow, even when it’s cold.

“I think people can change,” he says one afternoon, walking beside you down the path near the south quad. The air smells like rain-soaked concrete and pollen. The trees above are shedding blossoms in soft, aimless waves–pink petals falling like the breath of something sleeping. One catches in his hair and stays there. He doesn’t notice.

“Even if it’s hard,” he continues, brushing his fingers along the wrought-iron railing as you pass, the tips ghosting over it like he’s measuring the chill of the metal. “Maybe especially then.”

You blink. Not at what he says, but how he says it. There’s hope in his voice. Not imagined. Not crafted for you. Not rhetorical. Real. Whole.

He means it.

It catches you off guard. The Suguru you first met–the one who spoke of the world like it was a patient flatlining on a table no one remembered to staff–wouldn’t have said that. Not even hypothetically. But this Suguru? This one beside you?

He sounds like someone who’s found a reason to try again.

The darkness in his eyes–that tired ache, the one that used to pull his gaze inward when the world disappointed him–it hasn’t disappeared. You don’t think it ever could. But it’s dulled. Softened around the edges like a wound that’s no longer raw. Like a scar healing into something he no longer minds looking at.

He isn’t trying to save the world anymore. Not all of it. He’s simply learning how to live in it. Do what he can.

And you–somehow, impossibly–are a part of that lesson.

Sometimes you catch him watching a child in the courtyard across campus. A girl with thick braids trying to drag a stick through the mud. She stumbles. He starts to move–just a twitch–but she steadies herself. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t smile, but he holds very, very still. Like witnessing that mattered. Like it reminded him of something worth keeping.

His hands are more restless now, but not anxious. Just engaged. Present. He picks grass from the hem of your coat when you sit together. Runs his thumb along the length of your pencil when he borrows it. Lifts a fallen leaf off your shoulder and inspects it like it holds a secret he almost remembers. You don’t think he realizes he’s doing it–but you do.

He’s coming back to his body. Letting it move without fear. Letting it reach.

And for a while–a golden stretch of time that neither of you name aloud–he looks like someone who’s learning how to be held without bracing for pain. Someone who is learning, maybe for the first time, that it’s okay not to carry everything alone.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

You start spending most of your time in each other’s dorms.

Not because you talk about it. Not because someone asks–but because it happens the way rain creeps into the seams of windows–quiet, natural inevitable.

His dorm is on the third floor, the one that overlooks the library courtyard. It’s smaller than yours, older, with a radiator that clicks when it’s cold and windows that fog up even when the heat is off. But it smells like him–eucalyptus soap, paper, clean cotton–and you find that you like the sound the floor makes when he walks barefoot across it. Like it remembers him.

Yours is tucked behind the campus gardens. Quieter. South-facing. The kind of space that holds sunlight a little longer in the afternoons, the kind that smells faintly of basil from the planter box you keep on the sill. You both keep your own keys, your own shelves, your own drawers.

But then your books begin to migrate–stacking themselves at the corner of his desk, slipping into his shelves. His hoodie ends up draped over your chair, long sleeves brushing your calves when you sit. Your toothbrush appears beside his one day–not in a cup, not in a drawer. Just resting. Waiting. Like it belongs.

It’s not official. It just is.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

The first time he kisses you, it isn’t under starlight or in the hush of some moment built for significance.

It’s a Sunday. Mid-afternoon. The light outside is grey and diffused, bleeding through thin curtains like spilled milk. It’s warm inside, but only because the radiator has been running nonstop for three days.

You’re sitting cross-legged on his dorm bed–the one with mismatched sheets and a lopsided stack of unread books piled high beside it–hunched over an article he recommended. Something about institutional ethics and generational poverty. You’re highlighting quotes with too much color, writing sarcastic comments in the margins. You’re halfway through circling the phrase post-capitalist hierarchy of dependency when you mutter something dry and vaguely mean about the author’s overuse of theoretical jargon.

You don’t remember what you say, only that it makes him laugh.

Not a polite chuckle. Not a breath through his nose. A laugh. Sudden. Warm. Startled. His hand presses lightly to his stomach as if it caught him off guard.

It’s the sound of something opening.

You glance up, a little surprised, and find him watching you–glasses pushed back into the half-tired crown of his hair, a red ink pen forgotten between his fingers. His hair is loose at the bottom, falling over his shoulders in soft, tangled strands, catching at the edge of his collar. One lock slides over his cheekbone. He doesn’t brush it back.

His eyes hold you like a secret.

Something shifts. Quiet. Immediate.

He leans in.

There’s no question in it, no pause for confirmation–but not because he assumes. Because something in the air between you already knows.

And then he kisses you. Not careful. Not hesitant. Real, like he’s been carrying this want in his chest for weeks without a name, and only just realized what to call it.

His lips are soft, but certain. His free hand–the one not holding the pen–drifts up to your shoulder, then stops. Hovers. As if touching you would make it too real, too fast. But he doesn’t pull back, either.

He just breathes against your mouth for a beat longer than he should. And when he does finally draw away, his gaze flickers, almost sheepish.

“Sorry,” he says, voice low. “That was–”

You don’t let him finish.

You kiss him again, and this time you lean in, and his hand finds your jaw without hesitation, thumb brushing the curve of your cheek like he’s trying to remember how it feels. His fingertips are warm. His touch is careful–not from uncertainty, but reverence.

You feel him relax into it. You feel him choose it.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

Later, neither of you talks about what it means. Not because you’re unsure, but because it’s understood.

That’s how it is with Suguru. He doesn’t fall in love with spectacle or proclamations. He falls in love with the moments that don’t get written down. In the spaces between laughter. In the margins of annotated pages.

He leaves a hand on your knee now when you study together, thumb moving absentmindedly in slow circles. He rests his head against your shoulder when he’s tired, lets you play with the strands of hair that slip from his tie when the half-knot loosens. You notice, lately, that he doesn’t tighten it anymore. He lets it fall. Lets it stay.

He starts wearing his hair down more often. Not always. Just sometimes. When it’s just you.

You never mention it, but you find yourself watching the way it moves–how it brushes the line of his throat, how it tangles when he sleeps, how he huffs when it gets in his face while cooking. You don’t reach for it.

Until the day you do.

You’re sitting on his floor, legs stretched out, sun sliding low through the windows. He’s talking–softly, absentmindedly–about a dream he had. Something about walking through a school where no doors opened, only windows. You reach out, without thinking, and tuck a strand of hair behind his ear.

He stills, but he doesn’t pull away. He turns, slowly, and meets your eyes.

“You’re dangerous,” he murmurs.

And he’s smiling. Really smiling.

You don’t say anything. You just smile back and lean your head on his shoulder, and he presses his cheek against your hair like it’s something he’s done a thousand times before.

And maybe–in another life, in some soft version of this one–he has.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

Suguru is gentle with his love.

Not fragile. Not shy. Intentional.

He loves like someone handling rare books–with reverence, with patience, with a kind of awed curiosity that makes you feel like something sacred. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t reach too quickly. He touches you like he’s trying to learn you, page by page–not just the beautiful parts, but the worn ones too. Especially those.

His hands map you slowly. Never the same way twice. Fingertips skim your jaw when you’re quiet. Trace circles between your shoulder blades when you can’t sleep. Smooth over your wrists like they’re answering questions he’s still too polite to ask aloud.

He learns what makes you laugh–not just the easy jokes, but the strange things. The patterns. The way you snort when something’s too funny too fast. He starts saying things just to hear that sound. Pretends not to notice how your eyes soften when he does.

He learns what makes your breath catch. A thumb grazing your spine. His mouth on the space beneath your jaw. The low murmur of your name spoken into the hollow of your throat like a benediction. He never uses it for power. Only wonder.

And he learns how your eyes go soft and glassy when you’re overwhelmed with love–too full of it to say so. He watches for it. Waits for it. You don’t know how, but he always catches it before you can look away.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

You like to hold him.

You didn’t that that’d be the kind of person you become, but with Suguru it’s different.

You like to press your palms to the sharp blades of his shoulder and feel the slow rise and fall of his breath. You like to tangle your legs with his under the covers, to pull him into your chest while he reads, to kiss the back of his neck while he’s pouring tea. You like to lie beside him with a hand against his ribs just to feel that he’s real–that he’s there, that he’s still choosing this.

You like to touch his hair, too.

You’re not sure when it started. Maybe the day you tucked a loose strand behind his ear and he didn’t flinch. Maybe the day he rested his head in your lap and said, “If I fall asleep like this, don’t wake me.” But now it’s a ritual. A language of its own.

His hair is always half-tied now. Some days more deliberate than others–a low twist at the crown, a simple clip holding it back, a single elastic coiled three times at the base. But always, always with something loose. Something falling. As if he’s decided that a little disorder doesn’t threaten the structure. As if being seen doesn’t make him less whole.

You thread your fingers through it often. Sometimes gently, sometimes absently–while he’s reading, while you’re talking, while music plays in the background and neither of you feels the need to speak. You learn where the strands curl slightly. Where the nape of his neck is sensitive. You learn how he tilts his head into your touch when he’s tired, and how, if you’re quiet long enough, he’ll sigh like the day is finally over.

You kiss him too, of course–often, and with care. But more than anything, you hold him.

You hold him like you’re trying to give him something back. Something the world forgot to offer. Something no one told him he was allowed to have.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

You catch him watching you once from across the dining hall. It’s late. You’re laughing with friends about something dumb–a meme, a spilled drink, someone’s typo in the group chat. And when you look up, he’s already watching.

Head tilted just slightly. Elbow on the table. Chin in his palm.

His hair’s half-down again, loose at the ends, catching in the harsh cafeteria lights like black gold.

You mouth, What?

He doesn’t look away.

“I like watching you exist,” he says. Not loudly. Not for anyone else to hear. Just for you.

You throw a napkin at him. He dodges it, smirking.

Your cheeks stay warm for the rest of the evening.

•───────────────────────���──────────────────•

He starts writing again.

You don’t notice at first, not until you see the back of a receipt left on the floor–half a grocery list, half a quote: People are not lost causes just because they hurt differently. The pen ink is fading. There’s a fingerprint smudge at the corner.

After that, you find fragments everywhere. In the margins of his notebooks–tiny sentences blooming in the white space beside statistics. On the backs of old envelopes. On sticky notes pressed between textbooks. Even once on the bottom of your coffee cup, when he forgot to take the sleeve off before handing it to you.

Little things. Observations. Seeds of thought. The outline of a curriculum. A hypothetical school where grief is a subject, and kindness is a skill, and no one is made to feel like too much. A lesson plan with no due date. A list of values. A dream.

What I want to teach: that kindness is strength. That softness isn’t a weakness. That people are not burdens just because they carry pain.

You don’t bring it up. You don’t want to spook it–don’t want it to vanish if you name it too soon. So you fold the paper gently, carefully, and place it in the drawer beside his desk like it’s a flower you accidentally found blooming.

And maybe, in some way, it is.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

One night, curled up in your dorm room with the lights dim and a film flickering across the wall, Suguru talks about something he read that morning.

You’re wrapped in the blanket that always lives at the foot of your bed–soft and old and slightly frayed at the edges–and his arm is heavy around your shoulders, his legs stretched out long beside yours. The movie isn’t loud, some art-house thing with watercolor animation and not much dialogue. It’s playing more for atmosphere than anything else. You’ve both seen it before.

He shifts beside you, adjusting the way your body fits against his, and says quietly, without preamble,

“There was an article this morning.”

His voice is low, even. Not tense. But there is something in the way his hand stills on your arm.

“A kid. Twelve years old. System failure across the board. Everyone knew. Teachers, case workers, neighbors. They all looked the other way. And now–”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Just exhales, slow and controlled. You turn your head slightly, resting your cheek against his shoulder. You don’t say anything yet. You know him well enough to let him finish at his own pace.

“Now it’s too late,” he murmurs. “And people are pretending to be shocked. Pretending to mourn.”

He falls quiet again. His thumb resumes its movement over the fabric of your sleeve–long, slow passes, like he’s petting something that might spook. He doesn’t sound angry. He doesn’t sound sad, either. Just tired. Like he’s been carrying that story in his chest all day, weighing it against everything he believes.

You press your hand gently over his chest, where the collar of his shirt has slipped open. You feel his heart beating beneath your palm. Steady. Unhurried.

“Suguru,” you whisper.

He hums, low.

“You’re trying. You make a difference. You–you notice. That matters.”

For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything. Just keeps his gaze fixed on the soft light flickering across the wall. Then he turns slightly, and kisses your temple. Slow. Thoughtful. His lips linger there longer than usual, like he’s trying to say something through that small point of contact.

You melt into him.

The room feels warmer with him like this–half-wrapped around you, hair loose and falling against your neck, chest rising with each even breath. You listen to the movie’s score swelling, a soft piano drifting through a sequence of paper birds taking flight on-screen. It’s lovely. Everything is.

You feel safe.

After a while, when the movie dips into quiet again, you tilt your head and look up at him.

“What are you thinking about?” you ask.

Your voice is hushed, but not hesitant. This is what you do, these nights–drift into gentle conversation like turning pages in a book.

He blinks, eyes flicking down to you. For a second, he doesn’t answer. Then his fingers find your hand beneath the blanket, sliding between yours.

“Thinking I like this,” he murmurs. “You. Me. Like this.”

He brings your joined hands to his lips and kisses your knuckles. One, then another. Then another.

“It’s nice,” he says. “Isn’t it?”

You nod, your smile small, sleepy. “Mm. It is.”

“We should do this more,” he says softly. “Stay in. Watch old movies. Fall asleep on each other. I don’t need much more than this.”

You lean into him again, burying your face into the space between his neck and collarbone. He smells like clean linen and cedar, like the kind of quiet comfort that never asks too much. His hair is tangled slightly against your cheek, the half-tied bun he threw together earlier now loosened by time and gravity. You reach up and run your fingers through it, gentle and slow, untwisting the strands until they fall free down his back.

He lets you.

He tilts his head slightly, giving you more space, and you feel him exhale–not heavy, not burdened. Just there. With you.

“You’re good at that,” he murmurs.

“At what?”

“Touching me like I won’t break.”

You smile, nuzzling into his shoulder. “You won’t.”

“No,” he says, kissing the top of your head. “Not with you.”

You stay like that for a long time. His fingers curled loosely around your wrist. Your hand resting over his chest. The movie ends, but neither of you move. The screen fades to black. The room dims further.

He shifts eventually, gently easing you down onto the bed, sliding under the blanket with you. His hands are warm as they pull you close, arm slipping around your waist.

“I like you here,” he whispers. “Next to me. Just like this.”

Your breath catches, just for a moment. You kiss his throat. Let your fingers drift through his hair. Let his lips find yours again, slow and familiar and full of promise.

And when he pulls you into his arms, tucks your head beneath his chin, and breathes you in like he needs it–you think,

God, I love him.

And you do. More than anything. More than makes sense.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

The bloom is gentle. Golden. Full of warmth tucked into corners.

It’s waking up to the smell of black coffee already poured into your favorite mug–the chipped one with the constellation pattern that he’d bought for you–because Suguru remembers which mornings you have class early. It’s his hands sliding along your waist as he passes behind you in the kitchenette, stealing a kiss just beneath your ear, murmuring, “Morning looks good on you” before the world has even finished yawning open.

It’s breakfast together on weekdays, the kind that’s more ritual than necessity–toast and eggs, or sometimes just shared slices of pear on a plate, drizzled with honey, eaten in companionable silence. It’s the way he always saves you the softest part. The smallest gesture. The one you never have to ask for.

It’s poetry readings on weekends–him slouching in a cafe chair with his legs sprawled, eyes half-lidded, listening to someone read about heartache or hunger while his hand curls around yours beneath the table, hidden from view but always present. Sometimes he murmurs a line he likes into your ear. Sometimes he won’t say anything at all–just squeeze your fingers in rhythm with the words.

It’s the buzz of his electric shaver against your wrist when he lets you trim the back of his neck. His head bent forward. Your hand resting lightly on his spine. His breath catching when you touch the wrong spot–or maybe the right one.

It’s his favorite playlist playing low while you study together, a medley of mellow jazz and slow instrumentals, the occasional spoken word track tucked between songs. He doesn’t need lyrics. He likes songs that let him feel. You like watching him feel. Feet tangled under the table. Shoulders bumping. Notes passed on napkins.

It’s falling asleep with his hair spread across your pillow. Waking up to find he’s pulled the blanket up over your shoulder while you slept. It’s the way his hands always know where you are, even in dreams. The way he reaches for you before opening his eyes.

It’s laughter in the dark–breathless, open, reverent. The kind of laughter that comes from joy, not humor. From knowing someone this well. From being known.

It’s long kisses that don’t ask for anything but closeness. His mouth on yours like a silent poem. Like gratitude. Like the answer to a question neither of you have spoken aloud.

And when he touches you, it’s never hurried. Never thoughtless. He holds you like you are an answer he’s been afraid to ask for. He kisses you like you’re something he can’t believe he gets to keep.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

And if some days he stares too long at nothing–if his gaze lingers past the point of stillness, if his eyes stay fixed on the same patch of ceiling, the same window, the same point in the air–you tell yourself he’s thinking. That it means he’s deep. That it means something good.

If his touch is slower, more distant, you chalk it up to fatigue. If the words come with more silence between them, if his laugh takes a second longer to arrive, if his smile doesn’t always reach his eyes–well.

Everyone gets tired sometimes.

He’s still showing up. Still kissing you in the morning. Still holding your hand under tables. Still breathing the same air.

Besides, he always comes back. Always. Even when he goes quiet. Even when he forgets to answer a question. Even when he blinks at the sound of your voice like he didn’t realize you were there–he always smiles, eventually. Always kisses your wrist. Always brushes your hair behind your ear and says your name like it means something.

You never question it.

Why would you? You’re in love.

And it feels like he is, too.

You called it happiness, because it was warm–even as something colder began to press against the edges of it.

III. THE WILT – where the slow ruin begins Some loves rot from the inside. You only notice the bruises when it’s too late.

He leaves the laundry unfolded.

Just once.

It’s a Wednesday, a little after noon. You’re coming back from a workshop with a headache and a half-scribbled page of notes you’ll never look at again. Your backpack’s too heavy. Your keys are buried in the wrong pocket. You let yourself into his dorm expecting quiet, maybe the faint smell of citrus detergent and old books.

What you find instead is Suguru’s laundry, half-done, piled in a soft heap on his bed. A warm, crumpled slope of shirts and socks, still smelling like lavender-softener–not the typical citrus–and machine heat. His drawers are cracked open. His towel’s draped over the chair. He’s not here.

It’s strange. Not in a worrying way. Just unfamiliar.

He’s usually methodical with this sort of thing. Precise. He folds with the care of someone who once learned to iron his uniforms at twelve and never shook the habit. Socks together, sleeves tucked in, edges lined like he’s preparing an offering.

You run your hand over the laundry. It’s still warm. You sit.

You fold one shirt, then another. Tuck his hoodie into a neat rectangle. Smile at the way he always leaves his undershirts inside-out. You don’t think too much about it–you just hum something under your breath, that playlist he likes playing low through your phone speaker, and let the quiet wrap around you.

You tell yourself he must’ve been called into a meeting. That he left in a rush. That he forgot. That it’s sweet, really–that he’s comfortable enough now to leave things undone. That it means he trusts you to be here, to take care of the space you’ve come to share.

You open his drawer further. Stack the clothes. Close it.

Later that night, he comes back. Late. The sun’s already long gone. The hallway is quiet.

You’re sitting on the floor in his hoodie, reading something for class you won’t remember. When he opens the door, his shoulders are slouched. His hair is half-falling from its knot. His hands are in his pockets.

You look up and smile. “Hey, stranger.”

He smiles back–slow, tired. His eyes are shadowed beneath the soft overhead light.

“Sorry,” he says. “I forgot to fold the laundry.”

You shake your head. “I did it. You’re good.”

He steps in. Drops his bag. Doesn’t say anything else.

You expect him to come kiss your cheek, like he usually does. To slide down beside you, stretch his legs out, let you play with his hair. But instead he just moves around the room, quiet, deliberate. Checks his phone. Rubs his forehead. Stares at the window for a few seconds too long.

Then–like a habit that finally remembers itself–he walks over. Sits down. Lets his thigh press against yours.

You lean into him, head to his shoulder. His arm curls around you, loose. Familiar. But his hand doesn’t move. No absent thumb brushing your wrist. No tracing letters into your skin. Just stillness.

You tilt your head up and kiss his jaw.

“Long day?”

He nods. You wrap your arms around his torso and hold him tighter.

“I missed you,” you murmur.

This time, he kisses the top of your head. Whispers something like me too. You close your eyes and let yourself believe it. You don’t ask why his fingers don’t fidget anymore. You don’t ask why they rest so flatly on your hip–not pushing in, not holding back, just… resting.

You convince yourself this is what closeness looks like when people get used to each other. When comfort replaces urgency.

You nestle against him and say nothing, but in the back of your mind, something taps–a faint echo of a past version of him, of how his hands always did something. How he once pulled a thread from your sleeve without thinking. How he used to run his knuckles across your palm like a secret.

Now they’re still. And you, too in love to question it, press your hand over his and call it peace.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

His hair is getting longer.

Not by design. Not even in the way that people grow it out on purpose–with intention, with shape in mind. Suguru’s hair is just being left alone.

It’s subtle. The ends start to curl. A lock or two always slips loose from his half-tie and stays there, grazing his cheekbone like a question no one’s asked yet. You notice him pushing it behind his ear more often–the same motion, again and again, without thought. You watch his fingers thread through the same pieces absentmindedly during lectures, when he’s pretending to take notes but his eyes are fogged with something far away.

And slowly, it becomes clear. He’s stopped tying it up properly.

Once, his bun was clean. Precise. Every strand tucked in like he was protecting something fragile–an image, an order, a sense of control he never wanted to name. Even the extra tie on his wrist, thin and stretched, felt ritualistic. Sacred. A thread that kept him tethered.

Now, it’s different. Now, he twists it once–maybe twice–and lets it sit crooked at the nape of his neck, loose and sagging before noon. Some days he doesn’t tie it at all. Just leaves it half-down, flowing over his shoulders in soft, dark waves. He shrugs when you mention it. Says it doesn’t matter. That it’s just hair.

But you remember what it used to mean.

Still, you say nothing. You only touch it more.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

You find excuses. Casual ones.

In the mornings, you brush the tangles out with your fingers while he drinks his coffee, legs folded under him, the room golden with light. He doesn’t stop you. He closes his eyes and leans into your touch as your fingers comb through the strands at the base of his skull. You find yourself memorizing the texture–the coarseness near the ends, the silk of new growth near his scalp. You find yourself wondering if he knows he sighs when you reach the nape of his neck.

One night, while you’re sitting on the floor and he’s stretched out on the bed reading, you reach over without thinking and start separating the strands–idle, quiet. You begin to braid it, slow and loose. He doesn’t ask what you’re doing. Just keeps reading. You braid it all the way down to the end, tie it off with the tie from your own wrist.

“There,” you say. “Now you look like a warrior monk.”

He lifts his gaze, meets your eyes for a moment, and smiles–but the smile doesn’t quite touch the corners.

“You think so?”

“Mhm. But hotter.”

“Is that a scholarly opinion?”

“A sacred one.”

He chuckles, brief. His fingers move to the braid and tug at it gently, undoing it without looking down. The strands fall loose again–soft, messy, uncontained.

You reach forward and smooth them back once more. He catches your wrist. Presses his lips to the skin just above your pulse.

You let the silence settle like dust.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

On weekends, when he sits on the floor between your legs to work on something, you absentmindedly part his hair and run your nails lightly against his scalp, drawing little lines. You trace constellations. You hum a song he likes. He leans back into you like instinct.

“You always do that now,” he murmurs once.

“Do what?”

“Touch my hair.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then he says, “No. Never.”

You kiss the top of his head and braid another small section, only to undo it seconds later.

You don’t know what it is you’re trying to fix, but your hands keep moving.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

There’s a photograph of the two of you on your desk–taken by a friend, one of those accidental, unscripted moments. You’re curled into his side on the bench near the willow tree, head on his shoulder, eyes closed. He’s leaning his head against yours. His hair is loose. Wind-blown. Tangled slightly in the collar of his coat. His expression is unreadable.

You keep it anyway. You tell yourself it’s romantic. You tell yourself it’s him.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

There’s a day–a Thursday, maybe–when you get caught in the rain on the way back from class. You burst into your dorm laughing, soaked, shivering. He’s already there, lying on your bed, flipping through one of your textbooks.

You strip your jacket off, kick off your shoes, and crawl in beside him.

“You’re wet,” he says mildly.

“I know. Hold me anyway.”

He does. You press your cold cheek to his neck. He hums. His hand moves to your back.

His hair is wet too. Not from the rain, but from the shower–you can smell your shampoo in it. The one you know he likes. You reach up and gather it gently, twisting it loosely to get the water out. He closes his eyes. Says nothing.

Your hands find the ends–long now, brushing his ribs.

“You should let me trim it,” you murmur.

“Mm.”

“Just a little. I’ll be careful.”

“Maybe.”

He doesn’t say yes. But he doesn’t say no either.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

Some days, you wake before him and find his hair spread across the pillow between you, catching light like black silk. You reach out and smooth it down, gather it into a makeshift bun with your fingers, just to keep it out of his face. You do it gently, reverently. Like you’re tending a wound.

He shifts in his sleep, murmurs your name, then turns his face into the pillow.

And you smile. Because this is love. Because this is still soft. Because he lets you hold him like this.

Even if his hands no longer hold back. Even if he never ties his hair up anymore. Even if you are the only one who does.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

He sleeps facing the wall now.

Not always. Not every night. But often enough that it catches in your throat, sharp and quiet like a splinter. It happens gradually–the same way a window starts letting in cold, not with a crash or a draft, but with a subtle breeze that you tell yourself is nothing.

It’s Thursday. Late. The rain’s tapping against the glass, soft and inconsistent, like a thought struggling to form. You’re both tangled under your blanket, limbs touching, but not curled into each other the way you used to. His spine is to you. His breathing is slow. You know he’s still awake.

His hair is fanned out over the pillow, loose and unbrushed. You reach for it. Gently comb your fingers through the strands.

“Suguru?” you murmur.

A pause. Then: “Mm?”

You press your hand to the space between his shoulder blades. “Tell me about your day?”

At first, you expect him to say later, or tired, or nothing worth saying. That’s what he usually does now. But this time, he exhales–long, quiet–and rolls onto his back. Not toward you. Just away from the wall. You take it as a victory.

He stares at the ceiling for a moment, then says, low:

“There was this boy in the class today. Thirteen. Smart as hell. Sharp. I gave him a worksheet and he looked at me like I was insulting him. ‘Is this really what you think I need right now?’ he asked me. Deadpan. Right to my face.”

You give a small smile, imagining it. “Sounds like someone I know.”

He huffs, and continues. “I said no. I said it was just a warm-up. But I could tell–he was already tuning out. Like he was deciding I was another adult who wasn’t going to see him properly.”

He shifts, one hand coming up to rub his temple. “He told me he doesn’t believe in school. That he’s just waiting to be old enough to drop out and get a job. ‘No one in my family graduated anyway,’ he said. ‘What’s the point?’”

He says it softly, but not without feeling. The cadence changes. Slows. Thickens.

“He’s thirteen,” he repeats, voice quieter now. “He’s already done. Already convinced the world won’t make room for him.”

Your chest tightens. You move closer. Your hand finds his, resting on his chest. You lace your fingers together.

“What did you say?”

He shrugs, gaze still fixed upward. “Told him I get it. That the system’s broken. That people like him slip through the cracks all the time.”

He pauses.

“And then I told him that even so, it’s worth trying. That there are people who will help. That he’s not alone.”

You wait for him to say that the boy smiled. That the boy softened. That something changed. But he doesn’t. Instead, he closes his eyes.

“He laughed at me,” Suguru murmurs. “Said I was naive.”

You try to catch his gaze, but he doesn’t offer it. His eyes stay shut, like he’s watching the conversation happen again behind his lids.

“Maybe he’s right,” he says.

You blink. “Suguru…”

“It’s just–” He shifts, not away from you, but not toward you either. “I go in there thinking I can help. That if I listen enough, try hard enough, I can make some kind of difference. And sometimes I do. I think I do. But other times…”

His voice trails off. His hand clenches once in yours, then relaxes again. “It feels like putting tape over a cracked dam.”

You don’t know what to say. So you say what you always say.

“But you’re trying.”

“Yeah.”

“That counts.”

“Yeah.”

It’s barely audible now.

He turns his face toward the wall again. Not harshly. Just with the finality of someone who’s done talking.

You shift behind him and slide closer. Press yourself into his back. Wrap an arm around his middle and hold him tight–tighter than before. Your palm flattens against his stomach. You press your forehead between his shoulder blades. He’s warm. Solid. Here.

“You matter, Suguru,” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer, but his hand finds yours again, and for a moment, it’s enough.

You listen to his breathing. Still slow. Still deep. But you don’t fall asleep. You stay awake long after the rain softens to a drizzle. You stay awake and hold him like he’s going to vanish if you let go.

And in the morning, you don’t mention it. You braid his hair while he scrolls through his phone. You kiss his temple before he leaves. You hold the shape of his silence in your chest and call it a win. Because he talked to you. And you held him. And that’s enough. It has to be.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

You see it in your conversations–small hesitations, abandoned sentences, silences growing slowly like vines across an old wall.

You’re sitting together on the bench near the library courtyard one afternoon, a shared coffee between you. The willow branches overhead sway gently, the late afternoon sun filtering through the leaves in scattered, golden patterns across Suguru’s knees.

He speaks casually at first, just a low murmur beside you, his fingertips tracing absent circles on the sleeve of your jacket. You’re talking about your professor–about how you can’t quite understand her lectures, about how the readings never seem to match the class.

“I think she just likes hearing herself talk,” you say lightly, nudging Suguru with your shoulder. “Think she might secretly hate us.”

Suguru chuckles quietly, the sound more automatic than sincere. “I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe she’s just tired.”

You glance at him, brow knitting faintly. “Of what?”

He shrugs slowly, thoughtful gaze drifting towards the grass. “Trying to explain the same thing again and again. Trying to get people to care when they just–” he pauses abruptly. His fingers go still on your sleeve.

“When they just what?” you prompt softly.

His eyes flicker briefly, as if he’s pulled back from a thought he didn’t realize he’d spoken out loud. “Nothing,” he murmurs. “Forget it.”

You watch him closely, waiting, giving him space to continue. He doesn’t.

“You okay?” you whisper.

He nods, eyes returning to a point somewhere distant. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Yeah. Just tired, I guess.”

You slip your hand into his, linking your fingers gently. “Want to talk about it?”

Suguru squeezes your hand lightly, almost reflexively. His thumb brushes your knuckles twice, a quiet reassurance that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“It’s nothing,” he repeats. “Just been thinking lately.”

“About what?”

He stays quiet a moment longer. The breeze rustles gently through the leaves, softening the silence. “About choices, I suppose,” he says finally, voice barely audible, distant. “About how we decide what’s worth doing.”

“That’s deep for a Thursday,” you tease.

His lips curve upward briefly, but the smile doesn’t fully form. “Yeah. Sorry. My head’s in a weird place.”

You nudge closer, rest your chin on his shoulder, and murmur softly, “Tell me anyway.”

He sighs, more breath than sound, and shifts his position slightly. You hold him tighter, subtly coaxing him back.

“I keep thinking,” he starts, “about how everything I do–everything I’ve tried to do–seems so small now. Like trying to change things feels naive. Like that boy was right.”

Your heart dips. You shake your head against his shoulder, voice earnest. “But it’s not. It’s brave. You’re doing good, Suguru. You have no idea how many people look up to you–”

He interrupts gently. “Maybe that’s the problem.”

“What do you mean?”

His thumb stills again, fingers slackening around yours, just a bit, then tightening again as if he realizes he’s pulling away. “I used to think I had some kind of answer. That if I cared enough, listened enough, worked hard enough, it would make a difference.”

“It does,” you insist, voice small but firm.

“But does it really?” he whispers. He isn’t arguing–just wondering. Genuinely uncertain. “There are moments when I believe it. And then… times when I look around and see all the way things stay the same. Like I’m standing in the middle of a river, trying to stop it with my hands.”

Your heart aches. You twist toward him, reaching up to gently turn his face to you. “Hey. You’re making more of a difference than you realize. You’re just one person, Suguru. You can’t expect to fix everything alone.”

His eyes soften, weary and fond. “I know that.”

“Then why does it sound like you don’t?”

He pauses, lips parted slightly, words half-formed on his tongue. But then he closes his mouth, shakes his head faintly. “I don’t know,” he murmurs finally. “Forget it. It’s just a mood. It’ll pass.”

You tilt your forehead against his, eyes slipping shut for a moment. “Let me help,” you whisper. “You don’t have to carry everything on your own.”

His breath hitches almost imperceptibly, and for a brief moment, his shoulders relax. “I know,” he says. “I know you’re here.”

You let silence sit between you a few moments longer, breathing in the scent of his hair, feeling his steady heartbeat beneath your palm. When you open your eyes, he’s staring again into the distance, expression mild but unfocused.

“Suguru,” you whisper softly.

“Mm?”

“Look at me.”

He does, slowly. His gaze settles onto yours with careful intention, his dark eyes quietly intense beneath the tangled fringe of his hair. You brush it back from his cheek, letting your fingers linger.

“You’re allowed to rest sometimes, you know,” you say. “You’re allowed to let things go.”

He searches your eyes for a long moment, as if looking for something he’s afraid he won’t find. Finally, he whispers, barely audible, “Am I?”

Your heart tightens painfully, twisting in your chest. You cup his face with both hands and kiss him softly, almost desperately. He kisses back, tender but quiet, reserved.

When you pull away, he breathes out slowly, eyes half-lidded. “You always do that.”

“What?”

“Kiss me when you don’t know what to say.”

“Because I love you,” you murmur gently, thumbs brushing across his cheekbones. “Because sometimes words don’t feel like enough.”

He nods, leaning forward to press his forehead against yours. “Maybe they aren’t.”

You hold him there for another heartbeat, your lips ghosting across his temple. “We’ll be okay,” you whisper.

You don’t let yourself notice how he doesn’t answer. You simply pull him closer, arms wrapping tighter around him, burying your face against his neck. He sighs softly, breathing you in like comfort, and you let yourself believe it’s enough.

It has to be, because loving someone means believing you can carry them through whatever silence they’re caught in.

You kiss his jaw, his throat, holding on as if holding him might keep whatever’s inside him from coming loose. And when his silence stretches quietly into evening, you pretend it doesn’t mean anything at all.

That you’re enough.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

You’ve never not spent a Saturday with him.

It’s unspoken–a quiet kind of ritual, Saturday mornings are yours. Whether it’s a cafe with crooked chairs and too-loud music, or a slow walk through the park, or a street fair that makes Suguru complain about overpriced food while still buying you two cones of mango sorbet, it’s always the same rhythm.

You wake up. You text. You meet. You exist together.

But today, there’s nothing. No message. No knock. Not even a half-hearted meme dropped into your chat like a breadcrumb.

You try not to panic. Try not to assume.

You tell yourself maybe he’s sleeping in. That maybe he’s in the library, that maybe his phone died, that maybe he’s just tired. Still, the silence wraps around your shoulders like a too-heavy coat.

By midafternoon, you give up pretending it doesn’t bother you. You pick up your bag, grab him a smoothie–mango, his favorite, a quiet peace offering–and make the familiar walk to his dorm.

The hallways is silent. The air feels stale. When you knock, your knuckles make too much sound. There’s a long pause before he answers.

“Yeah?” His voice is soft. Tired.

You push the door open slowly. “Hey. I brought you something.”

He looks up from his desk, blinking like he’s been pulled from far away. His notebook is open. His hair is loose, falling over his shoulder in tangled waves. He’s still wearing the hoodie he had on yesterday.

“Shit,” he says. “I forgot.”

You step inside. The room smells like paper and him. “It’s okay,” you say quickly, brushing it off like it doesn’t sting. “You were probably busy.”

“No. I just… lost track.” He sounds apologetic. Distant. Like someone returning from a long trip and realizing they left the lights on.

You offer him the smoothie with a crooked smile. “I brought sugar.”

He takes it gently. His fingers brush yours–warm, comforting. Something in him softens when he sees your face. He sets the drink down.

“Come here,” he says, and when you step forward, he pulls you into his lap with both arms around your waist.

You settle easily, legs folded over his, your nose brushing his temple. “I missed you,” you murmur into his hair.

He exhales through his nose, like he’s been holding something in. “You’re so good to me,” he whispers. “Even when I don’t deserve it.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.”

He tucks his head against your shoulder. You run your fingers through his hair, untangling the ends with soft little strokes. It’s a mess today, but he doesn’t seem to care.

“I don’t want to forget you,” he says suddenly.

You freeze. “What?”

He pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you. His eyes are steady. “I mean–I don’t want to get so wrapped up in everything else that I forget how much you matter to me.”

The words hit you like wind against the back of your throat. You blink slowly, unsure of how to answer, so you reach for his face instead–cradle it between your hands and kiss him, slow and deep.

He kisses back with more hunger than usual–not urgent, but intentional. Like he’s anchoring himself to the shape of your mouth.

When you part, breathless and warm, you rest your forehead against his. “You won’t forget,” you whisper.

“You think?”

“I know.”

He laughs under his breath. “You sound sure.”

“That’s because I am.”

You curl into him, head tucked into the crook of his neck. He smells like faded cologne and your shampoo. His fingers trail down your back slowly, just lightly enough to make you shiver. He kisses your hair. Then your temple. Then your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth.

“You’re it for me,” he whispers.

You close your eyes. “Suguru…”

“No, really. I think about it a lot. All of it. You. Me. The future.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You smile, impossibly full. “Tell me.”

He shifts, holding you closer, so close your heartbeat sounds like it might echo through his ribs.

“We’ll live somewhere quiet,” he murmurs. “With soft lighting. A kitchen that always smells like something sweet. You’ll leave books all over the place. I’ll complain about the mess and read them anyway.”

“Mm. Sounds realistic.”

“We’ll adopt a dog.”

“You hate dogs.”

“I hate loud dogs.”

You laugh, the sound curling through the air like a ribbon. “What else?”

“You’ll keep trying to cut my hair, but I won’t let you.”

“Why not?”

“Because you only want to do it when you’re mad at me.”

“Lies.”

“You braid it like you’re keeping me from unraveling.”

You go quiet. Your hands still in his hair.

“And I like being kept,” he adds softly. “By you.”

You lean in. Kiss him again, slower this time. He hums into your mouth. His hands trail down your spine. You feel him breathe–deep, even, steady–like he’s pulling in the smell of your skin, the warmth of your shirt, the sound of your voice saying his name.

“Don’t disappear on me again,” you whisper.

“I won’t,” he says. “I promise.”

You don’t ask how long he means. You don’t ask what’s been pulling him away, or why it’s been winning, because this–his arms around you, his lips on your cheek, his heartbeat beneath your palm–this feels real. Present. Here.

And that’s what love is, isn’t it? Choosing to believe.

He kisses your wrist, your throat, your shoulder. You laugh again, breathless and full of him.

You fall asleep in his bed that night, tangled in limbs and whispers, your legs across his lap, his fingers threaded through yours, his hair in soft waves over your collarbone. And when you wake in the morning, he’s already up, already dressed, already gone.

There’s a note by the pillow.

You looked too peaceful to wake. I’ll see you tonight.

You smile. Press the paper to your chest.

Love, you think, is this.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

Monday. It rains.

Not a soft spring mist, but a steady curtain of grey–the kind of rain that settles into the bones of the campus and makes everything smell like pavement and moss. The windows fog from the inside. The dorms are quieter than usual, muffled by the weather, the air thick with the hush that only comes when people are trying to wait out the world.

You come back to your dorm later than usual–drenched from your walk across campus, shoes squelching softly against the tile. Your umbrella broke halfway. Your fingers are stiff with cold. Your hoodie’s soaked through. You’re expecting Suguru to laugh, to reach for a towel, to murmur “you always forget the forecast” when he comes by later.

He’s there when you open your door. He’s curled up on the edge of your bed–hair damp, pulled into a half-twist that’s already slipping loose, eyes distant. His hoodie hands off one shoulder. A book lies beside him, open but untouched. The room smells like jasmine tea and wet fabric.

“Hey,” you say, closing the door behind you. “You’re early.”

He looks up like he didn’t hear you come in. Then his gaze softens, just barely. “You’re soaked.”

“Caught in the storm.” You smile, shaking off your sleeves. “What else is new?”

He doesn’t answer. You kick off your shoes and pull off your hoodie, shivering slightly. You don’t expect help undressing–he’s not the kind of partner who hovers–but you do expect a joke. A look. A kiss.

Instead, he just watches you in silence, his hand resting on his ankle, fingers twitching against the fabric of his sweats.

“Everything okay?” you ask, softer now.

Suguru exhales through his nose, almost a laugh. “One of the kids at the practicum got suspended today.”

You pause in the middle of peeling off your wet socks. “What? Why?”

“He pushed another student,” he says. “And when the principal asked him why, he said ‘Because nobody listens until you hurt them.’”

You straighten slowly. “That’s…”

“True,” he says. Blunt. Immediate. “Pain gets attention. Grief gets sympathy. But kindness?” He scoffs. “Kindness is background noise.”

You walk toward him, cautious, heart cracking quietly. “Suguru.”

“They called his mother,” he continues, voice low, bitter. “She didn’t even sound surprised. She just said, ‘Boys act out’. And the principal nodded like it was gospel. Like of course–why try to understand him?”

He leans back against the headboard, staring up at the ceiling. Rain drums softly against the window. You sit beside him, wet fabric clinging to your knees. “What did you do?”

“What could I do?” he murmurs. “I’m not a teacher yet. I’m no one. Just another adult taking notes. Watching the system do what it’s always done.”

His hand flexes once on his thigh. You reach out instinctively and lace your fingers through his. His skin is warm. Steady. But his grip doesn’t tighten.

“You care,” you whisper.

“So what?” he snaps–softer than anger, but sharper than he’s ever been. “Caring doesn’t fix anything. It just makes you hurt more.”

The words sting. More than you expect. You pull your hand back slowly. Not because you want to, but because it’s the only thing your body knows how to do.

“I’m sorry,” he says instantly. The moment he sees your face shift, his voice changes. Softer. Regretful. “I didn’t mean that. Not like that.”

You say nothing. You reach for the towel on your desk, dabbing at your wet sleeves, heart thick in your chest. You want to tell him about your day. About the advisor who told you your thesis was ‘lacking structure’. About how you spilled tea on your notes. About how you stood in the rain with your umbrella turned inside out, waiting for someone to offer help–and no one did.

But you don’t. Because he’s already spiraling. Because this isn’t about you. Because you love him.

“You’re just tired,” you murmur instead. “It’s been a long week.”

He nods once, like that gives him permission to fall apart. Then he reaches for you–slow, open-palmed–and gathers you into his arms. You let him.

You fold against his chest, the rain still pattering outside, the warmth of his body already undoing the chill in your skin. He buries his nose into your damp hair. Kisses the crown of your head like an apology.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers again. “I’m trying.”

“I know,” you breathe.

“I love you.”

You close your eyes. Press your cheek against his chest. Listen to the slow, steady beat of his heart–the one you swear you’d follow anywhere.

“I love you too,” you say. “We’re okay.”

You say it like it’s a prayer. A spell. A promise you can make true just by saying it enough times. His hands slide up your back. He doesn’t say anything else, but he holds you tighter, and you let that be enough.

You let the sting of his words sink deep and settle. You call it a mistake. A slip. The product of stress and heartbreak and fatigue.

You let it go. Because he’s warm, he’s here, and this still feels like love.

Even when it hurts.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

It’s late, but neither of you are asleep.

The desk lamp is dim. The rain from yesterday has tapered off into mist, and the windowpane is still streaked, still speckled with the memory of water. The whole room smells faintly of jasmine and graphite, your shared blanket still folded at the end of the bed, untouched.

You’re studying. Or trying to. Suguru sits beside you on the floor, back against the bed frame, knees drawn up, one hand curled loosely around a mug gone cold. His textbook is open in his lap. Yours is splayed out beside him, pages weighted by a highlighter that’s long since dried out.

You’ve both been sitting here for hours. Reading, scribbling notes, reaching out occasionally to squeeze each other’s hand or brush a shoulder in passing. It’s quiet. Comfortable.

But also–not. Because you’ve read the same paragraph four times and can’t remember a word of it. Because Suguru hasn’t touched his page in almost twenty minutes. Because his hair, once pulled back in a loose, half-tidy twist, has fallen completely down his back now–thick, unbrushed, strands tucked behind only one ear, the rest spilling in disarray over his hoodie. He doesn’t seem to notice.

You watch him from the corner of your eye, the soft profile of him lit in gold. The gentle slope of his mouth. The hollow curve of his collarbone. The stillness.

It’s not unusual for him to be quiet. Suguru lives in quiet. But this silence feels different. Tired. Heavy.

And still, when you nudge his knee with yours, he turns toward you instantly–like muscle memory. Like you’re still the one he’ll always look for.

“You okay?” you ask, voice soft.

He nods. Smiles, but it’s small. Faint. The sort of smile that doesn’t move the eyes.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Just… saturated.”

“Too much reading?”

“Too much thinking.”

You offer him your hand. He sets his mug aside and takes it. His palm is warm. Familiar. You trace your thumb along the base of his fingers–a ritual now, one of many. But tonight, his thumb doesn’t move in return. No circles. No tapping. Just stillness.

You kiss his knuckles anyway. “Want to take a break?”

He shrugs. “Don’t need to,” he says. But he doesn’t reach for the book again.

You tug his hand gently. He lets you pull him toward the bed. You sit against the headboard and open your arms. He settles between them without resistance, his head resting low against your chest, knees bent, hair falling forward like a veil.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders. Pull him in. It feels like holding something fragile. You press a kiss to the crown of his head. “Talk to me.”

“About what?”

“Anything.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. Then he exhales and says, “I used to think being in love would make everything easier.”

You pause. Your hand stills where it had been gently stroking his back. “It hasn’t?”

“No, it has,” he says quickly. “You have. I just–” He shifts, bows his head deeper into your shoulder. “I think I expected it to fix something in me.”

Your arms tighten. “Love doesn’t fix,” you whisper. “It holds. It shares.”

“I know.”

Your hand finds his hair, and you begin to gather it, brushing it back from his face, then letting it fall again. The strands catch in your fingers. They’re silk-warm and familiar. You braid one section loosely, then undo it. Braid again. Undo.

“You haven’t trimmed it in a while.”

“Mm.”

“Let me?” you offer, quiet, teasing. “Just a little. So you can see again.”

He hums in reply. Doesn’t say yes. Doesn’t say no.

His hands drift along your waist. They’re moving now, but barely–more resting than reaching. You want to ask him what he meant. About being fixed. About what still hurts. But the words sit too sharp in your throat, so you don’t. Instead, you kiss his temple.

“I love you,” you say, more than once.

“I know,” he whispers, forehead still against your collarbone.

And when he lifts his head and kisses you–soft, slow, real–you let yourself breathe. His mouth is warm. His hands have found your face. He’s saying your name like it still means something.

“You’re the best part of my day,” he says, voice steady but low. “I know I don’t always say it. But it’s true.”

Your eyes burn. You laugh through the tightness in your chest. “Say it again.”

“You’re the best part of my day.”

You pull him closer. He lets you. His arms fully wrap around your waist, pulling you into his lap. You bury your face in the space between his neck and shoulder, breathing him in like oxygen. And when he sighs–long, quiet, tired–you don’t ask what it means.

You just hold him tighter. You don’t know how else to keep him there.

He falls asleep in your arms that night. His breathing is even. His face is soft. His hair spills over your chest and arms like ribbon. You watch the rise and fall of his back. The gentle twitch of his fingers.

And even as your throat aches with something unnamed–a weight that presses just behind the bone–you let your hand rest over his heart.

You fall asleep that way.

You held him like a promise, even as he stopped reaching back–and told yourself that maybe if you loved him hard enough, it would count as both of you.

IV. THE HOLLOW – the love that is no longer returned There is nothing crueler than loving someone who has already given up.

You start talking more, because he starts speaking less.

It’s a rainy day, but not the romantic kind–not the kind you could write into a love poem and read aloud in the candlelight. This one is grey, low, heavy. The clouds don’t roll in with drama. They just arrive. And they stay. The kind of weather that settles like dust in your lungs. The kind that makes everything feel farther away.

The window is cracked an inch for air. The rain drizzles against the glass with no rhythm. No passion. Just persistence. Like even the sky has grown tired.

You’re in your dorm, and he’s here too. His body in the room. His presence? Not quite.

He’s curled into the armchair near your desk, legs pulled up beneath him, hoodie sleeves pushed to the elbows. His laptop glows faintly in his lap, a document open but untyped. His eyes are on the screen, but not focused.

You’re sitting on your bed, a half-finished book in your hand. One you’ve been trying to read for days now–rereading the same lines, the same paragraphs, over and over. Each sentence sits in your mouth like paper.

Outside, a car passes. Its tires send water spattering against the curb. The clock ticks. Your coffee is cooling. There’s a soft buzzing from somewhere–maybe your phone, maybe the old radiator. And there’s him. Just sitting. Too quiet, too still. Like a cathedral with no choir.

So you speak, because someone has to.

“Do you remember that curry shop near the train station?”

No response.

“The one with the mint rice and the stupid little bell on the door? The bell that always rang three seconds after the door closed?”

His eyes shift. A beat later, he murmurs, “Yeah.”

You smile. Carefully. “We should go back.”

He nods. That’s all.

You reach for your mug and sip your now-lukewarm coffee, throat closing slightly around it. You stare at him for a second longer than you mean to. He’s not upset. Not withdrawn. Not cold. He’s just not here.

You keep going. Voice low, as if you’re speaking to a skittish animal.

“There’s a bookstore I found online,” you say. “New. It’s a bit of a walk. But the owner leaves handwritten recommendations on index cards and hides them in the jackets.”

Another pause. Another soft reply: “Sounds nice.”

You wait for him to say let’s go. Or show me. Or when? But it doesn’t come.

You smile again, even though it doesn’t reach your eyes. You nod like he’s agreed, then you put the book down and climb off the bed. The room is cold against your skin as you step barefoot across the rug and sink down beside him on the armchair, pressing your shoulder to his.

He shifts. Just slightly. But he doesn’t pull away. You take that as a win.

You lean your head on his shoulder, like always. He tilts his head toward yours, like always–but it’s slow now. Delayed. As if he forgot for a moment that you were there. As if it’s something he has to remember to do.

You don’t mention it. 

You reach for his hand. His fingers are warm, familiar. You stroke your thumb along his knuckles, searching for something–tension, response, anything. He breathes out, slow. Leans further into the chair. And still doesn’t squeeze back.

“You’re quiet today,” you say softly.

“Mm.”

“Thinking?”

“Always.”

You pause. “Want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

You turn your face into his shoulder. His sweatshirt smells like laundry detergent and rain. Like someone who used to come home at the end of a long day with stories to tell.

“I miss your voice,” you whisper.

“I’m still using it.”

“Not on me.”

He stills. You lift your head, look at him. His face is a shadow in the low light. The planes of it more pronounced somehow, like his grief has taken shape and settled into his bone structure.

“I miss you,” you add. Your voice barely carries.

“I’m here.”

“That’s not the same.”

He looks at you then, and for just a moment–a moment–you see it. The pain. The flicker. The echo of the man who once told you he’d never let the world break him.

He opens his mouth like he might say something. He shifts closer instead. Wraps an arm around you. Pulls you to his chest.

You let him. It’s all you’ve got. Touch is the only language he still speaks fluently, and if he holds you like he means it, then maybe the rest of him will come back eventually.

Later, you lie side by side on the floor. The rain hasn’t stopped. His hair is down, draped over the collar of his shirt like a curtain.

You reach for it. You don’t even think. You just gather a few strands and begin to braid them, clumsy, loose.

“You used to keep it neater,” you say.

He hums. “No one to impress.”

“I’m someone.”

“You’ve already seen the worst of me.”

You pause. Then, softly: “I’ve seen all of you. That’s not the same.”

He’s silent. You finish the braid. Undo it immediately. Start again. You could do this forever–touching him, tending him, filling the silence between you with all the softness he no longer gives himself.

You think if you love him hard enough–long enough–he’ll speak again. That one day he’ll look up and say thank you for waiting. I’m back.

But all he says is, “You’re good to me.”

And your voice cracks when you whisper, “So be good to yourself.”

He doesn’t answer. So you hold his hand again, and let the silence stretch.

When he sleeps beside you that night, breathing steady and deep, you lie awake, holding his hand like a lifeline, whispering little nothings into the dark.

“I’ll wait,” you murmur. “It’s okay. Take your time.”

“Come back.”

“Come back.”

“Please.”

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

You’re still holding him, but he’s already letting go.

Sunday comes quiet and heavy, like morning fog after a long night. There’s no warmth in the sunrise today–just a pale wash of grey seeping softly through the windows, painting everything in muted shades of silver. It’s a morning that hushes you without reason, silence that’s not peaceful, but cautious–afraid of waking something that’s already restless.

You’re tangled together on Suguru’s dorm bed, backs against the headboard. The covers are pushed down to your ankles, forgotten. He sits stiffly, knees pulled halfway up, his arm loosely around you as you tuck yourself into his side. Your textbook lies open, spine-up, pages spread face-down on the sheets–abandoned again. Your tea is going cold on the desk, untouched.

At first, you think he’s fallen asleep again. His breathing is slow, steady, and you hold perfectly still–watching the rise and fall of his chest beneath the faded cotton of his hoodie, counting the quiet rhythm. You trace your finger over the faint lines of the fabric, half-smiling to yourself at the sleepy softness of it. You wonder if he’s dreaming.

But then he shifts a little, his fingers twitching softly where they’re tangled with yours. His hand tightens briefly, releases again. You glance up at him.

“Suguru?”

His eyes aren’t closed, after all. He’s staring upward–at the ceiling, at nothing, at everything.

For a moment, he says nothing. Then, softly, “You changed me.”

The words hang between you like smoke, weightless and heavy at once. You don’t move; you barely breathe.

He sighs gently, a hollow sound that seems too big for his lungs. “Before I met you,” he continues, voice low and achingly calm, “I didn’t think trust was possible–not really. It always came at a cost. A price. A sacrifice. No one was kind unless they wanted something.”

He pauses. The words fall slowly from his lips, like each one hurts a little more than the last. “Kindness,” he murmurs bitterly, “felt like manipulation. Like every good deed had a hidden reason. A catch.”

You move slightly, turning your head against his shoulder to look up against him. He’s still staring at nothing. His gaze is distant, searching through memories he hasn’t let you touch before.

“And then you showed up,” he says, softer now. “You didn’t want anything. You just–cared. You loved me before you knew whether I deserved it.”

“I love you because you deserve it,” you whisper gently. “You always did.”

His eyes flicker, glancing at you for a second before drifting away again. He shakes his head, as though you’re missing the point.

“You made me believe things could be better,” he says quietly. “You made me think that maybe people were good, after all. That maybe it was worth it–to try, to hope, to care.”

“It still is.”

He exhales slowly, the sound heavy in his chest. “I thought so, too.”

You reach up, fingertips brushing the edge of his jaw, then move slowly upwards to touch his hair. It’s loose again, falling around his face in long, tangled waves that always soften when you comb them back. It’s become second nature–to brush his hair behind his ear, twist it carefully into a messy knot, braid little strands when he’s distracted. You’ve done it countless times before, always welcomed, always soft.

This time, when your fingers skim his hair, he tenses.

It’s subtle–a small tightening of his shoulders, a quick breath, a gentle shift away from your touch. But you feel it immediately.

Your hand freezes mid-motion. You pause, heart twisting a little. He doesn’t look at you.

You let your hand fall slowly back into your lap. Your fingers curl there, empty. You try not to show the way it aches inside your chest.

After a silence that feels far too long, he speaks again, voice quieter, rougher around the edges.

“There was a student,” he says, softly, like a confession. “He was bright. Curious. The kind of kid who could do anything if someone just let him.”

You stay very still, heart hammering in your chest.

“He started skipping classes,” Suguru continues. “He started coming in with bruises he wouldn’t explain. I tried to report it, tried to do something–but no one listened. They told me to stay out of it. Told me the system would handle it.”

He laughs bitterly, a feeble, shattered sound. “And then one day, he just… stopped coming. Nobody cared. Nobody noticed. The world just–kept going.”

His voice cracks quietly. “It’s always like that. The kids who need the most are the ones nobody fights for. They’re the ones nobody sees.”

You reach for him again, carefully, sliding your hand gently into his. His fingers grasp around yours reflexively, and you breathe out at the reassurance of his touch.

“I wanted to save them,” he says. “All of them. But how can you save someone when the world just wants to forget?”

“You’ve helped more people than you know,” you murmur. “You’ve done so much already.”

“But it’s never enough,” he whispers back, almost to himself. “There’s always someone else. Someone slipping away.”

“Suguru…” you breathe, lifting your hand again–slower this time, wary of rejection–and reach again towards his hair. You pause hesitantly, hand hovering.

He notices. He notices the way you pause, the uncertainty in your gesture. He sees your doubt, your hurt. And it breaks something small inside him.

“I’m sorry,” he says suddenly, catching your wrist, guiding your hand back to him–slowly, carefully. “It’s okay. I–I didn’t mean…”

He trails off, unable to say it. You brush your fingers through his hair once more. This time he lets you, leaning into the touch like someone starved of tenderness.

“You don’t have to do it all alone,” you whisper, letting the strands of his dark hair slip through your fingers like ink. “You don’t have to carry everything by yourself.”

He closes his eyes. “But if I don’t, then who will?”

“We’ll figure it out,” you say quietly. “Together.”

His shoulders tremble slightly beneath your hands. He bows his head, face hidden by the long strands of his hair falling forward. You catch them, tucking them behind his ear. But even as you do, you feel it–an unspoken distance between you. The space he’s already begun to place between himself and the world. Between himself and hope.

“I’m so tired,” he whispers finally, voice barely audible. “Of trying to fix things. Of losing.”

“Then let me help,” you whisper back. “Please.”

He turns into your touch, breathing shakily against your palm. “I don’t know how,” he says, so muted it barely carries. “I don’t know how anymore.”

You hold him close, wrapping yourself around him as if you can shield him from the weight of everything he’s tried to carry. You stroke his hair reverently, whispering soft words you wish could heal.

But somewhere deep down, you already know. He’s started letting go.

You’re not sure your hands alone can hold all of him together anymore, but you hold him tight anyways. You press your face into his shoulder, listening to his heartbeat as if memorizing the rhythm. You whisper softly, “It’s going to be okay. We’ll be okay.”

You know you’re trying to hold back a storm with two open palms, but you stay there with him regardless, wrapped in quiet grief and stubborn love.

Maybe if you stay, he’ll stay too, and right now, keeping him in your arms feels like the only kindness you have left to give. Because, despite everything, you can’t yet admit to yourself that kindness might not be enough.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

You keep talking about forever. He has already stopped picturing it.

It’s almost midnight when you bring it up.

The room is dim, draped in that low amber hush that only happens when a lamp is left on too long and no one wants to admit the day is over. The walls are half-bare now–the art prints rolled and tucked away, the photo strips from your first year clipped off the board. A mug sits cold on the windowsill, next to a planter long since emptied of the basil it used to hold. Everything smells faintly of cardboard and lavender dryer sheets, and something else you can’t name–something like the ache of a place you’ve already begun to mourn.

You’re sitting on the floor, legs folded beneath you, wrapped in your favorite blanket. You’ve had it since before Suguru. He used to tease you for it, calling it your ‘emotional support cocoon’. Now it feels like armor. Your laptop is open in front of you, the screen glowing soft and blue, tabs stacked like a half-built life: apartment listings, furniture inspo, a recipe blog, a budget calculator you haven’t had the heart to open.

Suguru is lying above you on the bed, stretched out on his side, facing the wall. His hand rests limply under his cheek, his dark hair spilling over the pillow like ink across paper. The room is quiet, save for the occasional click of your trackpad and the sound of his breathing–slow, even, distant.

You hesitate before speaking, but the words have been sitting on your tongue all week, and they taste heavier the longer you hold them in.

“This one has a backyard,” you say, softly. Like offering something sacred.

He doesn’t answer right away. You can’t tell if he’s heard you or if he’s just thinking, which feels like the same thing these days.

“South-facing,” you continue, scrolling. “So it gets good light. We could put a little table out there. Or a bench. You could drink coffee outside on Sundays.”

Still nothing. Just a small, indistinct sound–something between acknowledgement and apathy. You wait, but nothing more comes. So you try again.

“Remember when you said we’d get a dog?”

That stirs him. His gaze shifts, and he rolls over, faintly, slowly. You catch it out of the corner of your eye.

“You said you didn’t like dogs,” you remind him, with the ghost of a smile. “But you’d make an exception. For me.”

There’s a pause. Then, finally: “A quiet one.”

Your heart lifts. “Low energy,” you echo. “Soft ears.”

“We were going to name her after a flower.”

“Aster,” you say.

“Or Dahlia.”

You smile, and for a moment–just a moment–it feels like you’re still in the dream. You rest your hand on the mattress near his, not quite touching. The space between your fingers and his feels impossibly wide. You don’t press into it. Instead, you look back at the screen.

“We could still do that,” you murmur. “That backyard would be perfect for her. And you could take her on walks when you don’t feel like talking to people.”

His gaze drops again. His face is unreadable in the low light.

“You said you’d build me a bookshelf,” you continue. “Even though you didn’t know how. You said you’d learn.”

He says nothing. You press on.

“You said we’d make the kitchen smell like oranges. That we’d argue about dishes. That we’d grow old being ridiculous and ordinary. Together.”

Still, no reply. You turn your head, look at him fully now. There’s a shadow of something behind his eyes–pain, maybe. Or guilt. Or the echo of something long gone.

“And you promised you wouldn’t disappear on me,” you whisper. “You said you’d stay.”

That’s when he closes his eyes. Slowly. Like it costs him something. Like this is the part he’s dreading.

And then–silence. Not heavy. Not sharp. Just… quiet. An absence so vast it fills the whole room.

You stare at him, your hands folded in your lap now, clenched tight. The moment stretches. Suspends. Breaks.

“You should move in with a friend,” he says. Soft. Measured.

Your breath catches. The words don’t register at first. They’re too at odds with the softness in his voice, the gentleness of his expression. It’s like being handed a blade wrapped in velvet.

“What?”

He looks at you fully now, and you wish he wouldn’t. Because his eyes are tender, too tender. Like he’s already grieving you.

“Just until you figure things out,” he says. “So you’re not alone.”

You close your laptop. The hinge clicks shut like a final sentence.

“I thought we’d move in together.” Your voice doesn’t shake. It floats. Weightless.

His face folds slightly at the edges. Regret. Maybe even love. But no denial. “I don’t want to disappoint you.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I already am.”

He’s too calm. Too steady. Like he’s been rehearsing this.

You blink at him. Once. Twice.

“You’re planning a future I can’t give you,” he says, softly. Almost lovingly.

You swallow. The burn in your throat rises fast–too fast. Your hands clutch tighter at the edge of the bedsheet, knuckles white. “I’m not asking for much,” you whisper. “I’m not asking for perfect. I’m asking for you. That’s all I ever wanted.”

“I know.”

“Then why–”

“Because I still want you,” he says. And the way he says it breaks you, because his voice is steady. Honest. “But I can’t want anything else.”

And then the tears come. Not loudly. Not with sobs. But with quiet. The kind of crying that comes from somewhere too deep for sound. You blink and blink and they fall anyway–slow trails of salt down your face, one after another, pooling at the edge of your lips before falling to your lap.

He sits up. Reaches for you. You flinch–just barely. But he notices, and he stops. His hand hovers. Withdraws.

You wipe your face with the back of your sleeve. You don’t understand why he’s saying all of this. He was getting better. Your cheeks are wet. Your eyes are burning. Your chest feels like it’s been cracked open just wide enough to let something holy bleed out.

“It’s okay,” you say, through sniffles. Your voice is too small. Too bright. Too false. “I get it.”

“Please–”

“I get it.”

You rise to your feet slowly, setting your laptop down on the floor. You cross the room with slow, deliberate steps and kneel beside one of the open boxes you’ve started putting your belongings into. You pretend to fold a sweatshirt that was already folded. Pretend to sort your notes. Pretend your hands aren’t shaking.

Your back is to him. You don’t ask him to follow. He doesn’t speak again. He doesn’t move.

In the silence, something delicate between you finally dies–not loudly, not with drama, but like a candle extinguishing after burning too long. Quiet. Inevitable.

By morning, nothing will be different. But everything will.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

You love him loud, and it still isn’t enough.

You’re sitting across from him in your room–the air thick, unmoving–and the silence has gone on too long to feel like anything but surrender. The light outside is dusky, purpling into blue, and the lamp on your desk doesn’t reach the corners of the room. Shadows stretch wide beneath your bed, beneath his eyes.

He’s been distant for days now. Weeks. Months, even. His words rationed like water in a drought, his touch feather-light and far between. He leaves early, returns late, stands in your doorway like he’s a guest in his own life.

But tonight, he came in and stayed. Sat down without a word. Draped himself into the armchair with that quiet, heavy stillness that feels like resignation.

You watch him. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t look at you.

The storm has been waiting in your throat for days. You swallow it one last time and then finally say–

“We need to talk.”

He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t blink. Just lets the words hang there. You don’t move closer, nor do you soften. You’re tired.

“You can’t keep doing this.”

A pause.

“Doing what.”

He says it flat. Not curious. Not accusatory. Just empty.

“Shutting down,” you answer, voice sharpening. “Drifting through every day like you’re not in it. Saying nothing and pretending I won’t notice.”

That’s when he looks at you. And something in your chest clenches–because his face is calm. Too calm. Like this is just another conversation. Like you haven’t been aching next to him for weeks. Like he hasn’t already been breaking your heart in increments.

“I’m still here,” he says quietly.

“No, you’re not,” you snap. “You’re around. You exist. You breathe next to me. But you’ve already left, Suguru, and I’m the only one who’s still trying to pretend that’s not what’s happening.”

His jaw tightens. His eyes harden. There’s a shift, perceptible–a flicker of something defensive. “I’m doing the best I can.”

“Your best is silence,” you fire back. “Your best is turning your face away when I say I love you. It’s letting me dream out loud while you stare through me.”

That hits something. He sits up slightly, tension gathering in his shoulders like thunder. His voice comes out colder. “That’s not fair.”

“You’re right,” you say, laughing bitterly. “It’s not. None of this is fair. You, loving me and still leaving–that’s not fair. You building a life with me in your words, then walking away from it in your actions–that’s not fair.”

“I didn’t mean to–”

“Didn’t mean to what? Let me fall for a future you never intended to live in?”

His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. But you don’t stop. You’ve waited too long.

“Do you remember what you said? That day you told me about the dog, the backyard, the oranges in the kitchen? You made it sound like you could see it. Like you wanted it. With me.”

“I did,” he says, and there’s frustration now. Frustration and pain and something old. Something weary.

“Then why are you walking away from it? And don’t give me the same excuse you gave me last time.”

“Because I can’t give you that anymore.”

The silence that follows is sharp. Like something splintering. You stare at him, heart pounding in your chest, blood roaring in your ears.

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t have it in me,” he answers. “Because I’m empty. Because every part of me that used to believe in that kind of life is gone.”

You shake your head, standing now, your hands clenched at your sides.

“No,” you whisper. “No, you don’t get to say that. You don’t get to stand here and tell me you can’t give me anything–me, of all people–when I’m the one who’s stayed. When I’ve been here through everything.”

He stands too–slowly, carefully. But he doesn’t reach for you.

“This isn’t about you.”

The words are soft. Matter-of-fact. But they gut you, and you freeze.

It’s not a shout, not an accusation–it’s worse. It’s detachment. It’s resignation. It’s him drawing the line you thought you could erase.

You laugh, but it breaks halfway out of your mouth. “God, do you hear yourself?”

He doesn’t speak. Of course he doesn’t.

“You think that makes it better?” you say, voice trembling now. “That this isn’t about me? That I just happened to be here while you burned out? That I just coincidentally get to be collateral damage while you decide the world isn’t worth hoping for anymore?”

“I didn’t ask for you to carry this.”

“But I wanted to!” you shout. “I wanted to carry it. I wanted to fight for you, for us. But you never gave me a chance. You just started fading. Slowly. Quietly. And I noticed, Suguru. I noticed every time you looked away. Every time you let go first.”

Your voice is cracking. Splintering. Shattering. You feel it reverberating in your chest, in your ribs.

“You didn’t want help. You didn’t want to believe in anything anymore. You just wanted me to stop trying.”

He doesn’t deny it. You feel your heart break.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

The storm is dying.

Not outside–outside, the sky is still quiet. No thunder. No wind. Just clouds sitting low over the city, heavy with the weight of something waiting to fall. But in here, between the walls of your small dorm room, between you and him–the storm is ending. Or maybe, more truthfully, it’s entering its quietest stage. The one where no one yells. Where no one moves. Where only grief remains.

You’re both still standing, raw from what came before. Your voice still echoes in the corners of the room. His hands are clenched at his sides, but his expression is unreadable. There is no rage left in him. Only something muted. Suppressed. Heavy.

You take a shaky breath. Then another. And when you speak, it’s not with anger anymore. It’s with everything you’ve kept folded inside your chest like prayer.

“I still believe in the world.”

The words are small, but they carry. They land in the space between you with the weight of truth.

Suguru flinches. He looks at you like that’s the saddest thing you could’ve ever said. His shoulders lift, slightly. He breathes in like he wants to argue.

You don’t let him.

“I still believe that people are capable of good. That they can grow. Change. I believe that kindness is more powerful than cruelty. That softness is not a weakness.”

He looks away, his eyes moving toward the floor. You don’t follow them.

“And I believe in you.” You say it clearly. Not whispered. Not as a plea. A truth.

He exhales slowly, his chest falling.

You take a step forward. Cautious. As if you’re approaching a wild animal that used to come when you called, but now looks at you like a stranger.

“You told me once that you wanted to teach. That you wanted to be the kind of adult you never had. Someone who listened. Someone who noticed.”

Another step. He says nothing.

“You still are that person,” you say. “Even if the world is heavy. Even if it hurts. You are still good. You are still doing good. You’re still the boy who helped strangers carry their groceries, who stayed after class to ask if someone was okay.”

His lips part, but no sound comes out. He just looks at you like his heart is breaking into pieces and he doesn’t know how to stop it.

“You don’t have to save everyone,” you say. “You don’t have to believe in the entire world. Just believe in one thing. One person. One reason. And if you need that reason–”

You press your hand to your chest. “Let it be me.”

He blinks, eyes focusing on you properly. And god, he looks like he’s already halfway gone.

You pretend not to notice. You keep going.

“I’ll stay,” you whisper. “I’ll stay with you. Even if you’re tired. Even if you’re angry. Even if you stop talking and you forget how to hold me and you don’t want to get out of bed. I’ll still stay.”

He closes his eyes. His hands curl into fists.

“I met you when you were at your lowest,” you continue. “And I loved you. I never asked you to be whole. I never needed perfect. I just needed you.”

You’re crying now, but you don’t feel embarrassed. Not anymore.

“I still do.” You step closer, so close now you can feel the heat of his body. “I can take care of you. If you let me. If you stay.”

The silence between you deepens like a wound. And then–he speaks. Softly.

“The world is broken.”

“Maybe,” you say. “But that’s why we stay. That’s why we love. That’s why we try.”

“You’re idealistic,” he murmurs, almost gently. “You always have been.”

“I’m hopeful,” you correct him. “I have to be. Someone has to be.”

“It’s not enough.”

“It is.”

He shakes his head. “You’re so naive.”

You go still. He says it gently. Kindly. But it cuts like a blade all the same.

“It’s never been about you,” he says. “This–this darkness, this weight. It started long before you. And no matter how much I love you, it’s not something you can fix.”

Your voice cracks when you answer. “But I want to try.”

“And I love you for that.”

Your eyes search his face, and what you see there breaks you. Because he’s not cold. He’s not cruel. He’s not pushing you away because he stopped loving you.

He’s doing it because he still does.

“Then tell me,” you whisper. “Tell me I was enough.”

He steps forward. Cups your face in his hands. “You are.”

“Tell me you loved me.”

“I love you,” he says. “I love you.”

And then he pulls you into his arms. His body folds around yours like something holy. His fingers slide into your hair, trembling. His breath is hot against your temple.

“I want you,” he whispers. “I want you. Only you. Nothing else. No dreams. No future. Just–you.”

Your arms wrap around him like instinct. You bury your face in his shoulder. “Then stay,” you whisper in return. Your voice is shaking. “Please, Suguru. Stay.”

He doesn’t answer. He holds you tighter instead.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

It’s after graduation. A Tuesday.

The cap you didn’t want to wear is hanging by a pushpin near the door, half-crushed from the rain that fell as you walked home that day. You haven’t taken it down. There’s a part of you that thinks maybe it deserves to stay where it is–limp and damp and uncelebrated. Like everything else that was supposed to feel like a beginning.

Your room is almost empty now.

A box sits in the corner filled with folded sweaters and things you don’t want to remember owning. There’s another by the door, filled with books Suguru lent you over the years–some dog-eared, some annotated, one with a sticky note still pressed between the pages where he once wrote, You’ll like this one. It’s gentle.

Your laptop rests on the bed. The apartment listings are still open. You haven’t closed the tabs. You haven’t packed the charger. You haven’t even touched the envelope marked LEASE OPTIONS sitting on your desk–the one you once filled with printed tours and scrawled notes in different colored pens.

Because none of them matter now.

He’s standing in the doorway. He hasn’t said anything yet. He doesn’t have to.

You’re sitting on the bed, knees pulled to your chest, one hand resting on a balled-up hoodie–his. He’s wearing the other one. The black one. The one you said made him look soft around the edges. The sleeves are a little too long. He doesn’t push them up.

You look up at him.

His bag is slung over one shoulder. His hair is tied, but loosely. Too loose. Strands are already slipping.

You spoke the night before–barely. There were no more arguments. No more tears. Just the quiet weight of knowing. You had curled beside him on the bed with your fingers buried in his shirt and your face tucked beneath his jaw. He hadn’t said anything. He had just held you. Tighter than usual, but not tight enough.

And now it’s morning. And he’s leaving.

You open your mouth. Close it. Try again.

“You’re really doing this.”

He nods. Your throat closes.

“I thought maybe,” you whisper, “maybe you’d wake up and change your mind.”

He looks at you then–really looks–like you’re the last soft thing he’s allowed himself to look at. His face is unreadable–not because it’s blank, but because it’s everything at once. Grief. Love. Fear. Guilt. All of it wrapped into silence.

“I thought maybe you’d stay,” you say.

“I want to.”

The way he says it cracks something inside you.

“Then stay.” You sound too quiet to be begging. But you are. You are.

He closes his eyes. “I can’t.”

“Why not?” you ask. “Why not just… try? We don’t need a perfect plan. We can take the smallest apartment. Eat cheap takeout. Sleep on a mattress on the floor. I don’t care, Suguru. I don’t care. I just want–” Your voice breaks. “I just want you.”

He sets his bag down beside the door. Steps toward you. And you think, for a heartbeat, that this is it. He’s changed his mind. He’s choosing you. He’s staying.

He kneels in front of you and takes your hands into his–god, they’re warm–and holds them like something breakable. His thumbs move in small, trembling circles over your knuckles.

“I love you.”

You start crying. Not suddenly. Not loudly. Just a soft, shaking sound that comes out of your chest like the ending of a song.

“I love you,” he repeats, eyes locked to yours. “I love you so much it hurts.”

“Then don’t leave.”

“I have to.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Because if I stay,” he whispers, “I’ll rot in front of you. And you’ll keep calling it love. And one day, you’ll forget what real love is supposed to feel like.”

“Don’t say that.”

He squeezes your hands. “You’d carry me until your legs gave out,” he says. “And I’d let you. But I can’t let you do that.”

“You promised–”

“I know.”

“You said you wouldn’t disappear.”

“I tried.”

You shake your head, tears slipping freely down your cheeks now, your throat threatening to close up. “I waited,” you cry. “I fought for you.”

“I know,” he says, voice wrecked, ragged. “You were the only thing that kept me here as long as I stayed.”

He leans in. Presses his forehead to yours.

His hair falls into your face. You smell the lavender shampoo you made him try last month. The one he pretended to hate. You never told him you knew he kept using it.

“I’ll think about you,” he says. “Every day. Every time I see something soft. Or kind. Or almost beautiful. I’ll see you in all of it.”

“You can still have me.”

“No. You deserve someone who wants more than survival.”

You close your eyes, taking a shaky breath. “You were my more,” you whisper.

He kisses you.

Not quickly. Not like goodbye. Like memory. Like something he wants to seal into the corner of your mouth and carry with him forever.

And then he pulls away. His hands fall away from your face, his fingerprints burned into your skin.

You reach for him–not because you think it will stop him, but because your body doesn’t know how not to.

“Don’t forget me,” you whisper.

His voice breaks when he answers. “I couldn’t. Even if I wanted to.”

He stands. Lifts the bag. Walks to the door.

You don’t watch him go. You stare at the laptop instead. The listings still open. The cursor still hovering over a link. As if the future is waiting for your input.

The door clicks. Softly. And the silence that follows is louder than any scream.

You bury your face in your hands and cry.

He didn’t slam the door. He folded himself out of your life like he never wanted to hurt you.

You lose Geto Suguru on a Tuesday.

You think that that’s the worst thing he could have ever done to you.

When he left, he didn’t take his clothes. He took the light. And you’re still looking for it in every room he isn’t in.

V. THE ECHO – where grief is soft, and memory is louder than silence Some people leave like a storm. Suguru left like silence after music–sudden, unkind, irreversible.

The apartment is quiet.

Not peaceful. Not tranquil. Just quiet in that dull, hollow way that settles around the bones like smoke and never quite clears. The kind of silence that doesn’t soothe but stretches. It clings to the corners of your furniture. It lives in your coffee mugs and inside the jackets hanging by the door. It waits in the seams of things. You don’t remember what anything sounded like before he left–only that it’s been quieter ever since.

You live here now. That truth doesn’t sting like it used to, but it still aches. Not like a wound anymore, but like a healed break that never reset properly. The apartment isn’t much: one window, cracked tiles in the bathroom, a fridge that hums when it thinks no one is listening. The radiator creaks every time it turns on, like an old man sighing in his sleep. You’ve memorized the sound of this place. The way it breathes differently without him in it. It doesn’t carry echoes well. Maybe that’s a blessing. Maybe that’s why you chose it.

Still, sometimes you think you can hear him. Not his voice, exactly. Just the shape of him. The memory of a presence. The phantom weight of a gaze that always saw you like you were more than you believed you were. You sit in the chair by the window and you feel it–the ghost of the way he used to look at you. Like you were the answer to a question he had been trying to ask his whole life.

You have a routine now. Mornings begin with silence and coffee–two sugars. You water the plants. All three are still alive, against all odds. You whisper to them. Not because you believe they understand, but because you’re tired of hearing nothing speak back. You read when you can, though most days you just turn the pages and let the words drift past you like fog. You work. You walk. You buy groceries for one. You learn to sit with loneliness without trying to feed it.

And sometimes you cry. Not with drama, not in torrents. But with the soft, startled grief of realizing you’ve reached for him again. The phantom muscle memory of laying out two mugs instead of one. Picking up a book and wondering if he’s read it. Feeling laughter rise in your chest and turning to share it before remembering that you can’t.

It’s strange, loving someone who left gently. There’s no hatred to cling to. No betrayal to burn your way through. Just the steady knowledge that they loved you, and left anyway. That they were kind. And tired. And breaking. And that you couldn’t save them without losing yourself. That maybe they knew that before you did.

He didn’t take everything. He never would. But the things he left behind are worse. His handwriting on a receipt tucked into the drawer. The coffee you only bought because he liked it. The scent of his shampoo lingering in your towels long after you stopped using them. A playlist that still plays when your phone forgets it’s supposed to forget him. A stray hair tie at the bottom of your drawer.

Some days, you pretend you’re fine. You move through the world with the grace of someone who has practiced the choreography of grief so long it looks like living. You smile. You hold conversations. You even laugh. And no one asks, because you’ve become very good at dressing your ache in language that passes for okay.

But some nights, you sit on the floor, back against the radiator, and remember that loving him was the most honest thing you ever did.

You don’t try to forget him. Some days, that feels like the only promise you can still keep. You let yourself remember. You let yourself mourn. You light a candle on the windowsill, even though he never believed in that kind of ritual. You write down things you wish you’d said aloud. You whisper his name into the steam of your coffee. You open the drawer where his spare toothbrush would’ve been and close it again.

It helps. Sometimes.

Today, you open the box you never meant to touch. The one he left, labeled in his handwriting: “misc”. The letters tilt forward like they were written in a hurry, but still carefully enough to be legible. You sit on the floor, cross-legged, and lift the lid like it might still breathe. Inside: the scarf from your first winter together, itchy and beloved. A dog-eared book with annotations in two colors. A hair tie. A list.

Just one page.

Just one set of words he never read aloud, but you’ve seen before.

things to teach – kindness is strength – silence is not always peace – you are not too much – softness is not fragility – no one is unlovable – the world is hard – love anyway

You trace each line like a prayer. These were the things he wanted to teach. Maybe the things he wanted to believe. Maybe the things he couldn’t carry anymore. Maybe that list was his last act of faith, scribbled into existence before the light in him went out.

You fold the page. Not tightly. You tuck it into the book you still read sometimes, when you need to hear his voice in your head. And you sit there, on the floor, surrounded by things he left behind, and let the ache in your chest widen without resistance.

You think about the way he used to touch you. Gently. Like you were made of smoke and paper and prayer. The way he would hesitate before holding your face in his hands, as if reverence was a language best spoken without words. You think about the way he never spoke of the future like it was owed to him, only borrowed.

This is what it means to love someone like Geto Suguru: it means gentleness. It means holding grief in your hands like water. It means remembering that sometimes people break even when they are loved. That sometimes love isn’t enough to keep someone from walking into silence. That sometimes the kindest thing someone can do is leave before they make you watch them disappear in pieces.

But it also means this:

It means you were seen. Known. It means you were held by someone who understood what it meant to be tired and still soft. That for a time, you got to witness someone who tried to believe in the world and loved you while they could. You were chosen, even while he was unraveling. You were the thing he wanted to keep safe from himself.

You will keep loving. That is what you choose.

You’ll move again someday. To a bigger place. One with more sunlight. Maybe a dog, if you’re brave enough. You’ll meet people who make you laugh. You’ll love again, maybe differently, maybe less fiercely. But you’ll never forget what it felt like to love someone who carried their sorrow so quietly, it took you years to realize they had already let go.

And when you light the last candle that burns down in the bowl you made with him once in a pottery class neither of you liked–you whisper:

“I hope you found somewhere soft to land.”

Some things don’t end. They just change shape. And some people don’t leave. They stay quietly–in the places you don’t look at too often.

A/N: thank you for reading! i've been feeling really down lately and i just automatically started thinking about suguru and here we are. (yes i cried writing the last part) (art by risujuju on X)

[feyascorner]

at the end of the day

summary. you and astarion have your first genuine fight and the other companions try to patch things between the two of you.

warnings. comfort/fluff

pairing. Astarion x GN!Reader

a/n. have not written an actual one-shot in a while omg,...

Breakfast is eaten in silence. One that's been extending far past its welcome date now.

Shadowheart grips her fork, feeling the flitting glances exchanged amongst the others around the table while she maintains focus on the two individuals sitting on opposite sides of the table. Your eyes remain trained on the bread sitting on your plate and Astarion swirls his chalice aimlessly in his hand, neither of you even acknowledging the presence of the other. The cleric grimaces as you stand suddenly, your chair scraping against the floor as you do so.

"Thanks for the food, Gale," is all you mutter before leaving the room with your plate in hand. Astarion rises from his own chair in an instant, huffing.

"I must take my leave as well."

When both parties have left the room, all five other companions stare at one another in a knowing silence. Lae'zel is the only one who doesn't seem the slightest bothered. Wyll is the one to break the uncomfortable tension in the air, clearing his throat after Lae'zel nearly bites her fork off. "I see they're still amidst their lovers' quarrel."

"What are they even fighting about?" Karlach groans, slumping into her chair with an exasperated groan.

"It was nice the first few days to have a good night's sleep without their incessant noises," Shadowheart grumbles, shoving an egg into her mouth. "But now, this is arguable worse."

"Should we...aid them somehow?" Gale blinks.

Lae'zel snorts. "They're adults, we don't need to coddle them, wizard."

Despite her words, they do find themselves a few hours later in unanimous agreement to do something to ease the unfamiliar dryness of the camp dynamic. It comes in multiple attempts. And to say few---if not all--were unsuccessful, is an understatement.

First, when out in the woods, Gale makes an effort to spark a conversation that would prompt both you and Astarion to join in. You nod occasionally, though lost in thought, while Astarion promptly ignores whatever he's talking about. It's a pathetic attempt that has nobody but himself babbling away, which earns a grunt from Shadowheart. It's enough to shut him up, thankfully.

Second, Karlach uses her uncanny ability to lift someone's spirits. Jokes, dancing, all that jazz. Even booze. She urges you to let loose, but all you do in response is smile at her apologetically while Astarion just glares off into space. Another failed attempt. Lae'zel pats Karlach on the shoulder.

Wyll tells stories of his monster hunting days which you usually take an interest in. Astarion naturally listens to what a monster hunter does when he's not hunting monsters, but that's all it is. You and Astarion only listen. There are quips and lingering questions, but neither of you ever direct it at one another, or bother to add into the conversation either. The sheer amount of teasing questions has Wyll's head spinning by the end of it. Lae'zel rolls her eyes.

Just when things couldn't possibly get any worse, you're ambushed. It's a small horde of goblins---nothing beyond your capabilities, but your companions do take some small scratches here and there. Somehow, though he rarely does, as he prefers staying behind you or Karlach, Astarion does too. And despite his efforts to hide it behind his back, you also didn't miss the cut lining Astarion's arm to his elbow. It's not deep by any means, and if it were your own injury, you'd likely just brush it off.

But it's on his skin, and he'd gotten it when taking a hit from an arrow that should've cut your arm.

Blasted hells, you think, as he shrugs it off. Even when you can clearly see him clenching his jaw to bite away the pain.

If battle won't be the end of you, you're sure your idiot of a boyfriend might be instead.

"Come here, you fool," you mutter, holding out your hand. He doesn't even consider the fact that you're mad at one another and immediately extends his arm to you. Habits, you suppose.

You mumble out a weak scolding as he watches you wrap the wound through his lashes. He shivers as you lather a cool ointment on the cut, hoping it's enough to soothe the pain before Shadowheart's recovered enough to properly heal him. He lifts a pale hand to your face, and for a moment, you think he might pinch you. Instead, he runs a thumb across your cheek, spreading the ointment on a scratch you hadn't even realized was there in the first place.

You meet his eyes, your own softening as he cups his fingertips around your cheek. The way he looks at you is overwhelming sometimes---like you're the only thing he gives a damn about in this world---but it's a welcome feeling when he hasn't even looked you in the eye this way in days now. For a moment, you realize you don't even remember why the two of you were mad at one another in the first place.

A laugh threatens to escape your throat. How childish, truly.

And then he flicks your forehead, unable to help the grin etching onto his lips when you blink in surprise.

"That was for making me sleep by myself for three nights."

You swat at his arm while he dodges each of your lazy attempts to get back at him. And though the two of you continue bickering, unbeknownst to you, you have an audience a good bit away, watching you return to your old ways after making them worry for so long.

"What a sight it is--to see young people in love again," Wyll smiles.

Shadowheart deadpans. "Isn't Astarion nearing 240?"

"Who cares?" Karlach shrugs, slinging her arms on either side of her companions with a toothy beam. "What matters is that they made up...and we didn't even have to help them."

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 1 - Purgatorial

Main Masterlist - Mini-Series Masterlist

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, Sam Winchester/Reader (platonic), angst, very light fluff, mutual pining, time loop!

Summary/Warnings: Something is frighteningly familiar about the day. You feel as if you've done this all before. Usual Warnings.

Author's Note: Palm Springs top ten movies of all time. That's not at all what this is but I just wanted to do some non-sponsored promotion of my favorite time loop movie. Enjoy the story!

Word Count: 6.4k

Read on A03! - Chapter 2

You’ve been here before.

You’ve literally been here before.

Staring at the ceiling of your bedroom, a fluffy blanket tangled over your limbs but your bed stripped on its sheets, and Dean loudly singing from the kitchen. 

This is how you woke up yesterday. Or- This is how you woke up in your dream, or simply a while ago in a faded memory, because you remember yesterday but it’s all fogged and clouded, as if some had dragged it through mist and smoothed all its features. The familiarity is eerie, but it could just be the lost haze of whatever was making your head pound and the world spin as you push up on your feet.

You must have been drinking last night. You don’t remember drinking—you don’t remember much, past a haze of Dean voice grunting in your ear something that’s only jumbled noise in your brain—but that could just be a result of the drinking. Cas keeps impossibly strong vodkas in the kitchen, because they were the only thing that gave him a buzz and he likes to be included.

He always stops you from drinking them, when you try to climb on the counter and grab them while no one is looking.

Maybe last night you finally managed to slip past him, and you’re paying the price now. Everything just feels like Déjà vu because your brain is floundering to recover from the night of drinking what Sam had called legally poison. You’ve woken up in your bedroom countless times. Dean sings like that every other morning. This is how most days begin, so it’s probably nothing-

Something clatters and bangs down the hall, and you wince as the sound echoes through the room.

“Son of a bitch!” 

Dean’s shout is a higher pitch than you’ve ever really heard it.

But it’s still oddly familiar. 

And that’s probably nothing.

Pushing out of bed and shuffling down the hall takes more effort than it should, but you’re the room is spinning, and the bunker is filled with fluorescent lights that always seem to flare at the wrong time, and why does Dean always insist on being off key when you know the asshole can sing-

“Morning, sunshine.” Dean looks up at you from the floor, a mess of eggs and bacon on the floor across the kitchen, and you blink at him. 

You’ve seen this before. The pan upside down on the counter, Dean crouching with a rag in his hand, the trash can dragged to his side as he glares at the mess scattered across the tiles. 

“I- uh,” you swallow, everything moving too slow and your words mechanical and slow, because you’re sure you’ve said them before. “I think it’s more like noon?”

“Nah, eleven. Still morning.” Dean points over his shoulder to the sink, and a little bit of egg falls out of his rag. “Can you grab me the cleaner, sweetheart? Gotta clean this up before Sammy gets back from his run and tries to teach me how to use a mop again.”

“What do you say, Winchester?” You cross your arms, raising your brows at him, and that must be familiar because you’ve done it a million times before. And Dean’s always rolled his eyes like that, and you’ve always grinned at how adorably grumpy he can be. This is Deja vu because you live in these moments all the time.

Where Dean’s looking at you, and only you, and he’s glaring but there’s no hatred or real annoyance behind his features. He likes playing this game just as much as you do. 

He doesn’t love it, adore it, live for it every single second of every single day, but he enjoys it. 

And that itself makes these moments ones you replay a million times, because you have no other way to hold him with your hands, so you grab every grin and word by the throat and add it to the mural of Dean that covers your skull.

“Please,” he grunts your name, and there’s a light in his eyes that ignites over your ribs. “Save my ass and get the cleaner.”

“Hm,” you tilt your head at him, pretending that you’re actually thinking about it—you’re already sold, you were sold the moment Dean said can you and it was something that was possible—and hold his gaze just long enough for him to look a little worried, and then you grin. “Okay.”

You step over his arm—supporting him against the counter—to get to the sink, and it brushes against your thigh. Sparks fly over your skin and your blood fills with light for only a second, and then it’s all gone as you keep moving, and Dean stays behind you.

That’s happened before. It happens whenever Dean touches you, but it’s still familiar in a way that’s far too specific. Almost as if he’d hit a raw, open wound. A place he’d already shot and branded you before, and now the contact is twice at strong.

This whole morning feels too familiar. Dean has winked at you a million times before, and you’ve sat on the stool watching him so often it could be classified as an addiction, and the bunker door has always echoed behind Sam when he got back from a run, but this feels like more. Like a polaroid photo stuck in a faded but over saturated color, a snapshot of something you know you’ve seen before.

“Dude, what’s wrong with you.” Sam walks into the kitchen, and you’d already been looking at the door. As if you’d been expecting him. “You look like a keyed car.”

Dean’s head shoots up from beside you, where he’d been grumbling about the gross lack of food in the fridge and glaring at his hand. “Did someone key my fucking car-“

“No, it’s a metaphor-“

“Simile. Not a metaphor.” You hum, shredding the paper towel in your hands into tiny little pieces you—somehow—know won’t be cleaned later. “And he dropped his breakfast.”

Dean scowls. “Fucking frying pan burnt me, I didn’t just drop it-“

“Burnt you?!” You grab Dean’s hand before you can think, turning it over to find a swollen, blistering red mark. “You- Fucking Christ, Dean you need to ice that-“

“It’s alright, sweetheart, I’m fine-“

“Nah, man.” Sam leans over your shoulder, frowning at Dean’s palm in your hand. “That looks like it’s second degree.“

You swallow, your eyes fixed the mark—long and red and thin, in the shape of the pan’s handle—and you could fucking swear you’d seen it before. He hadn’t even said which hand he’d burned, but you’d grabbed the right one, and this is so strange-

Dean clears his throat, and when you look up he’s rubbing the back of his neck, staring at where you’re still holding him. “I kinda need my hand back. If you’re gonna make me ice the damn thing-“

“I’m not making you do anything.” You mutter, releasing him with a frown. ”But you should-“

“I gonna. I’m goin’ right now.” Dean pushes out of his seat, giving the fridge a longing, rueful look as he passes it. “Sammy, you goin’ out to get food later-“

Sam shakes his head. “I need to clean up, dude, I just ran ten miles-“

“That’s too many miles.” Dean mutters, and you can’t stop looking between them with a slight gape hanging from your mouth. You’ve heard this conversation before. “Gonna pull a hamstring or something-“

“I won’t. You would. But we,” Sam gestures between himself and you, and you stare at him, feeling a little frozen as you mouth along with his next words. “Aren’t made of grease and junk. We’ll be fine.”

Dean scoffs, and you know what he’s going to say as well. “I’m not grease and junk-“

“You were eating bacon.”

“We don’t have anything else, and I don’t hate myself enough to eat your damn rabbit food-“

“Well, that’s why you’d pull a hamstring-“

Dean scowls, and you feel your hands mirror his as he presses the ice to his palm. “I’m not in the mood for your health shit, Sammy, I’m starving and we have nothing-“

“We have Lucky Charms.” You say, and it feels like a cue. Like that’s what you were supposed to say, from some invisible script, at that exact moment. “In the cabinet. And I’m not going on one of your runs, Sam. Stop trying to convince me.”

Sam lets out a long sigh, giving you a disappointed look, and Dean’s grin could power the entire bunker for a year. 

“That’s my girl.” He shoots Sam a smug look, and you swallow.

He’s said that before. It had punched you in the gut in the exact same way, and his smile had been that exact amount of blinding, and you’d felt this electricity in your blood at the same voltage, and-

“I’m gonna call Cas,” your voice is a whisper, and you feel like a tape recorder. You’ve said this before. “We’ll go to the store after I get dressed.”

Sam and Dean nod, and you know exactly what happens next. Dean goes to grab the Lucky Charms, and you’re supposed to giggle when he lets out a loud groan and the lack of “normal” milk in the fridge. You tell him that you’ll get three bottles, because that’s what you’re supposed to do. And then he grumbles about having to use Sammy’s stupid fuckin’ plant milk, and puts his hand on your lower back as he reaches to grab it, and your breath hitches.

He stares at you. You’re supposed to stare back, and get lost in his eyes for a long second—just long enough to burn them like a neon light over your vision—before excusing yourself with soft words. 

You walk past the shower, and Sam’s singing Celine Dion. Your hands tap to the beat before you even pick up on the exact song, because you’ve heard it before. You get dressed and it feels like a costume. What you’re supposed to be wearing. 

Cas is right in front of your door when you open it, and you don’t jump like you usually would. 

You’d known, somehow, that he’d be there.

“I heard we are going shopping.” He tilts his head at you, and you nod slowly, the right words creeping into your throat.

“Yeah, if we don’t, I’m worried Dean will resort to something stupid.”

He may take drastic measures to get bacon. 

“He may take drastic measures to get bacon.” Cas hums, reaching out to hold you by the shoulder. “Have you eaten today?”

You nod slowly. “I had the last apple.”

“I will make sure we land near a bathroom, then.”

You don’t get further warning before the world turns to a blur. Molding and morphing from the bunker hall into the meat isle of a grocery store, and you feel sick, and-

“It should be to your righ-“

You’re stumbling to the bathroom before Cas can finish his sentence, and you always vomit like this after he flies you somewhere, but this is different. There’s a ghosting image over your vision of this exact bile in this exact toilet bowl, and when you shuffle back to Cas, you’re not surprised he’s not where you left him.

And you find him too fast. In the snack isle, scanning over the million Oreo flavors with a frown.

He doesn’t look up as you approach him. You hadn’t expected him to.

“I didn’t mean to wander.” He hums. “I find it fascinating that there are so many varieties of one, simple cookie. Is double stuffed not enough?”

“Not for most people, no.” You point to the Mint Oreos, and they feel like a fucking prop. “These ones aren’t even that good, but that’s never stopped anyone before.”

“Hm.” Cas shrugs, grabbing the Mint Oreos, and you’re pulling out your phone before he can even ask the question. “Do we have a list of our required items?”

“Yeah, I had Sam text me everything.” 

Cas opens his mouth. You cut him off a beat before you were supposed to.

“If I asked Dean, we’d buy half the store.”

Cas nods, and that’s the last Dean will be mentioned until the checkout aisle. You know that. You still can’t tell how you know that, but you do, and all of this still feels like it’s played out before. It’s more than Deja vu. It’s a show. You will stand on your mark, right at Cas’ side, and on cue you’ll make a joke to match his dry comment. You’ll let him buy five bottles of honey, and you’ll talk him into sharing a tub of ice cream with you, and you need to get these apples and not those ones because that’s that the invisible script calls for.

You’re not supposed to speak of anything but food and the pre-set list until it’s time to pay. Then Cas will say-

“You told me the list called for pumpkin pie.”

And you need to respond-

“That’s because Sam is trying to trick Dean into eating healthier.”

“Pumpkin pie is not healthy-“

“It’s healthier than other pies.” You shrug now, and the movement feels mechanical, and Cas is frowning at you.

“Then why is this cherry pie.”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to answer. You have to hum and fidget with your own fingers, until Cas speaks again. 

“You do not wish to try and change him. To make Dean try and be something else.”

Now you have to blink at Cas. “I- I want him to be healthy, I just know he doesn’t like being tricked like that-“

“Because you care for him.”

“Because I know him-“

“And your feelings bar you from engaging in deception against him.” Cas places the pie on the belt, his voice remaining too casual for how your heart is pounding at your chest. “If it is any help, I agree. I do not believe the way for Dean to improve his health is via deception.”

You swallow. “Um-“

“I do believe he would be helped by you being forthcoming about your feelings. It would serve as motivation.”

“I- what?”

“Your romantic and sexual feeling towards Dean-“

The air becomes too thin, but you’d been expecting it. This whole conversation is too heavy in your throat and making your heartbeat like a drum—right out of your chest to spill over the floor, because these words were never supposed to be said aloud, where people could hear them—but you’d been braced for it.

And you have a phantom memory of the same conversation, but you hadn’t been braced. You’re supposed to stumble back and gape at Cas, but you’d been ready.

You’ve done this before, so you were ready.

“I, um, there’s- You haven’t told him, right?” The words are falling out of you at a frantic pace, but it’s still not as fast as they should be. “Cas, don’t tell him-“

“He is not aware.” Cas frowns into the air, watching you carefully as he continues. “But I firmly believe that it would be to both your benefits to have a conversation-“

“No- it’s-“ Long breath. Run your hand through your hair. “It’s complicated. I- please don’t tell him. He can’t know. Please.”

Cas says your name, and his tone is cautious, and your blood is going to leak out of your body. “I am… more perceptive than most. I know you anticipate rejection, but I do not think the conversation would end as you fear-“

“Cas.” You make your voice firm, and shake your head. “Please. Drop it.”

He does. He looks like he’s going to push it, but you relax before he nods and turns back to the shopping belt, because you know he’s going to drop it.

Just like you know he’s going to only make you carry two bags, and will bring you back to the bunker right next to the bathrooms again. 

And you’ll vomit, and he’ll put all the groceries away. And Dean will be in the library when you get there, and he’ll grin at you, and you’ll flush.

“I got you pie.” You whisper, because that’s how you’re supposed to say it. “Cas put it in the fridge.”

His grin widens. “You’re an angel,” he’ll say your name, and you’ve already pulled a blanket over your body to hide the squeeze of your thighs. 

“No,” you return his smile, pulling a book into your lap. “He’s putting the pie away.”

Dean snorts, and it’s a horrible, cheap-shot joke, but it works. You’d known it would work. And Dean will ask what else you got, and you’ll tell him. Sam will come in after exactly three hours, look between you and Dean—pretending to read but mostly just talking and smiling—with a dramatic sigh, and then walk out again. 

“He’s grumpy you’re not falling for his death-traps.” Dean mock whispers, and you giggle.

“I don’t think he cares that much, Dean. They’re just runs-“

“You’re wounding him. Brushing Sammy’s massive ego by calling his runs stupid-“

You hum, giving him a pointed look. “Sam’s massive ego?”

“Uh huh.” A bright joy dancing behind Dean’s eyes as he holds your gaze, and you melt a little into your chair. “Turn a man down enough and he’s gonna start falling apart.”

“I think he’ll recover.” You drawl, and Dean just shrugs.

There’s a long moment of silence here. Dean will break it.

“You still seeing that guy from the city?”

You blink at him. “Huh?”

“The suit and tie asshole, from the bar last month.” Dean frowns at his book. He’s not going to look up at you for the rest of the conversation, and your heart is going to tighten and feel like stone, right here, until at least the end of the day. “Sam said you were out with him last week.”

“Sam is a liar.” You say, and guilt will twist in your gut because Sam’s not a liar. You’re the liar. You had gone to see the Suit from the City, because you’d been cold and lonely in your too-big bed, and Dean had come home the night before with a hickey, and you hadn’t known how else to handle it beside finding an artificial warmth that you’d known wouldn’t last.

Because it wasn’t Dean’s warmth. The only heat that ever lingered was set off by Dean, but it was never enough, and it always faded to something colder than before. Something that had more longing burned and tainted over your skin, that would be harder and harder to replicated and fill with flickering, weak embers.

You don’t know why Dean cares. Why he’s asking at all. You do know that, in about ten minutes, he’ll stand up, grumble that he’s going out, and leave. The slam of the door echoing behind him, and you’ll move to sit in his chair because it’s a simple, easy way to steal a little more of his heat. 

He’ll call you in five hours. His voice will be slurred over the phone, and you won’t understand half of what he’s saying but you’ll know he’s drunk, and shouldn’t drive himself home.

You’ll send Cas to get him. 

And Dean will shove Cas away from him the moment they pop into the bunker, collapsing over you instead.

You’re supposed to stumble back. But you’d been ready for it. Just as you’re ready for him to grab your face between his hands, and say your name like it’s… Something. Anything. More than just your name. 

“You’re- Look at her, Cas-“ His words mold together in your head, and you can’t really hear them because Dean’s touching you, and you’ve never been warmer. “Son a bitch, she’s pretty- I need- gotta tell her-“

He slumps slightly, his head dropping to your shoulder, and you don’t call to Cas for help. That’s not what needs to happen here.

You get to run your hand through Dean’s hair and hear him moan in your ear, and then you get to help him to bed. He’ll keep muttering low praise that you’re going to be stuck thinking about until the day you die, and when you try and put him to bed, he’s going to drag you right down with him. 

“Dean.” You whisper in his ear, and he squeezes you around your waist. Keeping you pressed his chest, and he smells like whiskey and you- 

You don’t know what you’re supposed to say here. 

For the first time all day, this is new. Nothing is familiar, and the world feels too real. Dean is big and strong around you, and you can hear the pound of his heart and feel every flex of his muscles. The world is sharp and bright and violent in your head because suddenly it’s too much, and you don’t know what’s about to happen. 

“Dean.” You repeat, because it’s the only thing you can know for sure. Dean’s here, and he’s—for now—still awake to hear you. “I- You’re holding me really tight-“

“Gotta hold you,” he mutters, hauling you a further up his chest and burying his face in your shoulder. “You’re gonna leave.”

“I-“ You frown, trying to push up on his chest to look at him, but he’s strong. You’re stuck. It’s doing unfair things to your gut and heart, and part of you knows you’re never going to recover from this. From Dean. From him holding you like this, and you not having enough will to fight it, because you crave it more than anything. “I’d never leave, Dean-“

“Good.” He hums, and you can feel his voice. Rumbling in his chest and moving into your ribs, breath fanning right over your ear and making your whole body shiver against him. “Can’t do it… Don’t- you need to be here, baby. Need you.”

“Dean.” He’s talking nonsense. You can’t hold onto this too tight, because he’s drunk and talking nonsense. You still can’t push away. “You need sleep.”

He hums, and his words are barely a breath. “Need you. Better than sleep. Love you more than sleep.”

The first snore tears through the room, and you can’t think. You can only hear Dean, over and over and over. Love. He said love. Dean said he loves you and he’s still here and love, why would he say love and then just fucking fall asleep, why would he say love at all-

Everything fades to black, and the last thought you have before a light seems to turn off far in the distance is just an echo of Dean’s voice, saying love.

———

You’ve been here before.

You’ve literally been-

Fuck.

The ceiling. Th blanket. No sheets and no memory of how they vanished.

Dean hits a horrible, off-key high note, you sit up with a start, and this can’t be right. Or good. Or logical.

But you’ve been here before. Twice.

And it’s not a dream or show or sense of Deja vu. 

It’s real. It’s happening again. And when you take a long, deep breath and dig your nails into your arms to make sure you’re still alive, you count down from three and-

“Son of a bitch!”

You almost vault out of the bed, discarding the blanket on the floor as you sprint down the bunker hall, slamming your gut into the counter as you skid to a stop.

“Fuckin’-“ Dean shouts your name, and a second clatter echoes through the kitchen as you groan. “What the hell are you doing?”

Dean moves to your side in an instant, wrapping his arm around your waist to keep your upright, and you should’ve leaned into him. On any other day you would’ve just whined and molded into Dean’s side, grumbling about Sam’s habit of wiping the floor until they’re practically ice rinks and letting Dean laugh as he took care of you.

But today is not any other day.

Today is yesterday. And—if your horrible, gut twisting feeling is right—the day before as well.

Today you grab Dean’s hand before he can protest, and feel your blood freeze through your body.

There’s a long, thin, bubbling red mark on his palm. When you look around his body to the floor, bacon and eggs are scattered on the tiles. 

Fucking- Fuck-

“You need to ice that.” You mutter, pushing yourself out of Dean’s grip and moving to the freezer. “It’s second degree.”

Dean shakes his head, trialing behind you. “It’s alright, sweetheart, I’m fine-“

“Ice it.” You snap, tossing him an ice pack with a firm glare. “And there’s Lucky Charms in the cabinet. Eat that while I clean.”

Dean looks between you and the ice pack, slowing pressing it to his palm as he watches you march to grab the mop. “You feeling okay? You’re- you seem a bit, I dunno, touchy-“

“I’m feel great.” Your voice is flat. Drained. You feel mechanical, as if you’re drifting through every motion, and that doesn’t feel like it will bode well for the future. “There’s no milk in the fridge.”

“You sound great.” Dean drawls, still only a few paces behind you. “And I saw milk in there before you busted in, we’re good-“

“It’s Sam’s milk.”

“No, it’s-“ You hear the fridge door open, and Dean cuts himself off with a groan. “Son a bitch-“

You sigh, running a hand through your hair as you move back to the mess on the floor. “I’m going shopping with Cas later. After I clean this up and get dressed.”

He nods, and you clean, and this is a little different. Maybe you just needed to realize what was happening, and it will all be a horrible dream. 

Maybe you’ll scrape the last eggshells into the trash, and sit down next to Dean as he eats all the marshmallows in his cereal, and it’ll all be okay-

Dean gives you a wide grin, and places his good hand on your thigh. Right where he’d brushed against you before. Sparks. Sunlight in your blood. Raw and wired and beautiful right to the point of pain, just like before.

“You’re an angel, sweetheart, you know that?”

“Yeah,” you offer him a weak smile in return, and he takes a long, deep breath.

“I mean it. You’re- I mean- Son of a bitch. Never mind.”

Dean glares back to your cereal, his brows drawn and jaw clenched. Something’s off. This whole thing is off, but you still know Dean, and something’s off with him.

“Dean-“

“Dude, what’s wrong with you.” Sam walks into the kitchen. This whole thing feels like a crude, poorly crafted joke. “You look like a keyed car.”

Dean’s head shoots up from beside you. “Did someone key my fucking car-“

“No, it’s a-“

“Simile.” You whisper. You’re going to throw up. “It’s not a metaphor, Sam. It’s a simile. And Dean burnt his breakfast and his hand, but he’s icing it. You should go shower, you just ran ten miles.”

“I, uh-“ Sam blinks at you. “That was the plan, yeah. Are you feeling alright?”

You nod, and Dean makes a face in Sam’s direction.

“Course she’s alright, you didn’t force her on one of those stupid runs-“

“They’re not stupid, dude. Movement is good for the body-“

“Not if you pull a hamstring-“

“I’ve never pulled a hamstring. Neither has she. You would, but we,” Sam gestures between himself and you, and you cut him off with a choked whisper.

“Aren’t made of grease and junk. We’ll be fine.”

Dean shoots you a glare. “I am not grease and junk-“

Sam snorts. “You were eating bacon.”

“We don’t have anything else, and I don’t hate myself enough to eat your damn rabbit food-“

“Well, that’s why you’d pull a hamstring-“

“I have to go call Cas!” You half scream, shooting up out of your chair. “And I’m not doing a run, Sam. And Dean’s getting cherry pie, not pecan.”

Dean grins at you. “Awesome. Suck on that, Health Boy.”

Sam grunts, mostly just frowning at you. “Shut up, dude. Uh,” he scans over your panicked movements, saying your name is a slow, careful tone. “Are you sure you’re good-“

“Yeah! Just gotta- Cas. Pie.”

You scramble out of the kitchen, and behind you Dean chuckles, his words still somehow audible over your heartbeat.

“That’s my girl. Priorities, Sammy. Priorities.”

It’s amazing you stay on your feet. It’s amazing you get changed, and open the door, and manage to not scream at Cas for help the moment you see him.

You’d still eaten the apple. You still vomit when you reach the store, and everything falls in a disgusting, perfectly places picture of yesterday, and you find Cas staring at the Oreos.

“Double-stuffed isn’t enough.” You say, and he turns to you with a frown.

“I- That is exactly what I was wondering.” He nods over your shoulder. “What about Mint?”

“They taste like shit. I have a list, and we can get five bottles of honey.” You take a deep, shaking breath, watching Cas carefully. “Is anything- I don’t know do you sense anything that’s wrong? With the world?”

“Many things are wrong with the world,” he shrugs. “The phenomenon humans have named ‘climate change’ is about 236% worse than your scientist believe, there are an uncountable amount of living creatures in imminent peril at this very second, and the washer in the bunker laundry room is jammed with sheets-“

“No, I know,” you shake your head, fidgeting with your fingers as you frown around the aisle. “You’re just more perceptive than most, and I was wondering if you’d noticed things being- I- Just off-“

Cas frowns at you. “Is this about you and Dean?” 

“I- no-“

“Sorry.” Cas tilts his head at you, his voice dropping slightly. “I did not mean to overstep. I am simply aware of your… complex feelings for him, and believe that it would be to both your benefits to have a conversation-“

If this is a part of every loop, you’re going to shoot yourself in the head.

“I don’t want to talk about this.” You snap, pulling out your phone and shoving it into Cas’ hands. “I’ll get the frozen and produce, you get the rest, and I’ll meet you at check-out.”

You’re being a bitch. Guilt twists in your gut and crawls over your skin, because Cas was just trying to help and you’re being a bitch, but your skull feels like it’s teetering on your spine and the smallest nudge will make everything topple. Something is so very wrong but no one else can see it. Cas had been the check, the only person you had on call who would’ve been able to tell you that you weren’t just going mad, but nothing was abnormally wrong.

Everything is stuck on a scratchy, slightly shifting repeat, but nothing’s wrong. 

You vomit when you return to the bunker, and Cas puts everything away. Dean is in the library, but he gets up the moment you enter this time, clapping his hands and grinning like a child about the pie he already knows is in the kitchen. He returns with a plate, drops back in his chair, and both of you pretend to read. Sam comes in after three hours, then leaves. You joke about hurting Sam’s ego, and nothing feels like you’re doing it. It’s like you’re a puppet.

Dean mentions the Suit from the City, and you still don’t understand the switch that seems to flip inside of him, and he storms out. 

You try to busy yourself. You find your sheets and make your bed, you find Cas and apologize for being, tense, but he doesn’t seem that bothered.

He brings up your feelings for Dean again.

You manage to escape the conversation when Dean calls you right on time, slurring and drunk and not safe to drive.

Cas volunteers to go get him.

You go yourself instead.

Dean shouts your name, a wide, boyish grin on his face the moment his eyes land on yours.

“This is-“ He burps, slinging his arms over your shoulders and pulling you right into his side, speaking to no one but the air and inanimate bar. “She’s the one. You’re- Shit, you’re so fuckin’-“

“Pretty.” You give the bartender an apologetic look, letting Dean keep himself upright as you pull out your wallet. “How much does he owe you?”

Dean hums in your ear, his fingers running through your hair as you settle his tab. “More than pretty, baby- I gotta- needed to tell you something-“

“I know, Dean.” You sigh, wrapping your arm around his waist and guiding him to the door. “C’mon, let’s go home-“

“Already home,” he mutters, burying his face in your shoulder. “Got you. Need you. That was- son of a bitch, is the room spinning for you too?“

“No, it’s not.”

“Then why’s is doin’ that.”

He sounds like he’s whining, and you have to bite back the smile on your lips. “It’s because you’re drunk, buddy.”

You can feel his frown on your skin, his body tenses around yours. “Not your buddy- needed to- Can’t just be your buddy-“

He shoves himself up suddenly, and you to try and steady him back against you on pure instinct.

“Dean-“

You’re cut off as his mouth slams into yours, and the whole world turns to only color and the smell and taste of whiskey, and Dean. This isn’t a reputation. This is real, and new, and amazing. His lips are chapped, but they fit so well against yours. He’s walking you back to pin you against the bar wall, and his body is so warm and sturdy, and he’s drunk out of him mind but you know he’d never let anything hurt you. That you’re safe here, being kissed stupid and weak-kneed, and he might regret this in the morning, but when he pulls back from a ragged breath, all you can see is adoration and affection in his eyes. 

“Love you.” He mutters, and it’s the most sober you’ve ever heard him. “So- Fuckin’ hell, I love you so much-“

The fade is starting. Dean’s blurring, but he can’t go yet. 

You yank him back down with a half-whine, he smirks against your lips as the kiss turns open and sloppy and needing, and there it goes. 

The light switches off, and everything turns to black.

The last thing to vanish is the feeling of Dean’s lips, pressed to yours, and the feeling of his groan down your throat. 

———

You’ve been here before.

You don’t wait for Dean’s shout this time before you’re out of bed. You march down the hall, and enter the kitchen right as Dean roars and the pan falls to the ground.

“Hey, you’re-“

“There’s cereal in the cabinet.” You snap. It’s harsher than Dean deserves, but you’re losing your fucking mind and you’ve been here before. “And that’s second degree, Dean. You need to ice it.”

“It’s alright, sweetheart, I’m fine-“

“Shut up.” You point to the freezer. “Ice.”

Dean just stares at you. “You feeling okay? You’re- you seem a bit, I dunno, touchy-“

“Ice, Winchester, now.”

You stomp past him to get the mop, and he catches your wrist. 

“Look,” he says your name carefully, and you can see the concern painted over his every feature as he holds your gaze. “You know you can talk to me, right? About anything, even if it’s really dumb?”

You swallow, your heart turns to the tight stone hours ahead of schedule.

“Yeah.” You whisper, your voice softer. Weaker. “I know.”

You run a hand through your hair, and sigh. You clean up and Dean eats his marshmallows. It’s all going to be pointless routine until Sam gets back anyway, so you drop next to Dean and eat your apple, and prepare yourself for the spark through a raw wound when Dean places his hand on your thigh. 

“You’re an angel, sweetheart, you know that?”

“Yeah.” Weak smile from you. Deep long breath from Dean.

And something is different on his face this time. More determined.

“I mean it. You’re- I mean-“ He squeezes his hand on your thigh, and looks at you like you’re something priceless. Like you’re going to vanish out of his hold if he’s not careful. 

He doesn’t know just how right he his, and the stone triples in weight.

“Are you-“

“I’m good, I just gotta do this now. Before I-“ He lets out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “Needs to be now. Just- I- Shit-“

You know where this is going. It has to be a joke. You don’t want to dread it in the way you’re starting to feel over your bones. “Dean, you don’t have to-“

“I love you.” He blurts, staring at you with a wide, almost frightened expression. “You- don’t say anything, just- I fucking love you, and this never happened, but I needed to say it. And I mean it. So- Just- Yeah. Done.”

Dean looks back to his cereal, his face red and body tensed, and you can’t breathe. You can’t speak. It’s all going too fast, and there’s the light, but you weren’t ready and you can’t go, not yet-

Everything fades to black.

———

You’ve been-

No time.

You scream at Dean to ice his burn as you sprint past the kitchen, and a clatter follows seconds later. You don’t stick around to find out if he listened. 

You fly out of the bunker doors and start running. 

Dean was right. This is fucking hell. You don’t know how Sam does it all the time, but you don’t care because he does it, and it’s a million degrees outside but Sam has to be here somewhere, how can you possibly be missing him, he’s a million fucking feet tall-

Someone shouts your name, and you turn on your heels to see Sam jogging towards you, a deep frown on his face.

“Are you-“

“I’m not- Fuck.” You double over, clutching your stomach through ragged breaths. “Just- gimme a second-“

“What’s wrong?” Sam moves to keep your steady, his brow set in worry as he scans over you. “You’re not hurt, is Dean-“

“Dean’s fine.” You wheeze, shaking your head. “Sam- I- We need to talk. Now.”

End Note: Need a reverse limitless drug to slow down my brain. Enjoy the series!

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