#you are never too old for pillow forts

[shaiyasstuff]

halfway | sylus

synopsis : You met him when you were children—shy, innocent and full of dreams. Now, you weren’t so sure if he was the same person anymore. content : angst, highschool!au, emotionally constipated sylus

part two

“Hey, dude. Looks like Y/N is talking to someone.”

The voice came from somewhere behind Sylus, half amused, half smug, as if it were meant to sting.

He lowered himself onto the bleachers without looking back, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “So what?”

But when his gaze drifted across the field—almost involuntarily—his breath caught.

There you were.

On the opposite side, sunlight tangled in your hair as you laughed at something some guy—some forgettable boy—had said. He leaned a little too close.

And you… you didn’t lean away.

The smirk faltered.

His fingers curled into fists on his lap as he turned back to his friend, expression smooth, voice cool.

“She can do what she wants.”

But the words tasted like ash.

You can most definitely not do what you want.

—•

You barely managed to draw in a breath when your back slammed into a locker, the metal echoing a hollow clang down the hallway.

Blinking, you looked up, only to find the all-too-familiar crimson eyes locked onto yours, strands of white hair falling messily over his brow.

His grip was tight—desperate, even—fingers pressing into your arms like he was afraid you’d disappear.

“Sylus,” you spat his name, your voice shaking more from confusion than fear. “What the hell?”

He didn’t speak at first, jaw clenched. You watched the storm move behind his eyes, red glowing under the flickering hallway lights.

Anger, yes. But beneath it—something else. A tremor.

“Who was he?”

Your brows furrowed. “Excuse me?”

“That guy,” he hissed, his voice low. “Who was he?”

Your eyes narrowed. “None of your damn business.”

You shoved him off, harder than necessary, and he stumbled back a step—not from your strength, but from the surprise of it.

Of you not yielding. Not anymore.

His face twisted with something unreadable before he looked away, his voice brittle as he muttered, “Fine.”

Then he turned, the hallway swallowing him whole as he walked away without looking back.

And you stood there, the ghost of his grip still lingering on your skin. You breathed in, shallow, like it might ease the tightness in your chest. But it didn’t. It never did.

Your heart was a knot of old memories, unraveling too fast to gather.

You remembered a boy who used to knock on your door holding Tupperware full of food, cheeks red from the cold, smile too wide for his face.

“We brought extra,” he’d say, lifting the foil-covered tray. “Mom says you should come over, too.”

You were ten, shy, new in town, and he was the only light you knew in this strange neighborhood. You’d whispered, “Sure,” and he’d grinned like you’d given him the world.

Back then, he’d sit with you for hours building forts out of pillows or sharing snacks during movie nights in your living room. He’d laugh so loudly it made your parents chuckle from the next room.

But then the years passed, and so did something between you.

First, he stopped knocking. Then, he stopped answering your texts. Pretended not to be home when he clearly was—curtains moving, lights flickering, silence too intentional.

Time moved without permission. And now, in your final year of high school, the boy who once brought you dinner and made you laugh until your stomach hurt had become a stranger wearing the same face.

A boy wrapped in the shell of someone you once trusted—louder now, cockier, swarmed by friends and girls and empty laughter.

He had become exactly the kind of boy he once promised he’d never be.

You stared after him for a moment longer, chest aching with something that didn’t have a name.

Then you adjusted your bag on your shoulder, blinked away the burn behind your eyes, and walked toward your next class.

Some things aren’t worth chasing.

Even if they once were everything.

—•

Your pen paused mid-sentence the moment you heard your mother’s voice float gently through the crack of your bedroom door.

“Sylus’ parents are coming over for dinner,” she said, like it was the most casual thing in the world.

You looked up, blinking as the words settled slowly into your chest. They didn’t sting—not right away. They just lingered, like something unfinished. Something forgotten until now.

You turned in your chair to face the door, brows pulling together. “What’s the occasion? It’s been a while.”

She stepped inside, her expression soft with nostalgia, the kind that lived in the corners of her smile. She crossed to your bed and sat down, smoothing out the blanket with idle fingers.

“Well, you know Sylus’ father was sick for a while,” she said gently. “Now that he’s better, your dad and I thought… maybe we’d invite them over. Just to celebrate. Like old times.”

Old times.

Your eyes dropped back to the open page in front of you, though the words had stopped making sense minutes ago.

You swallowed and gave a quiet nod.

“Okay,” you murmured.

��Just dinner,” she added, as if to soothe something in you she hadn’t realized had been stirred. “A little wine, a little catching up. Don’t spend the whole evening with your nose in a textbook, honey.”

You didn’t answer, not really.

She reached over to ruffle your hair in that familiar way—gentle, affectionate, unchanged—and you let her, even as your body tensed beneath her touch.

You whined softly in protest, and she chuckled, pressing a kiss to your temple before rising to leave.

The door clicked shut behind her.

And suddenly, the quiet felt too loud. Too sharp.

You sat still for a long time, the pages of your notebook blurring before your eyes.

Your thoughts drifted—unwelcome—to the boy with silver-white hair and crimson eyes. The one who used to steal olives off your plate.

The one who stopped knocking.

You hadn’t seen him in your house in years.

And now he was coming back, like nothing had changed.

Like your silence hadn’t grown into distance.

Like your memories hadn’t grown heavy with time.

You weren’t sure which version of Sylus would walk through the door tonight—

The boy who once made you laugh until your sides hurt,

Or the stranger who now looked at you like you were just another face in the crowd.

You weren’t sure if you missed the way he used to look at you—or the way you used to look back.

Either way, part of you already knew—

This night wasn’t going to be easy.

Rising from your chair, you walked toward the bathroom, each step echoing more than it should. The hallway stretched before you like a memory you weren’t ready to face.

—•

Your footsteps padded softly down the stairs, the wood cool beneath your soles.

The house was quiet, bathed in the pale gold of a setting sun that streamed through the living room windows.

Your father sat on the couch, glasses perched on his nose, fingers moving steadily across his laptop keyboard.

He glanced up when he heard you, smiling gently as you slumped down beside him with a tired sigh.

“Hey, kiddo,” he said, wrapping an arm around your shoulders in that familiar, grounding way. “Aren’t you excited for your final school year?”

You let out a groan, head tipping back against the cushions. “I don’t even know where I’m applying for college yet.”

He chuckled, the sound warm, yet tinged with something else—something you couldn’t quite place.

Then his eyes lit with a hint of mischief as he leaned forward slightly.

“Well,” he said, tapping at his laptop, “I have a surprise for you.”

You blinked, shifting to look at him. “Huh?”

He turned the screen toward you. “We’re moving.”

The words landed before you even registered what was on the screen. Your gaze drifted down to the email displayed there:

We’d be delighted to fund your child’s education at **** College.

You read it again, slower this time. Your heart gave a faint stutter.

“The company’s transferring me,” he explained, voice softer now, more careful. “I tried to decline—told them about your studies, that your friends were here. But…”

He trailed off, watching you.

But. The unspoken things always sat louder in the silence.

You swallowed. The couch felt too solid beneath you now, too familiar for what was being asked.

A new place. A new school. An entirely different life.

And somewhere in that fog of uncertainty… Sylus.

Would he even care if you left?

You nodded absently, eyes still fixed on the glowing screen. “When?”

“End of this term,” he said gently. “Then you’d start freshman year there.”

You tried to smile. Tried to make it seem like you weren’t thinking about the hallway locker, or the way his voice had dropped when he asked who that boy was.

You tried not to think about how long it had been since he looked at you the way he used to—like you were home.

Because maybe…

Maybe this was the universe’s way of saying it was time to let go.

“That’s nice…” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper, the weight of it still settling on your shoulders.

Before the quiet could thicken, the doorbell rang—sharp, bright, and far too normal for the way your world had just shifted.

Your mother peeked out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Y/N, honey, could you get that?”

You nodded, already moving toward the door.

You pulled it open with a practiced smile, one you hadn’t worn in years but still remembered how to shape.

“Hey, Mr. and Mrs. Qin,” you greeted softly.

Mrs. Qin’s face lit up the moment she saw you. She stepped forward immediately, arm linked gently through her husband’s as she reached to cup your cheek, just like she used to when you were small.

“Oh, darling,” she beamed. “Look how much you’ve grown.”

You ducked your head slightly, a shy smile tugging at your lips despite the heaviness in your chest. “Yeah… it’s been a while.”

Mr. Qin chuckled beside her. “Practically a grown woman now,” he said warmly, giving your shoulder a light pat. “Tell me—should I start worrying about you stealing hearts yet?”

It was the kind of teasing that might’ve made you blush, once. The kind Sylus would have rolled his eyes at before elbowing his father and dragging you away.

But this time, you noticed it immediately.

The absence.

He wasn’t with them.

No tall frame leaning in the background, no flash of silver hair or tired smirk, no sidelong glance as if he couldn’t decide whether to speak to you or ignore you altogether.

Just the two of them. And silence behind.

You hesitated, your smile flickering at the edges. “Is—”

You caught yourself, the question dying on your tongue.

You didn’t ask. You already knew.

“Come in,” you said instead, stepping aside.

Mrs. Qin walked past you, her perfume still the same—soft, floral, familiar. “It’s so lovely to be here again,” she said, her voice wistful. “Feels like nothing’s changed.”

You didn’t have the heart to tell her how wrong that was.

Mr. Qin followed her in, chuckling. “Well, maybe one thing’s changed. Our boy seems to think he’s too grown up for family dinners these days.”

There was a lightness in his voice, but you heard the note beneath it.

And your heart sank—quietly, invisibly.

You closed the door gently behind them, the evening air fading as it latched shut.

And in that stillness, you felt it again—

The empty space where Sylus should have stood.

Where he used to stand beside you.

But not tonight.

Not anymore.

Everyone had begun to settle into the dining room, familiar laughter echoing against the clink of plates and the scent of warm food curling in the air.

Your parents and the Qins greeted each other with fond smiles and soft embraces, voices threaded with nostalgia.

You lingered near your seat, about to ease into it, when the doorbell rang again—sharp and unexpected.

Your brows furrowed as you glanced toward your parents. “Are we expecting someone else?”

The question hung there for a beat too long.

Your mother paused mid-pour of wine, exchanging a glance with your father. Across the table, Mr. and Mrs. Qin looked just as puzzled. Four heads shook slowly.

“No, we aren’t,” your father said.

You were halfway seated before you stood again, the unease too subtle to name.

“I’ll go check. Probably just the mailman running late.”

You offered it casually, brushing invisible lint from your sleeves as you turned away.

But something tugged in your chest—a quiet pull of instinct or memory, you couldn’t tell.

The hallway stretched ahead, dimmer than before. Your footsteps were soft on the hardwood floor, and for a fleeting second, you felt the weight of time pressing against your back—like the house itself was holding its breath.

You reached for the door, heart ticking just a little faster.

When you swung open the door, the breath caught in your throat before you could even stop it.

Because standing there—leaning against the frame like he hadn’t just slammed you against a locker earlier today, like he hadn’t vanished and left you behind—was Sylus.

His silver-white hair had grown out a little since you last really looked at him, falling in loose strands across his brow. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his jacket, posture easy, casual… cocky.

That same crooked smirk played on his lips, the one he wore now like armor.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, amused—like this was all some inside joke you weren’t in on.

For a moment, all you could do was stare.

Because no matter how much he changed, how much he morphed into this version of himself that you barely recognized, some part of you still saw the boy with the tray of brownies.

The boy who once said he hoped you’d be friends.

You blinked, collecting your breath as if it had betrayed you.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” you managed, tone quieter than you meant it to be.

He shrugged. “Decided last minute.”

Of course he did.

Typical Sylus—always appearing when you’ve just begun to convince yourself you’re fine without him.

You stepped aside, not trusting your voice, not trusting yourself.

He brushed past, the cold air following him like a shadow—like the past you thought you were done mourning.

And as he walked through the doorway like it meant nothing, like he hadn’t once meant everything, you realized—

This night was going to hurt in ways you weren’t prepared for.

“Boy, I thought you said you weren’t joining us,” Mr. Qin said with a laugh as Sylus eased into the empty chair beside him, sliding in like he belonged there.

You sat down across from him, stiffly, your movements careful. Too careful.

Your mother chuckled from the kitchen doorway. “It’s alright. I prepared enough for an extra.” She set down a new plate and cutlery in front of him with the same warmth she always used to.

“I couldn’t miss out on the fun. Sorry,” Sylus said, turning to her.

She waved him off with a grin. “Nonsense. You’re always welcome here—you practically grew up with Y/N.”

Your spoon paused mid-air.

That sentence settled over the table like dust.

Across from you, Sylus tilted his head slightly, eyes catching yours with that same knowing smirk he wore like a second skin.

You forced a smile, brittle at the edges. “Oh, yes. Of course.”

You dropped your gaze to your bowl, the surface of the soup trembling slightly from the tremor in your hand. You tightened your grip around the spoon and took another sip, hoping the warmth would do something—anything—to soften the knot in your chest.

Mrs. Qin’s voice rose, sweet and reminiscing. “They used to be so adorable as children, weren’t they?”

Your father laughed, shaking his head. “I remember having to patch up Sylus’ knees every other week when they’d run around out back. That treehouse incident? God, we thought he broke something.”

The table bloomed with laughter—gentle, nostalgic, painfully sincere.

You couldn’t bring yourself to join in.

Each memory laid out like that, stripped and served like something sacred, made your heart sink further beneath the floorboards. These were the moments you used to cherish.

Now, they felt like ghosts with kind faces and cruel timing.

Sylus didn’t say much. But he didn’t have to.

He just watched you—calm, unreadable, amused by your discomfort. And maybe, beneath that smirk, something else lingered.

Something quieter. Sadder.

But you didn’t look long enough to know for sure.

The conversation rolled on, voices growing louder with warmth and wine. But all you could feel was the silence building inside you, folding in on itself like paper.

The boy from your memories was gone. And yet—he was sitting right across from you, in your home, eating from your mother’s dishes, still chasing laughter from your past like it meant nothing had changed.

But everything had.

You had.

So did he.

As the laughter slowly faded, the clink of cutlery and glasses giving way to a lull in conversation, your father took a quiet sip of wine, then cleared his throat.

“We’re going to be moving soon,” he said.

The words dropped like a stone into still water.

Sylus’s head turned immediately. His easy posture didn’t change—but under the table, his fists clenched, so tight his knuckles paled.

Mr. Qin set his glass down with a soft thud, brows lifting. “Oh? Another company transfer?”

Mrs. Qin leaned toward your mother, her voice tinged with gentle disappointment. “Aw, that’s a pity.”

“We can keep in touch,” your mom said, offering a warm smile as she reached out to squeeze Mrs. Qin’s hand—one of those quiet gestures only old friends shared.

But even through the hum of old laughter and clinking glasses, you felt it—that subtle shift.

The way silence braced itself, waiting for something to fall apart.

Sylus hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t moved.

Then your mother turned to you, smoothing a hand over your hair with pride warming her tone. “Y/N here will be attending school there. Full scholarship.”

You glanced down, suddenly hyperaware of the weight of eyes on you.

“Oh, that’s wonderful news,” Mrs. Qin beamed. Then, turning to her son, “Boy, won’t you congratulate her?”

For a moment, Sylus looked like he hadn’t heard. Like his mind had gone somewhere far away.

Then his gaze lifted, locking with yours across the table.

It was quiet, that look. Quiet and strange and heavy in the worst way.

Your breath hitched.

He blinked once, slowly, and nodded—almost imperceptibly. There was something hollow in the motion. Something tired. As if he was surrendering.

“‘Grats,” he said, voice low. Barely above a whisper.

And for the first time that night, the cockiness faded from his face.

What remained was something else—something like grief.

—•

Your room was quiet—too quiet.

The kind of quiet that pressed into your skin, the kind that made you aware of every small sound.

The steady hum of the air conditioning, the occasional creak of old floorboards, the scratch of your pen dragging across paper as you copied notes you’d already memorized twice over.

Behind you, Sylus sat on the beanbag, his tall frame folded awkwardly as his fingers toyed with the strings of his hoodie.

He hadn’t said a word since you left the table. Just followed you up the stairs like a shadow, heavy and uninvited.

You hadn’t wanted this.

You had told your parents you needed to study—an excuse they accepted without question, though your mother, in all her well-meaning cluelessness, had smiled and said, “Oh, Sylus should join you. We wouldn’t want him bored to death with our adult conversations.”

You’d scowled inwardly, biting back every protest that rose to your tongue.

Instead, you’d smiled. Tightly. “Okay.”

You hadn’t looked at him once.

Your fists had curled at your sides the moment his footsteps followed yours down the hallway.

Now he sat there, breathing the same quiet air, unraveling the tension you’d tried so hard to knot away.

You stared at your notes. The words blurred together.

Then you sighed—a little too loudly.

Behind you, you heard the subtle shift of fabric. Sylus stilled. You could almost feel his eyes on your back.

His mouth opened, then closed.

Like he was about to say something. Like the silence between you was too heavy now to ignore—but he didn’t know how to lift it.

You didn’t turn around.

Because if you did, you weren’t sure what you’d find on his face.

And you weren’t sure what yours would show in return.

Your breath hitched—damn it—when you heard the shift of fabric behind you.

Then footsteps. Quiet, hesitant.

Each one heavier than the last.

You didn’t look up.

Didn’t even blink.

Your eyes stayed glued to your notebook, even though the words on the page had started to blur into nothing.

“So,” he said, voice low—rougher than before. “You’re going away.”

He said it like he was still trying to believe it. Like the words sat heavy on his tongue and tasted like loss.

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “Yeah,” you murmured, scribbling something down that didn’t mean anything.

The silence that followed was uncomfortable. Stifling. It filled every corner of the room, curling around your lungs.

Then he cleared his throat.

“I’m sorry. About the hallway.”

You raised an eyebrow, your grip tightening around the pen.

Still, you didn’t look at him.

That’s what he was apologizing for?

Out of everything—every unanswered message, every broken promise, every quiet moment where he looked through you like you were just air—that’s what he chose?

“Don’t worry,” you said, the words slipping out too bitter, too raw. “I’m used to it anyway.”

You didn’t mean to sound that hurt. But you did.

And Sylus… Sylus looked like he’d just been punched in the chest.

He exhaled sharply, jaw tight. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Your pen stilled mid-stroke.

This time, you turned.

You turned slowly, deliberately, and looked up at him—at the boy who once knew you better than anyone else, now standing there like a stranger wearing pieces of your past.

“It means exactly what I said,” you replied, your voice hard, brittle. Your glare cut through the tension like glass.

Sylus blinked, visibly thrown. As if he hadn’t expected you to fight back. As if he was the one hurting.

The gall of it made you scoff. Loud. Disbelieving.

Of course he looked wounded.

Of course he flinched at the edges of your anger, like you were being cruel for daring to hold him accountable.

And for a split second, you hated how beautiful he still looked even when he was stunned into silence.

You hated that a part of you still hoped he’d give you something real. Something honest.

But Sylus had always been too good at building walls—

And you were always the one left outside them.

You could see it—the slow turn of gears behind his eyes, the struggle to piece together something, anything, that would make this moment easier.

His mouth opened, then closed, words faltering on the edge of his lips before they ever saw the light.

But it was too late for words.

Without warning, you stood. The chair scraped against the floor, sharp in the stillness. You looked him in the eye—really looked—and for a second, neither of you breathed.

And in that breathless space between glances, you searched his face—not for answers anymore, but for closure.

Whatever you were hoping to find… it wasn’t there.

You moved past him without another word and crossed the room. Opened your closet. Your hand found it immediately—the faded hoodie tucked in the back, the one he gave you all those years ago.

“Helps with the nightmares,” he had murmured once, when your voice had trembled over the phone at 2 a.m.

“It smells like you,” you had whispered, holding it tight to your chest.

But now, it was just another ghost in fabric form. A threadbare monument to a friendship that had been slowly unraveling for years.

You tossed it toward him without ceremony.

He caught it clumsily, eyes narrowing in confusion as he looked down at it. Then at you.

His brows drew together. “Why are you—”

“Take it back,” you said, quiet but steady. “I don’t need it anymore.”

There was more beneath those words—so much more.

You didn’t need it.

You didn’t need the comfort it used to bring.

You didn’t need the boy who gave it to you.

You didn’t need him anymore.

But you didn’t say any of that aloud. You didn’t have to.

Because Sylus’s expression faltered the moment he understood. His fingers gripped the fabric tighter, like he wanted to hold on to something—anything—but it was already slipping.

He stood there in your room, hoodie in hand, the silence thick between you.

And for once, he had no smugness to hide behind.

Just the look of someone realising too late what he had lost.

“Thanks for having us. Y/N, lovely to see you again,” Mrs. Qin said warmly, wrapping you in a soft hug that smelled faintly of lavender and memory.

You returned it gently, the smile on your lips practiced, steady.

Behind her, Mr. Qin chuckled, patting your shoulder. “Good luck with your future studies, young lady. Make us proud.”

You murmured your thanks, the words catching faintly in your throat.

Sylus stood a few steps away, quiet and withdrawn, shoulders hunched slightly like the night had grown too heavy for him to carry.

He kept his gaze on the ground, avoiding conversation, avoiding you.

Your parents stood on either side of you, waving as Mrs. Qin offered a cheerful, “We’ll see you soon!” and your mother called after her, “I’ll be sure to call!”

They got into the car, voices muffled behind closed doors, the engine humming softly into the stillness of the night.

Your parents turned to go back inside, chatting quietly between themselves, and you started to follow—until something made you glance over your shoulder.

And there he was.

Through the glass, seated in the back of the car, Sylus was staring at you.

Not smirking.

Not smug.

Just looking—like he was trying to memorize your face, like he already knew he wouldn’t see it like this again.

His expression was unreadable. But his eyes… they looked a little too lost for someone who had always pretended to be so sure of himself.

You met his gaze one last time.

There was so much you could have said.

So much he never did.

But instead, you let out a quiet sigh—one that trembled more than you wanted it to. Not for him. Not anymore.

You turned, the weight of his stare clinging to your back like a question that would never be answered.

—•

“Oh, boy—I’m so worried about my results,” your friend groaned beside you, clutching her books like a lifeline.

You chuckled softly, shifting the weight of your own books against your chest. “I’m not. I studied hard for this.”

The hallway buzzed around you, filled with post-exam chatter, slamming lockers, laughter echoing off walls. The air smelled faintly of summer, freedom just at the edge of everyone’s fingertips.

Your friend shot you a playful look. “That’s because you’re a nerd.”

You grinned, but before you could reply, her expression shifted, like something had just clicked into place.

“Oh! Are you still talking to Zayne?”

You froze mid-step.

Zayne.

The name felt like a gentle knock against your heart—familiar, soft, and suddenly distant. You blinked, the hallway noise fading for a second as you pulled out your phone.

One missed call.

“Shit,” you whispered, thumb hovering over the screen. You hadn’t replied. Hadn’t spoken to him since that day on the bleachers. It had completely slipped your mind.

Your friend laughed, nudging your shoulder. “Oh my god, Y/N the heartbreaker.”

You rolled your eyes and swatted at her, quickly typing out a message.

‘Hey, sorry—been busy studying. Let’s meet up after school?’

You barely had time to second-guess it before your screen lit up with a reply.

‘It’s okay. Sure. See you at the café.’

You let out a quiet breath, relief loosening your shoulders.

Your friend glanced at you, teasing glint still in her eyes as you both started walking again.

“Why don’t you just tell him you’re not into him?” she asked as you reached your lockers.

You shrugged, avoiding her gaze as you opened yours. “Because we’re not like that. We just got close after he helped me with econ.”

You began stacking your books away, trying to keep your tone neutral.

She scoffed behind you. “Right. Friends who text good morning, share inside jokes even I don’t understand, and look at each other like you’re the only two people in the room. Sure, Y/N.”

You shot her a glare over your shoulder, but didn’t argue. Because what was there to say?

Zayne was a good friend. He’d never pushed. Never pried. And in a time when you were still quietly mourning a boy who no longer looked at you the same way, Zayne had shown up without asking for anything in return.

You met him sometime after that summer—after you stopped going over to Sylus’s house, after the silence between you and your childhood friend turned permanent. Zayne had sat next to you in calculus when no one else had wanted to partner up.

He never asked about your past. You never asked about his.

Things just… clicked.

And for a while, it was nice. Simple. Easy.

But as you slid your locker shut, you couldn’t ignore the twist of guilt curling beneath your ribs.

Because maybe, somewhere deep down, a part of you had only clung to Zayne to fill the space Sylus had left behind.

And maybe—just maybe—you were still doing it.

Not out of cruelty.

But out of the desperate need to not feel forgotten.

“So, where are you—” your friend’s sentence faltered, her voice trailing off as her eyes fixed on something behind you. Her fingers curled around your shoulder, giving it a gentle shake.

You blinked, confused. “What?”

Then you turned.

And froze.

Sylus was walking down the hallway, weaving through the crowd like it wasn’t even there. His hands were stuffed into his pockets, jaw tense, eyes locked on you—like the rest of the world had fallen away.

He stopped right in front of you. Didn’t glance at your friend. Didn’t say hello.

Just, “Let’s talk.”

Casual.

Like he hadn’t been avoiding you for years.

Like he hadn’t watched you walk away from him without ever calling you back.

You stared at him, jaw clenched. “What is there to talk about?”

His gaze didn’t falter, but his voice grew quieter. “Can you not be difficult right now?”

You let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “I’m difficult?”

His expression flickered—just for a second. Then he looked to your friend, acknowledging her presence with a brief glance, before turning back to you.

“Fine,” he muttered.

Then he reached forward and grabbed your wrist—not harsh, not painful, but firm. Like he was afraid you’d slip through his fingers if he didn’t hold on.

You barely had time to react before he tugged you with him down the hallway.

Your friend stood there, stunned, watching you disappear into the tide of students.

When you reached the quiet clearing behind the school—the one where no one ever really wandered during breaks—you yanked your hand from his grasp like it burned.

Air rushed into your lungs as if you’d forgotten how to breathe.

“What the hell, Sylus?” you snapped, your voice sharper than you intended. Anger laced with something more fragile underneath.

He stopped a few feet away, hands still in his pockets, shoulders rising and falling with the weight of everything unspoken. His expression was unreadable, eyes too still.

“You can’t just—” you started, running a hand through your hair, pacing half a step before turning back to him, heart racing.

“Can’t just what?” he cut in, voice low and tight.

And there it was again.

That edge in his tone. Like he was the one who’d been hurt. Like he couldn’t understand why you were angry—why you’d ever be angry.

You stared at him, stunned for a second.

But the words?

They were already rising in your chest like a storm.

You jabbed a finger into his chest, hard. “Don’t act like you don’t know why.”

Your voice shook, not from fear—but from the weight of every word you’d never been given the chance to say. Your eyes burned, red-hot and unrelenting.

“You don’t get to stand here and play victim,” you hissed. “You don’t get to act like you’re the one who was left behind—when you were the one who walked away.”

For a moment, his expression cracked.

Just a flicker.

The mask slipped, and beneath it—there he was. The boy you used to know. The one who used to sit beside you at lunch and knock on your door with homemade muffins and a lopsided grin.

He looked like he’d just been kicked.

But you didn’t stop.

You couldn’t.

“Do you even know how long it’s been?” your voice rose, trembling with grief you didn’t know how to hold anymore. “How many years I’ve waited for you to show up again? How many nights I stared at my phone, wondering if you’d just say something—anything?”

He went still.

Silent.

His head lowered, eyes cast to the side, jaw tight like he was trying not to let anything slip through the cracks.

You turned away for a moment, trying to catch your breath, then spun back to face him. The words came tumbling out, bitter and helpless.

“Was I not good enough for you?” Your voice broke. “Not cool enough? Not interesting enough? Was I just some boring neighborhood girl you outgrew once the real world started paying attention to you?”

That’s when his eyes snapped to yours. Something flared behind them.

He stepped forward.

“You’re not them,” he said, barely above a whisper.

It sounded like a confession.

You scoffed, blinking back the sting in your eyes. “Then what am I, Sylus?”

The question hung in the air like smoke.

And he said nothing.

No excuse.

No explanation.

Just silence.

Because even now—especially now—he still didn’t have the words.

You looked at him—really looked at him—and for a moment, the anger unraveled, leaving something raw and helpless in its place.

“Well?” you whispered, voice low and brittle.

One word. That was all you needed.

One answer. One truth.

But he stood there, unmoving, mouth parted like the words were there, caught in the back of his throat—too fragile or too damning to say.

And you realized, with a hollow sort of clarity, that this was always how it went.

You waited.

Waited for him to show up.

Waited for him to speak.

Waited for him to care enough to stay.

And you hated it.

You hated how familiar this ache had become.

How you were always reaching, always hoping, always waiting—for a boy who never knew how to meet you halfway.

“Fine.”

The word slipped out on a breath, quiet and frayed at the edges. You exhaled, blinking fast as the tears threatened to spill.

“I get it,” you said, voice trembling. “I really do.”

You turned to go, the ache pressing against your chest like a closing door. You were done waiting. Done hoping.

“Wait, I—”

His voice caught behind you, reaching—but not quite enough.

But before he could finish, a group of students rounded the corner, their laughter echoing too loudly in the stillness. One of them spotted Sylus, grin spreading like gasoline to flame.

“Yo, Sylus,” the guy called, eyes drifting to you. “Who’s that? Your new girlfriend?”

You turned, slowly.

Looked at Sylus.

Waited.

For a second, he looked back at you. Something uncertain flickering in his gaze.

And then—it was gone.

The smirk returned. That old, familiar armor snapping back into place. The kind of expression that kept people at a distance. The one he wore when he didn’t know how to feel anything real.

“No she’s,” he said, voice light, casual. “Just someone.”

Just someone.

Your breath hitched, and you almost laughed—almost.

Because of course he’d say that.

Of course he’d reduce you to nothing in front of his crowd.

You stared at him for a beat longer, letting the sting settle in your bones.

Then, with a scoff and a bitter smile curling at the corners of your mouth, “Just someone, huh? Well. I hope you enjoy your life, Sylus.”

And you turned, walked away without looking back. Not this time. Not again.

He should’ve stopped you.

Should’ve said something—anything.

But he didn’t.

He stood there, frozen, as his friends clapped him on the back, laughing, teasing.

And still, his eyes followed your retreating figure, even long after you were gone.

—•

“So,” your dad said as he sank into the couch beside you, stretching out with a groan, “what do you wanna do in your last summer here, kiddo?”

You looked up from your sketchbook, pencil paused between shading strokes. The question lingered in the air like dust caught in golden afternoon light. You tilted your head, thoughtful.

“I don’t really know,” you murmured. “Maybe hang out with some friends… Zayne’s been bothering me about going to the movies.”

Your dad chuckled, reaching over to ruffle your hair before standing up again. “Zayne’s a good kid,” he said, already walking toward the hallway. “You should bring him over for dinner sometime.”

Then he winked.

You groaned, wrinkling your nose. “Dad, gross.”

His laugh echoed back to you as he disappeared down the hall.

You turned your attention back to your sketchbook, dragging your pencil gently over the paper, shading the delicate wings of a butterfly. Lines and curves took shape beneath your hand, and you let out a quiet sigh.

It had been nearly two weeks since the clearing.

Since the last words spoken between you and Sylus.

Since just someone.

The days had blurred since then—final exams, end-of-year photos, hallway laughter that didn’t sting anymore.

You’d spent those days with Zayne, sitting on the bleachers and dreaming out loud about the future. College. Change. Anything but the past.

And slowly, Sylus had begun to fade.

A little more each day.

His name didn’t sting as much now.

You had your answer, after all. He gave it to you, plain and cold.

You weren’t as important as you thought.

You were just someone.

Someone he had outgrown.

And maybe that hurt. Maybe it would always hurt, just a little.

But you didn’t care. Not anymore.

You were leaving this town.

You were going to study art history.

You were going to build something new—something that didn’t trace back to him.

Your phone buzzed beside you.

You glanced at the screen.

‘I got us tickets. 7 p.m. Don’t be late.’

You smiled, soft and small. Rolled your eyes.

‘When have I ever been?’

Sliding off the couch, you made your way to the bathroom, the rhythm of familiarity steadying you. The shower was warm, the steam curling like comfort around your shoulders. You dressed, grabbed your bag, and headed toward the door.

“Dad, I’m heading out!” you called into the house, already pulling on your shoes.

A beat later, his voice echoed faintly back, “Okay!”

You smiled as you closed the door behind you.

The porch steps felt lighter beneath your feet.

The summer air smelled like new beginnings.

And you walked toward the theatre—skipping a little as you went.

But then… your footsteps slowed.

As if pulled by muscle memory rather than intent, you found yourself pausing in front of a house that once felt like a second home.

His house.

Sylus’.

Your eyes drifted toward the front yard, overgrown in places now, the grass curling at the edges of the walkway. But you didn’t see weeds or time.

You saw mud.

Splattered shoes. Dirty hands. Giddy chaos.

You saw yourself, younger, wilder, laughing so hard your sides ached.

“I’m the mud monster!” you’d screamed, arms flailing as you lunged toward a smaller Sylus, who let out a dramatic, fake shriek and ran. His laughter had echoed through the summer air, filling every corner of the yard like sunlight.

Your chest tightened.

You shook your head and started walking again, trying to leave it behind.

But then your gaze caught again—on the porch this time.

The swing.

Still there. Still creaking faintly in the breeze, swaying back and forth like someone had just left it.

You stopped again.

You could almost see it—the two of you sitting side by side, pinkies linked like a vow only kids believed in. His shoulder brushing yours as the swing rocked lazily beneath you.

“I promise,” he’d said back then, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “We’ll still be friends. I won’t turn into a jock.”

He’d laughed—boyish and unguarded—before nudging you playfully. “If you promise you won’t become a mean girl.”

You’d snorted, flicking his arm. “Uh, yeah. Sure. Me, a mean girl? That’s terrifying.”

You could almost hear it again—the innocence, the hope. The sound of two hearts that thought they’d always beat beside each other.

But that was a long time ago.

The swing creaked.

The porch sat empty.

And the boy who once made you promises now barely remembered how to say your name without making it hurt.

You blinked the memory away, swallowed hard, and turned back toward the road.

The past wasn’t your home anymore.

And it was time to stop standing in its yard.

You were just about to turn the corner onto the main road, heart light with the thought of the evening ahead—when you stopped dead in your tracks.

Because there he was.

Sylus.

The very boy you had promised yourself you were done thinking about.

The ghost of every half-spoken word and every memory you tried to bury now stood, very real, very solid, right in front of you.

He towered above you like he always had, but something was different.

Red eyes met yours—still sharp, but dulled now. Hollowed out by something you didn’t recognize. Or maybe… something you did.

His hair was tousled, styled but undone, like he’d been running. Like this wasn’t where he intended to be—but he ended up here anyway.

You couldn’t speak.

Neither could he.

The silence stretched between you, trembling with everything you hadn’t said.

And then—his voice, quiet. Rough. Almost like he forgot how to use it.

“Hey.”

You blinked, breath catching.

“H-Hey,” you replied, and your voice felt too small, too tight in your throat.

Suddenly, your shoes were fascinating. You stared down, shuffling your feet slightly, hand rising to rub at the back of your neck, anything to ground yourself.

“How long?” he asked, the question breaking through the stillness like a pebble tossed into water.

You looked up, slowly. The question caught you off guard, though you knew exactly what he meant.

“A week,” you answered, soft but honest.

He nodded. Just once. Looking down like he couldn’t quite meet your eyes anymore.

“I see.”

Two words. So simple. So heavy.

The kind of heaviness that comes when it’s already too late.

You glanced down at your phone, checking the time.

Zayne was probably already at the theatre.

You hesitated for a moment, then looked up at Sylus again—at the boy who once felt like your whole world and now stood in front of you like a closed chapter you hadn’t quite finished reading.

“Hey, look, I—” you started, the words catching for a beat before you steadied them with a breath.

Then you offered a small smile, one that didn’t tremble this time.

“I don’t care about all that anymore.”

His head snapped up.

His eyes searched yours, wide, startled. There was something in them—shock, disbelief, and something softer you couldn’t name. Maybe regret. Maybe relief. Maybe it was both.

“I’m moving on,” you said quietly. “A new life and all that.”

You tucked your hands into your pockets, suddenly shy. “I just… I hope you get everything you’re looking for, Sylus.”

For a moment, the world seemed to pause around you.

Then, gently, you raised your hand in a small wave.

And stepped aside.

You didn’t look back this time.

Didn’t wait for a reply.

You just walked forward—toward the future.

Leaving him behind, not out of anger.

But out of love that had nowhere else to go.

masterlist

[gold-onthe-inside]

flu season

who? aaron hotchner (s7) x fem!reader summary: when you catch the same bug that's been going round at jack's school, your favourite person returns the favour to take care of you. content warnings: sickness obv, lots of praise (smart/best girl) word count: 0.8k a/n: wrote this for my best girl @minswriting to help her feel better <3 love you bby ; listened to flu season by koffer

You don’t fall sick that often — your record had been 6 sick days last year — but flu season gets to everyone, especially when you spent the better half of a week taking care of a 10 year old with your boyfriend while he was working on a case. You’d felt the odd tickle of a sneeze but nothing more, and Aaron had shown his gratitude in more ways than one. You didn’t mind, you never minded. Just like Aaron, Jack had made a home for himself in your heart, complete with a pillow fort and all.

Except come Tuesday, you’ve got the same bug he did, waking up much later than you normally did, your whole body aching and sore and your head woozy. There’s no choice, you have to call in sick - for fear you might pass out behind the wheel. You wouldn’t have called him if there was another choice either, but it’s just your luck that you’re out of any medication that might help — no painkillers, no cold syrup, nothing.

He can hear it in your voice, the frail hoarseness to it, the stuffy nose that means your voice is a little more nasally than usual. It’s a no-brainer; he tells Rossi to hold down the fort for a day, to which he receives a knowing smirk, and then he’s out of the office, stopping only at a general store in your neighbourhood to pick up everything you need. He splurges on the hypoallergenic eucalyptus tissues, the softest ones he can find, and strawberry cold syrup because he’d be a lousy profiler to not remember your favourite flavour. The next stop is groceries — chicken, eggs, and vegetables, seeing as you wouldn’t go shopping until Thursday — and then he’s at your apartment, sliding the key you’d given him for emergencies into the door.

You look, and feel, like death warmed up, all laid up on the couch with your red-tinged nose and pale skin, tissues scattered around you. “Hey, honey, how are you feeling?” he asked, instantly making a beeline to kneel at your side. He doesn’t even take off his dress shoes first.

“M sorry,” you managed, reaching out for his handsome face, which he covers with his own large palm, kissing the inside of your wrist.

“You have nothing to be sorry about,” he murmured, closing his hand over your hand and frowning with concern. “You do seem a little warm, though. You check your temperature?”

“Mhm, was 100 degrees this morning. Figured I should stay warm.”

“Smart girl,” he praised, pressing his lips to your temple. “Food?”

“Toast and orange juice,” you said, looking at him as he stroked your hair. “Were you very busy?”

“Never too busy to take care of my best girl,” he replied. “Let’s get some medication in you and then you need to rest, okay?”

You nodded, uncaring of how childish you felt yourself being. Not when he was so caring. He measured out the exact dose of cold syrup for you, had you follow it with a painkiller to help with the body ache, praising you the whole time. “Stay with me?” you asked in your sleepy voice, and he can’t say no. You shift to make space for him on the couch, laying your head on his lap, drifting off to his hand stroking your hair.

You stirred a couple hours later, rubbing your eyes groggily as you try to make sense of everything. Aaron’s suit jacket hung on the back of a chair, and the curtains had been drawn to help you sleep better, and you feel too hot in your hoodie and blanket. You pulled off the hoodie, leaving it beside you just as Aaron walked over, carefully holding a tray with bowl of chicken soup.

“This is officially too much,” you said, your voice a little stronger than it had been when he’d come through the door.

“It’s not nearly enough,” he said firmly. “Go on, sit properly.” He waits until you oblige, his look firm, but a fondness in his eyes as you crossed your legs, leaving him plenty of space to sit beside you. He pressed the back of his hand to your forehead, drifting down to check your neck. “Not as warm as before, but you can do better,” he said and you pursed your lips at him.

“You may be a boss at work, but you don’t boss me around here, understood?” you told him, threatening him with your spoon and he tried not to laugh.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, sinking back into the couch while you return your attention to the soup, his hand rubbing your back. “Anything else I can do for you?” he asked, and you know he’s being genuine, because there’s nothing he loves more than being of service.

“You’re here,” you said softly. “That’s enough.” And you mean it, of course. You also make him watch Moulin Rouge, even though he hates watching movies that make you cry, and he doesn’t leave your side, spending the day in his slightly unbuttoned dress shirt and slacks, letting you use him like a large body pillow for the rest of the day.

[kunasthiast]

champagne problems (part 1)

summary: Golf clubs, generational wealth (and trauma), and a childhood friendship that aged like milk. Everything is hell with Sukuna... especially if you had relapses of the memories that made you emotionally constipated for the last 12 fucking years. pairings: sukuna x reader (female) cw: crack fic! (pls don't take this srsly), one-sided enemies to lovers, slow-burn, delusional denial, aggressively coded sexual tension, french toast, suggestive content words: 17.1k (had to cut in parts since i've got too much words)

It’s either the universe has a twisted sense of humor or you were abandoned by it. Really. Of all the people in this planet, in this country, and in this obscenely, soul-sucking, beige-coded, stepford-smiling gated community, you had to be stuck with him. 

Sukuna.

That pink-haired bastard with more money than god and an ego large enough to have its own gravitational pull. For the love of strawberries and all things sacred, he’s a narcissistic, cocky asshole that you refuse to be associated with. For years now, actually. And he, by the way, just happened to be your self-proclaimed mortal enemy.

You’ve known him forever—since diapers, actually, thanks to your parents being disgustingly close. (Money and golf, as they say, deepen relationships and ruin offspring). Back then, it was you, Sukuna, and Gojo: inseparable, chaotic, and constantly banned from formal events for “behavioral disruption.”

Then came college. And oh, college. A series of very questionable decisions – booze, bad judgment, and that one summer you both agreed to never mention again. The one where tequila blurred every line you swore you’d never cross. Let’s just say, some boundaries were… explored. Poorly.

And of course, to top it all off: a stupid, petty fight that led to a rift in your friendship. Now, you’re both single parents, stumbling through young adulthood with a baby on each hip. You, with your son. Him, with his daughter.

Minimal contact is the unspoken rule. Occasional passive-aggressive exchanges at neighborhood meetings (gods, this is a cookie-cutter suburban hell – why is every lawn looked like the golf course green?). Where the air was thick with the scent of freshly cut grass and thinly veiled judgment, and every conversation was a subtle competition for the best-manicured lawn and the most successful offspring. 

Forced civility at school (because, of course, your kids go to the same overpriced academy that call tests “challenges” and uniforms “identity expressions”), and you’re both contractually obligated to show up at family business functions, aka golf disguised as networking disguised as family bonding disguised as a pissing contest.

And, speaking of contests – you’ve been lock in one with Sukuna for years. Specifically, your annual power play at the PTA sponsorship table. One-upping each other in increasingly ridiculous ways because nothing fuels you more than spite.

But what’s life without being a little bitchy, right?

Unfortunately, karma – being the absolute bitch of life – decided that your kids would become best friends. Not casual playground pals. No. Soulmate-level best friends. The kind that build pillow forts with emotional depth. With the insistent sleepovers, shared inside jokes in their own weird language you’re 90% they invented, and referred to each other as siblings.

How did it happen? You have no fucking idea. 

Or maybe you do, you’re just in deep denial. Maybe it’s genetic. Maybe it’s some goddamn cosmic joke. Maybe the universe has you by the throat and won’t let go until it watches you suffer in 4K.

Not that you don’t love his daughter – she’s an absolute angel, the kind of sweet that makes dentists nervous. But her being your son’s BFF? That’s… inevitable. 

Especially in your tight, old-money-adjacent social circle. They’ve known each other since they were just wearing diapers, since they were teething on the same overpriced Montessori rattles. 

Just like you and Sukuna. 

Except this time, it’s different. Because their friendship demands one thing: coexistence. You and that tattoed-to-the-gods asshole had been forced to coexist. Again, coexist.

And Sukuna? Oh no, he doesn’t do coexisting. Nah. Nope. Never. He breaks balance. He thrives on chaos. He gets off on making your life just inconvenient enough to ruin your peace, but not enough to justify a felony charge.

And this morning? This godforsaken Saturday morning? He outdid himself.

Twelve years of passive-aggressive parenting – scratch that, thirty-three years of slow-burn emotional warfare – have led to this moment. This may just be his masterpiece.

Because this was when the relapse started—and Sukuna made damn sure you felt every inch of it.

The first thing you register at seven-fucking-A.M. is the sound of something dying. Violently. It’s mechanical. Obnoxious. It sounds like a robot lawnmower from hell just met its end outside your bedroom window.

The second thing you register? Pure, unfiltered rage.

Your eyes snap open like you’ve just been slapped by God himself. That noise—it’s outside. Your house. Your lawn.

You lurch out of bed like a woman possessed – dazed, furious, still marinating in last night’s sleep deprivation, because of course you were up ’til 3 AM binge-watching that dumb dating show where someone literally said “Montoya, por favor,”. You then grabbed your pillow and screamed into it for ten minutes. Regret? Never heard of her.

You barely register the cool cling of your La Perla silk sleepwear against your skin as you stomp toward the window. One violent yank later—

And there it is. Not a noise. But, a nuisance. Him. Sukuna.

Shirtless. (Is that not a violation of at least three HOA rules?) Smirking. Holding a hedge trimmer like he’s auditioning for a cologne commercial that probably ends with “Dior Sauvage: For Men Who Deserve Jail.”

You’ve seen him shirtless before. Too many times. College. His apartment. Your apartment. That goddamn couch in the frat house that probably caused seven diseases just by looking at it. Heat. A lot of teeth. Chaos. And him tracing lazy circles on your back like he was trying to memorize you. The worst part? You let him.

The morning sun, which used to mean peace and lattes, now glints off the sheen of sweat on his stupid, tattooed chest—each muscle cut like it was carved by demons with a thirst for drama. His pink hair is tousled just so—purposefully chaotic, like the universe made him hot just to personally ruin your life.

And then you see it. What used to be your hedge. You blink once. Then again. No change.

Your lush, lovingly imperfect, expensive-as-shit privet hedge is gone. Vaporized. Replaced by a row of cold, surgically shaved shrubs that look like a serial killer’s idea of curb appeal. Your eye twitches.

As if summoned by your fury, Sukuna glances up. His crimson eyes gleaming with the kind of chaotic joy that only thrives on your rage – or maybe something else. That look – the one he gave you at 2AM on your billion-dollar couch the night you swore it was a one-time thing. The one that said, “I’d ruin you if you let me.” And you let him. Back then. Right before shit got complicated. Right before you woke up next to him and pretended that everything’s normal as fuck. Again. 

He knows what this is doing to you. And that annoyingly smug bastard does this all with a smirk. A slow, wolfish, go-ahead-lose-your-mind kind of smirk.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he mouths. Oh, of course. You can lip-read him. Of course you can. Curse your stupid subconscious for prioritizing Sukuna Fluency over Spanish.

You inhale deeply. Try to center yourself. Failing that, you simply open the door like you’re kicking off Act One of a Greek tragedy. No robe. No shoes. No dignity. Just you, rage, and a whole lot of leg.

“Sukuna,” you bark, voice rasping like vengeance incarnate.

He doesn’t flinch. Of course he doesn’t. Instead, he turns, casually leaning on the hedge trimmer like he’s posing for The Bachelor: War Criminal Edition.

“Oh. You’re up early,” he drawls. His eyes flick downward—just for a second, but long enough to set your entire nervous system on fire.

“You—” You gesture wildly toward the massacre formerly known as your hedge. “What the actual fuck did you do?”

Sukuna squints at the row of plant corpses like a man admiring the Louvre, “Landscaping,” he says.

“That was my hedge.”

“It was an ugly hedge.”

You nearly combust. “Are you clinically insane?!”

He finally turns fully to face you, crimson eyes gleaming with the kind of chaotic joy that only thrives on female rage. “Don’t be dramatic. It looks better now.”

“Better?!” you screech. “It looks like it was done by Hannibal Lecter with a pair of OCD scissors!”

Sukuna hums. “You’re welcome.”

You take one murderous step forward. “You owe me a new hedge.”

“I gave you a new hedge.”

“I will burn this entire street down.”

His grin widens, predatory. “Might wanna change out of that nightie first, sweetheart. Fire hazard.”

You freeze. That’s when it hits you. The air. The breeze. The sudden realization that you are—very much—standing in front of Satan in La Perla silk.

Short. Bare. Clingy. Absolutely illegal in three states. Straps like dental floss. Chest support? None. Coverage? Legally negligible. Your arms fly up like someone just yelled “freeze!”

And Sukuna? Oh, he notices. He notices everything. His gaze drags over you slowly, hungrily, with the smug satisfaction of a man who knows exactly the effect he has.

“Nice outfit,” he murmurs. “All for me, babe?”

Your soul? Gone. Astral projected. Witnessed its own murder. And a tiny, traitorous part of your brain, the part you usually kept locked in a soundproof room, whispered, ‘Yep.' You crushed that traitorous voice with the force of a thousand suns.

“Shut up,” you hiss, spinning on your heel like a scandalized Disney princess on the verge of committing a felony.

“Don’t be shy now,” he calls after you, laughter rumbling from his chest like a goddamn villain. 

“Come back! Let’s negotiate... hedge replacements. Or anything else you’re aching to trim.”

You slam the door so hard you hear a bird scream outside.

And you? You launch yourself face-first into the couch like a woman wronged by fate, God, and the HOA.

Because of that man. Because of Ryomen. Fucking. Sukuna. Because your life is a telenovela and that devil is hot and ruining your lawn.

Your theatrical death scene is cut short by the sound of a small, sleepy voice.

“Mom?” You freeze.

Riku, your 12-year old son, stands in the hallway, looking like he’s fought a pillow and lost. Pajama shirt backward.  One sock. A feather in his hair?

He squints. Then pauses. “Why are you yelling? It’s Saturday.”

You try to pull yourself together, smoothing down your very not-child-appropriate sleepwear and flattening your hair like that’ll help.

“Nothing,” you say. Too fast. Too high-pitched. Too guilty.

Riku eyes you. Then the door. Then back to you. “Mom, why are you dressed like that?”

Your soul flatlines. “I—no reason. Go to bed.”

“It’s seven in the morning.”

“AND?!”

He sighs like he pays taxes and you’re the child here. “Did you fight with Papa again?”

Your brain short-circuited. “Papa?”

He yawns. “Unckuna said I should call him that. Since we’re like family.”

Something in your chest twists. He said that? The same man who claims relationships are just complicated sleepovers with taxes? The one who ghosted you emotionally mid-snuggle and then had the audacity to joke about building IKEA furniture “as a team”? The one who doesn’t even believe in relationships (more like… you both don’t) that last longer than a lease. 

And now he’s out here playing pretend dad to your son? Like he didn’t once whisper the word “ours” into your neck and pretend it was a joke.

You see white. You see God. You see the void. You also see a very expensive therapy bill forming in your future.

“That man is NOT your father,” you snarl.

“He also said your hedge looked like a haunted broccoli. With trust issues.”

“HE MURDERED MY HEDGE.”

Riku shrugs. “It was kinda ugly.”

You gasp. “It was tastefully whimsical!”

Then your phone buzzes.

[Do Not Answer]: good morning, sweetheart. hope you’re still wearing that cute little nightie. you always looked best in silk. see u later 😘

You stare at the screen like it personally offended you. Then briefly consider throwing your phone out the window. Or yourself. Unfortunately, your insurance doesn’t cover “Sukuna-related injuries” or emotional trauma due to unsolicited thirst traps and flirty, horny, late-stage situationship texts. 

Because he’s done this before—flirting like it’s harmless, like it doesn’t drag old memories up from the basement where you thought you buried them under shame, sarcasm, and 12 years of pretending you don’t miss him. The way his hand used to fit in yours, the ghost of his lips on your neck, the memory of his laugh echoing in your apartment, a laugh you hadn't heard in person for years. All of it was buried, but the soil was thin.

You scream into the couch cushion like you’re dying on a battlefield. And worse than shame, deeper than anger, in the dark corners of your soul, is the memory of liking it.

“Ew,” Riku mutters. “Do I have to hear about your weird grown-up drama?”

“IT’S NOT WEIRD DRAMA.”

Riku gives you a long, tired look. “Mom.”

“What?!”

He points to the phone. “I know you like him.”

Your entire soul dissolves into steam.

Despite the fact that he just ruined your precious Saturday morning with this hedge incident and a completely inappropriate message to send to your ‘co-parent’, Sukuna was moving on with his day. Specifically, he was cooking breakfast like some domestic menace in his obnoxiously sleek, state-of-the-art kitchen that looked like it belonged in the magazine spread of Architectural Digest.

Because unlike most rich assholes, Sukuna didn’t trust personal chefs. People spit in food. People sneezed in food. People existed near food, which was already bad enough. So, every morning, he cooked his own. For him and his daughter. Without fail. And since it was Saturday, that meant one thing: big breakfast.

Which also meant, thanks to the unfortunate circumstances of your life, you and Riku would be there too. Because in a twist of cosmic cruelty, his daughter Keiko had long ago declared that Saturday breakfast at her dad’s house was sacred tradition. 

And Riku, the traitor, had readily agreed. Of course he did. The two of them had been best friends since they were in kindergarten, and you? You were just along for the ride. Fuck it, right?

Keiko, same age as Riku, stomped into the kitchen like she owned the place (she does, it’s her dad’s) – hair a tangled mess, eyes half shut, wearing an oversized My Melody pajama set like a gremlin princess.

“Daddy, what’s for breakfast?” She flopped onto a barstool, chin resting on her palm, already judging the pile of ingredients on the counter: eggs, bacon, fresh fruit, rice, miso soup, and a whole loaf of milk bread that was about to get French-toastified.

“Morning, princess. You’ve got drool,” Sukuna said, wiping her face with casual affection before returning to the stove, flipping eggs like a culinary showoff. She snorted. He hummed. 

Everything about this household was too chill. And that was his bragging right.

And now here you were, an hour later (mind you, it might already be 8:02AM). Not in your silk sleepwear now, but in your Loro Piana lounge set – a color-matching oversized hoodie and baggy sweatpants. In enemy territory. Sitting at his obnoxiously pristine kitchen island while the bane of your existence plated up French toast like he hadn’t just murdered your hedge in cold blood an hour ago and sent you a text message that would make Satan blush. Maybe you were Satan. Life was suffering.

You sat stiffly, stewing in silent rage, eating his stupidly delicious food in his stupidly perfect kitchen like the fool you were. Betrayed not just by your son, but by your taste buds.

Riku, of course, had zero shame. He was already seated next to Keiko, looking entirely far too comfortable as he reached over and swiped a piece of bacon from her plate.

“Hey!” She snapped. “That’s mine.”

Riku shrugged mid-bite with zero remorse. “Now it’s mine.”

Keiko kicked him under the table.

Sukuna – ever the type to let kids settle their own beef like unsupervised wolf cubs – didn’t even flinch. Like everything's perfectly normal. But his eyes, for a flicker, held a strange intensity as he watched you, a glint that wasn't just amusement. He simply set a plate in front of you, stacked high with French toast, bacon, and disgustingly perfect scrambled eggs. Then, because he couldn’t help himself, he leaned in close – voice infuriatingly close to your ear and a sin against sanity.

“Eat up, sweetheart,” he murmured, smug as ever. “Wouldn’t want you getting lightheaded from all that screaming this morning.”

Your fork nearly snapped in half. 

Keiko, sensing the chaos brewing, quickly changed the subject.

“Daddy,” she said, perking up, “Riku and I are gonna work on our science project later, ‘kay?”

Sukuna sat down, completely unbothered. “What is it?”

“A volcano model,” Keiko said proudly.

Sukuna arched a brow. “Lame.”

Keiko glared. “It’s for school!”

He snorted. “What happened to building a flamethrower?”

You nearly choked. Nope, you choked on your French toast.

Riku’s eyes lit up. “Wait, we can do that?”

“No,” You snapped, pointing your fork at Sukuna. “Absolutely not. Do NOT encourage them.”

Sukuna smirked, utterly unrepentant, and shrugged. “Relax, sweetheart. I wouldn’t let them  build an unsafe flamethrower.”

Your stared at him in disbelief. “There is no such thing as a safe flamethrower.”

The kids immediately started whispered like they were plotting something completely unhinged.

You took a long, deep breath. One problem at a time.

Right now, your biggest issue was pretending this breakfast wasn’t delicious. Which, unfortunately, it very much was. It was fucking amazing. Yeah, you’re easily pleased when it comes to food. But giving Sukuna even an ounce of satisfaction? Absolutely not. So, you settled for silent suffering, stabbing your fork into your French toast with unnecessary force.

Sukuna, because he was the devil incarnate, noticed. Obviously. Because the pink-haired menace always noticed.

“Good?” He asked, smirking.

You chewed aggressively. “No.”

Riku, your traitor of a child, spoke with his mouth full. “It’s really good.”

Keiko nodded, licking syrup off her fork. “Yeah, Daddy’s food is always the best.”

Sukuna looked insufferably pleased with himself. You swallowed your pride with the same intensity you swallowed that stupidly fluffy French toast. It was almost worth selling your soul for. Mind it, almost. This man could burn in hell. Preferably after breakfast.

Some time the next week, you were sprawled on the couch, half-dead after surviving what felt like a thousand back-to-back meetings. Thank God you work from home, and thank heavens it’s the family’s generational business. You could’ve been stuck in some sterile office with fluorescent lights, but nope, you're chilling at home, in your luxurious chaos. Oh, and did you mention it’s old money and generational wealth? Yeah, that kind of wealth. It’s a blessing… or a curse. Honestly, it depends on the day.

It was a Tuesday evening, and you were half-heartedly flipping through Netflix, trying to figure out which rom-com would match your mood. Naturally, you were leaning toward something unhinged and wildly unrealistic – you know, peak escapism… because why not? Maybe something classic with Matthew McConaughey, who was inescapably charming, or Hugh Grant with that disarming, floppy hair of his. Adam Sandler was also on the table, because who doesn’t love his chaotic, awkward brand of comedy? Basically something that might almost restore your faith in the idea that true love could be both absurd and beautiful. Almost.

Then, the door opened, and in walked your son, back from school.

And no – you don’t fetch him. Not when your smug, self-appointed savior of a neighbor has been picking him up for years now. Five, to be exact. Something about “Tch. We’re neighbors and they’re best friends – I should just do it instead of a fucking driver,” as if that was the most obvious and safest solution (no kidnaps, right?) in the world. Well, it is.

You didn’t even argue. Why would you? Free childcare and no afternoon traffic? That’s a win. You don’t argue with that kind of magic.

“How’s school?” you asked, still scrolling through the abyss of movie options.

Riku kicked off his shoes and dropped his bag by the door with the grace of a well-raised (you raised him) gremlin. “Fine,” he called, heading straight for the fridge. “We had a math quiz. I killed it.”

“Good job, baby genius,” you said, eyes still glued to your television as you scrolled through rom-coms. You finally hovered over How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, thumb on the remote paused mid-air. “So, steak or sushi for dinner?”

“Nah, Papa said we might do burgers tonight.”

You blinked.

“Wait – what?”

“Yup,” Riku said, nonchalantly tearing into a kunafa pistachio chocolate bar and zero shame. “He said if I finished my homework early, he’d take us to that place with the crazy milkshakes and the gold leaf fries.”

Your jaw dropped. Turned slowly at your child. Offended.

“You’re making dinner plans with him? Without me?”

Riku, blissfully unaware of the storm he was causing, crunched into the chocolate bar. “I mean… yeah? It’s Papa. He plans everything better than you do anyway.”

You gasped, obviously scandalized by your son’s betrayal. Clutching your chest in exaggeration with an, “Excuse me?!”

Before you could fully process your son’s betrayal, your phone buzzed with a FaceTime call. A FaceTime call. From your mother. Red flag. Big red flag.

She always call through FaceTime if it was a serious business to discuss. Like weddings. Or funerals. Or your personal life, which she had no business being involved in.

You almost didn’t answer, but curiosity—and the very real possibility of her forcing a conversation about your non-existent love life—compelled you to pick up.

The screen flashed, and suddenly, your mother’s entire face filled your phone, her expression beaming with suspicious delight.

“Hi, sweetheart!” she chirped, like didn’t just interrupt your most sacred of moments — talking with your son who clearly forgot that you have to eat dinner too.

“What’s wrong?” You narrowed your eyes, instantly suspicious.

Her smile widened. Uh-oh. You knew that smile. It’s an all-too-familiar sign that something – something – was very, very wrong. It’s a trap. Oh my god, why the fuck did you answer it? You could practically hear your sanity slowly crumbling.

Your father’s voice rumbled from somewhere off-screen. “Is that her?”

Your mother turned the camera. And there he was – your father – glowing with smug satisfaction, reading the newspaper like a man preparing to ruin your peace. 

“Hey, kiddo,” he greeted, not even bothering to look up. “How’s Sukuna?”

You blacked out, “WHAT?”

“Oh, your father and I just had the loveliest brunch with him yesterday,” your mother practically sang the words, her voice dripping with way too much enthusiasm.

Your brain short-circuited, processing. “You—what?”

“Brunch,” she repeated slowly, as if you were some kind of idiot who didn’t know what brunch was. “At that little place by the golf course! You know, the one with the fresh strawberry tarts? We were so surprised when Sukuna walked in! And oh, sweetheart—he insisted on paying.”

“Even the wine,” your father added, flipping a page, and still not looking up from his paper.

You stared, horrified. Yep, your entire existence is crumbling in real time.

“No. No, no, no. What the hell were you two doing having brunch with Sukuna?!”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic.” She waved a hand dismissively. “It wasn’t planned! We were there. He was there – fate, darling. Fate.”

Your father set down his paper and finally looked at you like the sage old man he was. “He’s a good man.”

Oh my god. You fought the urge to throw your phone across the room.

Your mother sighed a long, dreamy exhale that belonged to a teenage girl meeting her favorite boyband, not a grown woman discussing your literal neighbor. Your self-proclaimed enemy.

“Oh, sweetheart, he’s just so charming and thoughtful! He even asked how we were, how you were, how Riku was—” She paused, giving you that look. "He even asked about your garden. Said he was sorry about the hedge. And then he asked what kind of flowers you liked.”

Sukuna… apologized? And asked about your favorite flowers? A memory flickered – Sukuna, years ago, nursing you back to health after a particularly bad tequila night, carefully placing a bouquet of spider lilies (your favorite, but you never told him) on your bedside table. And now, a pang of something that felt suspiciously like longing hit you. But no. Deny, deny, deny. Lock it down the deepest vault.

“Mom.”

“— and honestly, it’s just so rare these days. A man with such good manners…”

“Mom. We’re neighbors.”

“And handsome, too! I mean, obviously, we always knew that, but now—”

“MOM.”

Your father nodded, the sagely figure of a man who had clearly seen things.  “Still a shame he’s not yet married.”

You swore you were about to die or throw yourself off a cliff. You weren’t picky at this point.

Your mother giggled. That dangerous giggle. The one that said she was absolutely about to dive into matchmaking hell. Everything is hell when it comes to everything with Sukuna involved.

“Mom, I swear to God, if you’re about to —”

“Oh, I just think it’s such a shame you two never worked out!”

You screamed in frustration.

Right at that moment, Riku poked his head in the camera. Of course. “Oh. Grandma’s talking about Papa again, huh?”

Your mother, ever the opportunist, perked up. “Oh, hi, sweetheart! Have you eaten? Did Uncle Sukuna pick you up from school?”

Riku flopped onto the couch, still munching on his chocolate bar and nonchalantly stealing one of your throw pillows that your leg was clearly hugging. “Yeah. We’re also gonna have burgers tonight! And gold-leaf fries.”

Your mother gasped. “Gold-plated?! Oh, see? Isn’t he wonderful?”

Riku shrugged. “I mean, yeah, he’s cool.”

Your soul left your body.

“Mom,” you said, voice shaking. “Please. I beg you. Stop.”

She only laughed. “Oh, darling, don’t be shy! You know, when I was your age, if a man looked at me the way Sukuna looks at you—”

“HANGING UP.”

“Wait—!”

Click.

You threw your phone onto the couch like it physically burned you. Riku, completely unfazed, finished his chocolate bar. How he finished it that fast was beyond you. Was he part vacuum cleaner?

“…So, mom,” he said, casually. “can I sleep over at Kei’s tonight?”

You grabbed the throw pillow and playfully smacked him with it.

Wednesdays. Hump days. The weird, middle child of the week. The day that usually smelled like stress and overpriced cold brews.

Normally, Wednesdays were crammed with back-to-back meetings: clients, your personal assistant, your shopping assistant (because, priorities), and the occasional emergency call from your hair stylist because your toner was apparently too warm. But, not today. 

Today was sacred.

Today was shopping day. A full, uninterrupted day of retail therapy. Chanel, Cartier, a suspiciously overpriced iced matcha with edible gold flakes—you earned this. 

You even texted your driver, Hiro, at 9 a.m. sharp to be on standby – like the responsible adult you occasionally pretend to be. Your credit cards warmed up like a Formula 1 engine, and all your favorite stores knew to roll out the metaphorical red carpet.

This Wednesday was going so well until Sukuna betrayed you.

You were still in your robe, smearing serum across your face like a rich house cat bathing in luxury, when your phone pinged. You glanced at the notification and felt your soul leave your body.

[Do Not Answer]: babe, I’m slammed with meetings [Do Not Answer]: mind picking up the kids today?

You stared. 

Blinked. 

And blinked again.

… Babe?

Babe.

Babe?!

The sheer audacity of that word nearly made you drop your gua sha.

He doesn’t call you babe. He never calls you babe. Well, that was years ago. But, he says “princess” with that smirk when he wants to piss you off, or “gorgeous” when he’s being annoyingly charming, and most of the times, lately, he calls you “sweetheart,” and you’re so ready to combust anytime. But babe?

Babe is sacred. Babe is relationship territory. Babe is dangerous. Babe is cruel. 

You could feel twelve years’ worth of buried feelings rattle like a demon in the basement of your emotional trauma house. You shoved them back down with professional precision.

This was a trap. A distraction. You needed to focus. And also... what meetings?!

You jabbed your fingers at the screen, rage typing like a woman possessed.

[You]: since when do you have afternoon meetings? especially on a wednesday?! [You]: this feels illegal [You]: actually, I feel scammed

He replied instantly. The man had the nerve to send:

[Do Not Answer]: lol

LOL?! Oh, he thinks this is funny? Your eye twitched.

[You]: what if I was busy? [Do Not Answer]: you’re not [You]: YOU DON’T KNOW THAT [Do Not Answer]: you literally told me you had nothing scheduled this week

Okay, he wasn’t wrong, but that wasn’t the point. The point is: he’s a treacherous man-child who clearly weaponizes your schedule against him. He couldn’t just pull the “I’m busy” card on you like that anytime. Not on a Wednesday, when your shopping trip had been meticulously planned to indulge in luxury and self-care.

Your thumb hovered over the screen, itching to send him something even more venomous. But instead, you stared at the blinking cursor, sighed like a Victorian widow, and texted:

[You]: k

You groaned dramatically into your hands. Yeah, to hell with your skin care. You went back to your bedroom and flopped onto your bed and groaned into your 600-thread count pillow. Somewhere in the distance, a dramatic violin played for your suffering. You were going to have to endure the other moms. The PTA vultures. 

And possibly your own mother, who loved nothing more than materializing at school pickups like a judgmental ghost, armed with gossip and Sukuna-related questions.

Your phone buzzed again.

[Do Not Answer]: thanks, sweetheart. appreciate it ;) [You]: shut up

Hiro, your long-suffering driver and part-time therapist, was clearly thrilled by the unfolding drama.

“Madam,” he greeted, glancing at you through the mirror. “You look… thrilled.”

You scowled, sliding dramatically into the leather seat like a woman betrayed. “This is Sukuna's job. I’ve been scammed. I should sue him for emotional damages.”

“Is it really a scam,” Hiro asked diplomatically, “if he asked nicely?”

"He didn't ask nicely! He said lol. That’s verbal assault.”

Hiro hummed like he agreed, but he didn’t. Traitor.

When the car pulled into the school gates, it was like arriving at the frontline of a suburban battlefield. Mothers. Nannies. Personal bodyguards. Chauffeurs in black luxury cars. PTA moms who always dressed like they were going to brunch with the royal family.

And you?

You wore sweats, your old uni hoodie, and exactly zero makeup. You looked like the before picture in a glow-up video. But your diamond rings sparkled like hellfire – your only giveaway that you were rich as fuck. You weren’t broke, you were just done with these kinds of scene.

The judgment came fast. Some of the moms did that thing where they glanced at you, then whispered behind their hands. A few nannies gave you nods of respect, probably because you weren’t the usual “too-rich-to-function” type.

But the worst? 

Mrs. Yoshida.

PTA Queen Bee. Two-time “Mother of the Year” because she nominated herself. Three-time brunch committee president. The woman probably tried to trademark: “yummy mummy.” The woman who would call the manager at a fucking charity event. Her heels clicked on the pavement like judgment incarnate as she stalked toward you. 

"Oh,” she said, smiling that fake ‘I pity you’ smile. “It’s so nice to see you doing the school run for once!”

You blinked. Then smiled sweetly.

“Oh, and it’s so nice to see you still dressing like an overworked air hostess.”

Her smile dropped like the stock market is full of reds.

Hiro choked on his laughter.

But before the woman could recover from the verbal slap, you spotted the kids. Riku and Keiko. Standing side by side. Waiting. Hopeful. Clearly hopefully waiting for Sukuna to get them sundae on the way home.

Except when they saw you, that hope died.

Riku blinked, confused. To your horror, his face fell. Your son, your flesh and blood, is disappointed that you’re the one picking them up. This left you gaping in disbelief.

Then, Keiko turned. She titled her head with the slow horror of someone discovering they’d been served sparkling water instead of Sprite.

Basically, her entire soul left her body.

“…Where’s daddy?” she asked, peering into the Rolls like Sukuna was hiding in the glovebox.

“Busy,” you said.

Keiko looked physically ill with that word.

“So… you're picking us up?"

"Yes, Keiko."

"You?"

"YES, KEI. ME. GET IN THE CAR.” You’re controlling yourself with pure rage wrapped in customer and parenting service. Trying to remain calm as possible in front of all these judgmental PTA moms.

As they begrudgingly climbed in, you caught sight of Mrs. Yoshida again, watching the entire ordeal with the satisfied smirk of someone whose life is just a little bit less messy than yours. Yeah, you’ve had enough of this soul-sucking vibe. You just wanted to throw a juice box at her.

Once the doors shut, Riku sighed, dramatic as ever. “Well. This is awkward."

"Awkward?" you scoffed. “You’re disappointed in your own mother picking you up. That’s awkward.”

Keiko crossed her arms like a betrayed heiress. “Daddy always buys us ice cream after school.”

Riku leaned forward. "Yeah, Mom. You buying us ice cream?"

You looked between the two gremlins and then to Hiro, who was silently laughing in the front seat. You exhaled sharply, “…Fine.”

They cheered and you glared at these two gremlins.

You pinched the bridge of your nose. "I swear to God, if you two start rating me as a school-run parent—"

Keiko already had her little pink notebook out.

"You're at a 2 right now," she said, flipping open a page. "But ice cream might boost you to a 5.”

“Out of 5, right?” You said with a smile on your face, overly excited with the high-rating.

“No, out of 10.” Keiko nonchalantly said as she write on her pink notebook.

Your face fell with a what an actual fuck is happening reaction to everything around you.

Riku nodded. “Papa's still at a 9.8."

A 9.8?!

“What did he lose 0.2 for? Murder?” Clearly, you shouldn’t be near kids. But one of these kids is your son. So, yeah.

Riku shrugged. "He called my math homework stupid."

Keiko giggled. "Oh yeah! But then he bought you Jordans, so it’s okay."

You turned to Hiro, scandalized, “Are you hearing this? This is corruption. He’s bribing them.”

Hiro, looking at the road ahead, and with a perfectly straight face, just said, “It's a delicate ecosystem, madam. He plays the long game.”

You groaned.

And that was how you ended up at a drive-thru, buying two sundaes and one sad coffee. You, in the front seat, emotionally wrecked while your son and Sukuna's spawn ranked your parenting.

You finished at 2. Sukuna is still winning.

The moment you pulled into the driveway, your phone pinged.

[Do Not Answer]: how’d it go? [You]: ur child is a menace [You]: she ranked me like i was on the next top parent. a 2, sukuna. A DAMN TWO [Do Not Answer]: lmao [You]: this isn’t funny. ur evil tactics are spreading [Do Not Answer]: u just mad i’m winning parenthood [You]: i’m blocking u [Do Not Answer]: nahh u’re not

He was right. You scowled at your phone anyway. Before you could chuck your phone out the window, Riku turned to you.

“Can Kei sleep over?”

You blinked. “Didn’t she just rate me a TWO?!”

Keiko smiled sweetly. “It was just feedback, mama.” (You are not her mama. You’ve explained this. Repeatedly.)

Riku nodded sagely. "Yeah, Mom. Feedback’s important."

You squinted at your own son. And then stared at them both for this unbelievable situation of you being manipulated by these two gremlins.

Hiro (again, your driver) was full-on laughing now, no longer bothering to hide it.

"You know what?" you muttered, rubbing your temples. "No. No sleepovers. I’m officially clocking out as a parent today."

"Mama, no!” Keiko gasped.

“You gave me a two.”

Riku groaned. “Mom, you’re being dramatic.”

“You know what’s dramatic? Giving me a two, then immediately asking for a sleepover.”

Keiko huffed. "Fine. I’ll bump you to a five."

Riku crossed his arms. “You did buy us ice cream.”

"Are you guys seriously negotiating my score?"

Keiko beamed. "So that’s a yes?"

You sighed.

This was Sukuna’s fault. All of it.

"...Fine."

They cheered. Hiro, the traitor, just continued laughing in the front seat.

You ignored them all and pulled out your phone.

[You]: ur little gremlin just emotionally manipulated me into a sleepover [Do Not Answer]: that’s my girl [You]: come get her. i’m done parenting [Do Not Answer]: lmao no [You]: i hate u [Do Not Answer]: no you don’t ;)

You glared at the screen. This was Sukuna’s fault. All of it.

You were going to scream.

Or text him again.

Or maybe both.

But for now?

You needed wine. And maybe a therapist.

Golf was supposed to be a sport. A peaceful, relaxing Friday activity. Supposedly.

But no. Of course not. Why would anything in your life be peaceful? 

In your life, everything was a battlefield – including, but not limited to, your tragic excuse for golf skills, the stiletto-thin patience you’re currently wearing, and the fact that you’re stuck listening to old-money business jargon that sounds like it came out of a rejected Succession script. Or maybe Dynasty, you never know anymore.

At the stupidly pristine golf course, your dad stood with Wasuke (aka Sukuna’s dad, aka walking intimidation in pastel polos) and Jin (Sukuna’s twin, aka the lesser evil?). Their conversation smelled like money. Like old, generational, smells-like-the-inside-of-an-oak-safe-and-a-Ferrari-merged-wealth. The air around them crackled with hostile mergers and billion-dollar foreplay. 

Your sister was occasionally chimed in like she was born in a boardroom, and Gojo—another menace of the century with Sukuna — was playing both sides with the enthusiasm of a court jester who inherited a hedge fund.

Let’s be real: only three of you gave a single solitary shit about actual golf – you, Sukuna, and your mom. And your mom only cared because she once beat a CEO with a 7-iron and hasn’t emotionally recovered since.

The sun was bright. The grass was green. The vibe was hostile. And, you were already regretting your entire bloodline. Then, the worst voice known to mankind – smooth, smug, and utterly punchable – cut in from behind.

"You’re holding it wrong.” 

You turned your head so fast your neck cracked. “Can you shut up?"

Sukuna stood there, leaning on his golf club like he was auditioning for Rogue Billionaires Weekly, smirk carved across his face like he owned the damn country club. Spoiler: he might be. 

"Your stance is off. And your grip is fucking weak.” he said, voice mocking.

"My grip is fine, thank you.” Also, what the fuck even is a stance? You’re holding the club?!

He just grinned at you. That infuriating, teeth-flashing, smug little shit grin.

You sighed and turned back to the sound of corporate greed happening ten feet away, like a live-action PowerPoint presentation from hell. Yep, this is your slow, corporate-sponsored death.

"—the Dubai expansion is moving along," your dad said, adjusting his golf glove like a Bond villain. "Full return on investment by Q3 next year.”

Wasuke nodded. "And you’re securing exclusivity on that?"

Your sister jumped in. “The terms are favorable, but the board wants to explore secondary partnerships.”

May gods help you. Not the secondary partnerships.

"Secondary partnerships dilute brand value," Jin said, matter-of-factly and a voice flat as a Wall Street banker’s soul. "If you’re going in, go in alone."

Gojo, never missing an opportunity to self-promote, smirked. "Which is why I love working solo. No boards, no shareholders—just me, my money, and my incredible business instincts."

Sukuna snorted. "You mean your incredible luck?"

Gojo gasped, placing a dramatic hand over his heart. Really, an Oscar-worthy performance. “'Kuna, I am deeply, deeply wounded."

"Don’t call me that," Sukuna muttered as he causally swung his golf club with perfect precision and sent the ball flying.

Meanwhile, Jin just dropped some casual xenophobia into the convo with, "I don’t trust the French.”

Heavens, they’re really brothers.

Wasuke didn’t even look up from his phone. “Their money’s good, but their loyalty is nonexistent.”

You leaned toward Sukuna out of curiosity. "Do you actually know what they’re talking about?"

Sukuna gave you a look that said: I have watched blood diamonds being auctioned off with less drama.

"Do you think I sit in boardrooms for fun?"

"Honestly? I try not to think about what you do."

"Because you’d get too distracted?" he said, mockingly sweet.

You rolled your eyes. "Because it’s probably illegal."

His smirk said no comment. Then Wasuke shifted the convo to Formula 1 – Sukuna’s domain of god complex and expensive toys.

"Motorsport contracts for the Euro manufacturers are wrapping up," Wasuke said, eyeing the scoreboard. "I want F1 projections next week."

“Already sent them,” Sukuna replied, because of course he did. “Wind tunnel drama, but the numbers are solid.”

"F1’s a money pit," your dad noted.

Jin smirked. “Yet they still beg us to be in their garages."

Your sister gave a knowing nod. "That’s because you control the entire supply chain. Power units, manufacturing motors, aerospace-grade materials—"

"You don’t win a championship without our parts," Sukuna added with terrifying ease.

Gojo whistled. "Damn. Y’all are playing god."

Wasuke smirked. "We don’t play god. We just make sure everyone needs us."

Sukuna’s crimson eyes flicked to yours. "Sound familiar?"

Ugh. That was a direct hit. You knew exactly what he was hinting at.

"Don’t be mad our family has the luxury industry in a chokehold," you shot back.

Jin laughed. "Our industries are co-dependent, though.”

You rolled your eyes. “Strategically entangled with deep-rooted dysfunction. There. Fixed it.”

“That’s rich, ”Sukuna chuckled under his breath. “Coming from the woman who emotionally negotiated a 5/10 rating out of a twelve-year-old.”

You whipped around to glare at him, your golf club pointed like a weapon. “Your daughter emotionally blackmailed me with dessert, okay? I’m the victim here.”

He took a slow step toward you, eyes gleaming like he was about to say something incredibly inappropriate. Especially in this place where you’re surrounded by family.

And you know that look. You hated that look he’s giving you right now. You just froze there, mentally preparing for the impact, fully aware that if this man so much as winked, your ovaries would detonate.

You sighed. "I hate it here."

"Sure," Sukuna drawled, “but you love getting the family-and-friends discount on Richard Mille."

You opened your mouth to argue — then shut it.

“…That’s what I thought," he said.

Meanwhile, the boardroom larping continued, with Jin casually lining up his golf shot. "By the way, what’s your play for the next expansion?"

Your dad smirked. "Exclusive deal on a rare pearl farm."

"How rare?" Sukuna asked.

Your sister crossed her arms. "One-of-one. Completely untapped market. If you want the pearls, you go through us."

Wasuke let out an approving chuckle. "That’s how you do business."

Sukuna turned to you. Smirking. "And you call me a capitalist pig."

You rolled your eyes. "I never said I wasn’t one too."

"Exactly."

Gojo clapped his hands together. "Okay, enough. Some of us are here to actually have fun.”

"Some of us are here to play golf," Jin added, eyes pointed at your disaster pose.

“Do you have broken legs or something, dumbass?” Sukuna asked. “Your stance has been criminal for the last 30 minutes.”

“Fuck you,” you whispered through a deep, meditative breath.

Gojo hummed, sipping his iced coffee. "No, he's right."

Your sister nodded sagely. "I’ve seen better posture from Riku playing Wii Sports."

Your mother sighed. "Honey, at least pretend you inherited some athletic ability."

You took a slow, deep breath. Breathe in. Breathe out. Don’t bury everyone here with a 9-iron. That’s a lot of jail time. And, murder is fucking illegal.

Across from you, Sukuna's shit-eating grin widened. “Want help?"

You gave him a deadpan look. "I would rather set this golf club on fire and dance around it like a pagan ritual."

"Aww," he cooed. "You’re so cute when you’re in denial."

Before you could golf club his skull, your dad clapped. “Alright, enough flirting. Take your shot.”

Flirting???

You turned slowly to look at him, completely horrified. Because why does every family function have to end up with everyone talking about your and Sukuna’s relationship.

“Dad.”

"Yes, dear?"

"That was not flirting."

Gojo grinned. "It kinda was."

Sukuna just snickered.

You ignored all of them and took your shot—which was terrible. The ball barely made it by three meters before pathetically rolling to a sad, pathetic stop like it just gave up on life. Not that golf balls have life but – everything’s just so stupid.

"Yikes," Sukuna whispered.

Gojo coughed to hide a laugh.

Your sister patted your shoulder. "It’s okay. Not all of us can be naturally gifted."

Sukuna slung an arm over your shoulder—bold move like a smug snake. "Don’t worry, sweetheart. You’ve got other talents."

You shoved him off. "Like resisting the urge to commit first-degree homicide?"

He laughed and stepped up to take his own shot. He positioned himself with stupid, effortless confidence, gave a casual swing and then nailed it perfectly like it was nothing. The ball sailed through the air perfectly, landing exactly where it was supposed to.

Your father beamed. "Now that is how you play golf!"

Sukuna smirked at you. "See? That’s what maturity looks like."

You glared. "Maturity? You have a gold statue of yourself in your front yard, Sukuna."

"Confidence," he corrected.

Your mother sighed dreamily. "Oh, Sukuna, you should teach her more things. Maybe then she’d finally listen."

You choked. "Mom."

"She has a point," Gojo piped up. "I mean, you don’t even peel your own oranges—"

"That’s different," you snapped.

Sukuna grinned. "How?"

"Because peeling fruit is a waste of time. It’s too much work.”

"Uh-huh," he said, completely unconvinced. "And yet, you eat the ones I peel for you."

You paused.

Sukuna smirked with a wink, “Exactly.”

Gojo laughed. "Ohhh. He got you there."

Your sister gasped. "You’ve been peeling her fruit for years?"

"Yeah. Since high school.” Sukuna shrugged like it was nothing.

Your mother looked at you. "Sweetheart," she said, voice thick with judgment and amusement. "This is why we love him more than you."

You wanted to die. Right there. On the spot. Strike you down, Zeus, you’re ready.

Before your soul could ascend, Sukuna glanced at his watch. "We should wrap up soon. We have to pick up the kids."

Oh. Right. Riku and Keiko.

You groaned. "God, I hope they haven’t schemed anything.”

Sukuna just smiled. "Hope all you want. We both know they’re worse than us."

Your sigh was basically a prayer. Because he was right.

Then he looked at you – really looked – and for a second, you saw it. A familiar, almost nostalgic glint in his crimson eyes. That something in his eyes. The history. The bullshit. The college days.

Before the weird, co-parenting situationship.

Before the kids.

Before all this strategic dysfunction.

Of course it started with betrayal. Because why wouldn’t it?

REWIND TO 15 YEARS AGO

Ah, the golden age. The era of questionable fashion choices, stolen Netflix passwords, and zero concept of consequences. You were younger, dumber, and apparently, very susceptible to being peer-pressured by your stupidly attractive childhood best friends and tequila with a price tag that could fund a small startup.

And the betrayal? Classic Gojo.

Not yours. 

Not Sukuna’s. 

But Gojo freaking Satoru’s.

The plan was simple. A chill, lowkey, totally-not-going-to-spiral-into-chaos evening. The threey of you. One rare, bougie-ass bottle of unreleased tequila – procured through one of Sukuna’s many mysterious family connections, which probably meant some shady auction involving something you don’t even know if legal or illegal at this point, but like… whatever. Details.

And the holy trinity of chaos – you, Sukuna, Gojo – were supposed to break in your overpriced couch (emotionally) and consume alcohol worth more than your rent. In your apartment. With music, chaos, and maybe light emotional trauma.

But Gojo?

That flaky, unreliable, sunglasses-wearing disaster of a human being? He didn’t show up. He straight up ghosted.

No text. No call. Just vibes – and not even the good ones. You and Sukuna were left staring at your phones like you’d both been stood up by the world’s most unserious Tinder date. Sitting in the dim glow of your apartment, side by side on your ridiculously expensive couch. The tequila, untouched, sat like a third wheel on your pristine glass coffee table, judging you.

And of course Sukuna, ever the picture of carelessness, was lounging on your couch like he owned the place (well, he and Gojo has your spare keys thanks to your very insistent mother who said that this was for safety purposes). He’s made himself too comfortable. His expensive leather jacket? Tossed like trash. His shirt? Pushed up just enough to flash his abs like a Calvin Klein ad. His legs? Sprawled. Man was taking up 80% of your couch like it came with a deed in his name.

You’d almost asked him to move his knee off your thigh, but that required energy and dignity – both of which were too low.

“He’s a piece of shit,” you mumbled, flipping your phone screen-down like it had personally betrayed you too.

Sukuna just huffed, stretching like a lazy cat. “We knew that.”

A beat of silence.

Then you turned your head. Sukuna was already looking at you.

And that was the beginning of the end.

You didn’t even need to say it, but you did anyway – because you’re you and you’re brain was one shot away from being completely unhinged.

"Fuck him," you said, curling your fingers around the bottle’s neck. "You thinking what I’m thinking?"

Sukuna’s smirk was criminal. ”Gladly.”

Tequila hit like a kiss and a slap. Warm and mean. Sweet with aftershocks. It tasted like rebellion and a future apology text. It burned, sweet and smooth, slipping down your throat like bad decisions.

And by the fifth shot, everything had softened. You, the air, the line between sense and chaos. You weren’t drunk-drunk. Just in that dreamy, blurry zone where every thought seemed brilliant and you suddenly had strong opinions on things like fruit ethics and the social implications of banana neglect.

"Okay, hear me out," you began, swirling your glass like you actually understood tequila tasting. "If a banana has brown spots and you throw it away, isn’t that, like… fruitism?” You argued, dead serious.

Sukuna blinked at you, slow and unimpressed. “You’re equating overripe produce with discrimination?”

"Okay, but isn’t it?"

Sukuna, drunk but still insufferably rational, huffed. "Fruits were literally made to decay. The spots don’t even mean they’re bad. They’re just riper. Sweeter.”

“I’m just saying,” You squinted at him and gestured with passion. “And people toss them like yesterday’s garbage. That’s bias.”

He groaned, rubbing his face like your IQ physically pained him. “You’re drunk.”

You grinned, tilting your head. “You’re hot.”

He didn’t even blink. “Still doesn’t make what you said smart.”

“Can’t have it all.”

Shot seven was the real villain. That was the one that made you bold. That was the shot that made the conversation shift to a heated, increasingly idiotic debate about billionaires and time-travel tech like you were on a TED talk stage.

“Listen,” you said, pointing an accusing finger at him and serious as a heart attack, “if someone invented a machine that lets you relive the best moment of your life –”

“Oh, here we fucking go,” Sukuna muttered, who is slumped against the couch with a drink in hand and zero patience. And he’s already rubbing his temple like he has a migraine.

“—billionaires shouldn’t be allowed to use it.”

Sukuna gave you a flat look.the kind that screamed you’re an idiot and I am suffering. “That is the dumbest thing I’ve heard, and I talk to Gojo on a regular basis.”

“That’s justice,” you replied.

“You sound like one of those fake-deep Twitter threads with the ‘let that sink in’ at the end.”

You gasped loudly and dramatically, hand to chest. “That’s the meanest things you’ve ever said to me.”

Sukuna smirked and leaned back on the couch, swirling his drink, all lazy and smug. “Not even top five. Cry about it.”

And honestly? Fair.

You narrowed your eyes at him, then shoved at his shoulder. “Smug bastard.”

He didn’t even flinch. Just raised an eyebrow, all smug and irritating. “That the best you got?”

“You wanna go?” you said, drunk enough to mean it, sober enough to know it was a terrible idea.

“Brat, I’ve been waiting for you to throw hands.”

And just like that, it was on. The argument devolved into some half-playful, half-serious wrestling match that your tequila-soaked logic somehow decided was a good idea. You lunged yourself at him—awkwardly, gracelessly, like a cat trying to fight its reflection. And he caught you. Of course.

Sukuna met your weak-ass attack with a wicked grin and zero effort, catching your wrists mid-swat and easily flipping you onto your back like this was WWE: College Edition.

He was straddling your waist like this was some twisted rom-com where the lead-up was fruit bias and class warfare. He was pinning your hands above your head with one of his stupidly strong hands, face inches from yours. Neither of you moved. His smirk stretched slow and deliberate.

“Aw,” he murmured, looking down at you. “Pinned you already.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears. Your brain screamed.

“We better not fuck,” you said, breathless, mock-serious, heart pounding like you weren’t already halfway there. “That would be crazy.”

Sukuna laughed, sharp and dark. “You’re right. That would be so stupid.”

You stared up at him, drunk on more than just tequila. “So, don’t.”

He leaned in, lips brushing yours, the world going mute, “Make me.”

The tension was a slow, burning thing. Suddenly too heavy, too obvious.

And it happened.

He kissed you like he’d been waiting for it. And fuck, maybe he had.

It was desperate, messy, hot—his hands were greedy, large, possessive, fingers digging into your waist as you pulled him onto you. His weight settled over yours, pinning you to the couch, every hard line of muscle pressing into your body.

“Fuck,” he murmured, voice thick, breath warm against your lips. “This is a bad idea.”

You nipped at his bottom lip, smirking. “Then stop.”

Sukuna growled.

So obviously, you didn’t

Your soul has left your body.

You were spent. Utterly wrecked. A pleasantly, post-orgasmic disaster of a human being, melted into your couch like cheese. The kind of boneless, mind-melting exhaustion that came after a particularly intense workout—except the only exercise involved had been riding Sukuna like your life depended on it.

Sukuna yanked you back down with a lazy smirk, his fingers tight around your waist. He was against your neck, smug as sin, like he hadn’t just destroyed your entire pelvic floor and sanity in under an hour.

Your brain was short-circuiting. Not even crashing—melting. Like: what were you doing?

What were you doing letting Sukuna Ryomen, heir to a criminally rich, morally grey empire, raw you on a couch your mother had helped you pick out a week ago? That same couch that she said would “last through years of wear and tear”? Oh honey, if only she knew.

You could still feel him inside you (because, he is still inside you), which, frankly, was just rude. Your vagina had zero chill. Not when Sukuna had been whispering things like good girl and so fucking tight into your ear for the last forty-five minutes like he was narrating an erotic audiobook that only your nervous system had access to.

Your breathing was ragged, your skin damp with sweat, your limbs completely useless. The couch cushions were destroyed, one of the pillows had somehow ended up on the floor, and your legs… well. You weren’t sure if you’d be able to use them properly for the next hour. Maybe the next week.

Then there was a moment – still, quiet, charged – and Sukuna, ever the menace, had to go and say,  “Loving daddy’s cock inside you, baby?” 

Oh fuck, his post-sex voice is too sexy to hear. Your vagina responded before your brain did. Your moan was involuntary. Your dignity packed a bag and left.

The air was thick, too warm, and filled with the scent of tequila, sex, and very bad decisions.

You should’ve been freaking out. Should’ve been reconsidering every life choice that led up to this moment. Should’ve been thinking about things like consequences or friendship dynamics or even just the fact that you had quite literally defiled your own couch.

And then, because the universe has a terrible sense of timing –

BANG.

The door slammed open.

You and Sukuna froze mid-regret, your heart doing backflips and your brain buffering like a corrupted YouTube video. Basically, this is the time your soul left your body.

And then…

“Oh, hell yeah.”

Gojo.

Of course it was Gojo.

Standing in your doorway like he was meant to be the comedic third act twist in your sexual coming-of-age story. Sunglasses on at 2AM (maybe it’s already 3AM), stupid grin in full force, and holding a bag of snacks the size of a small child.

Your brain, still swimming in post-orgasmic haze and the last remnants of drunkenness, short-circuited.

Because—oh. That’s why he was late.

He’d gone shopping.

Gojo had spent—what, two hours? Three?—debating the intricate nuances of potato chips, probably standing in the aisle like a philosopher pondering the meaning of life. And in the end? He’d just bought one of everything. Every brand. Every flavor. As if he were assembling a tasting menu for a fucking wine and cheese night—except it was just snacks.

You blinked at him like he was a mirage.

He blinked back, grinning harder, “Did you—” He gestured vaguely at your naked, sweaty, entangled bodies. 

“You guys seriously just fucked?”

Sukuna groaned, voice muffled against your skin. “Get the fuck out.”

Your eyes nearly rolled into the back of your head. You wanted to cry. Or vanish. Or time-travel to an hour ago and slap the bottle out of your own hand.

Gojo continued, blissfully ignorant with his shit-eating grin dialed up to maximum wattage. “You could’ve at least waited for me.”

“GOJO.”

“Not to join!” he added, then paused. “Unless—?”

Sukuna finally lifted his head, naked, disheveled, and radiating murder. His voice dropped into something lethal. "You step one foot further, and I will personally make sure you never reproduce.” 

And then he threw the nearest couch pillow at Gojo’s face.

Gojo dodged with the agility of a mad who had absolutely walked in on worse. “Y’know, I knew something was up with you two since high school –” 

He sighed. Sighed, like he was talking about a missed prom date and not your current naked humiliation.

“SATORU.”

“— the sexual tension was like a constant third presence. Like god, but hornier.”

Yeah, you’re most likely dying of humiliation tonight.

“But I never thought you’d actually go and rawdog each other without me even getting a sip of that tequila.”

Your eye twitched. Your entire nervous system sent out one last emergency broadcast before collapsing like a dying star. There was no saving you now. You were gonna have to move cities. Change names. Fake your death and live in the woods.

In a blind, desperate attempt to salvage literally anything – your pride, your humanity, your grandmother’s ghost watching from the afterlife – you grabbed the nearest object and hurled it at him. 

Maybe it was a pillow. Maybe it was your shame. Maybe it was your will to live.

No. No, of course it couldn’t be anything soft or metaphorical.

It was your bra.

The bra that cost more than your phone. The bra hand-stitched by artisans in France who probably didn’t intend for it to be yeeted across the room like a missile of humiliation.

Gojo caught it midair. And fucking whistled. Whistled. 

Sukuna let out a lethal growl above you, like he was two seconds from choosing violence over pulling out. “Drop. It.”

Gojo, being Gojo, did not drop it. No. That would’ve been rational. Instead, he held it up to the light like some deranged pervert on an antique TV show. 

“Huh. Didn’t peg you as a lace kinda girl. Delicate, but slutty. Iconic.”

You lunged at him like a rabid raccoon.

Sukuna yanked you back down before you could inflict justified murder, his grip locking tight around your waist like he knew exactly how many war crimes you were about to commit. “Save your energy, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

Oh, now he wants to be cute? Now? After he rawdogged your soul out of your body and left it there, on the floor, vulnerable and exposed like a neglected Sims character?

Gojo cackled, like this was the highlight of this week. “Oh, this is gonna be fun. So! Are we finally admitting that you guys have been feral for each other this whole time?”

"SHUT THE FUCK UP, GOJO."

He wheezed. Laughed like this was the best episode of a reality TV he’d ever seen. You, however, were having a full-blown metaphysical crisis.

And then it hit you. Like your brain finally sobered up enough to whisper, ‘hey dumbass… something’s off…’

You. 

And Sukuna.

Were. 

Still. 

Naked.

Not cute-and-covered-by-the-blanket naked. 

Not tastefully-draped-like-a-renaissance-painting naked.

No.

This was “there’s an entire Gojo eyeball on your titty” naked.

That’s why Sukuna fucking yanked you down so fast. Not to protect your dignity – lol, what dignity – but because your boobs were just out. Just there. Making their unwanted debut to the worst audience in human history. 

Your entire existence condensed into one singular thought: you’re gonna astral project out of this flesh prison and never return.

You buried your face in your hands.

“I’m never drinking again,” you mumbled, voice muffled and soul-dead. The words of a liar. A liar with regrets.

Sukuna, the bastard, didn’t even flinch. This man had seen war (business rejections, most likely). Tax evasion. Eternal damnation. Your naked ass wasn’t gonna rattle him. “I’m never letting you drink again.”

Gojo, now seated in the doorway like he was watching a 2000s rom-com movie, clapped his hands together. “Well! Now that everyone's tits are covered, I vote we unpack all this juicy sexual tension over midnight snacks.”

You made a noise. It might have been a sob. Or a scream.

Then, you locked eyes with Sukuna. Dead serious.

“Kill him first,” you said. “Then me.”

Gojo opened his mouth—

“No, you cannot take a picture,” you snapped.

Gojo shut his mouth. But only for a second.

“I was gonna ask if you guys needed snacks,” he said, fake-offended, “but sure, go ahead and assume the worst.”

Sukuna's eye twitched. Like, visibly. Dangerously. “You have five seconds before I personally rearrange your jaw.”

Gojo held up his hands in surrender—still holding your bra, like it was a white flag for surrender.

You just wanted to die. Or better—rewind time. All the way back to when you said, “just one tequila shot.”

“So, when’s the wedding?” Gojo smirked.

That was it. That was Sukuna’s final nerve snapping. Man went from 0 to murder real quick, pulling out (rude) in a heartbeat and bolting after Gojo around the apartment with the kind of fury that would make Greek gods go ‘damn bro, chill.’

You, meanwhile, scrambled to find a blanket. Any blanket. Any napkin. A curtain. You would’ve accepted being wrapped in your own regret at that point. Still dizzy. Still mildly post-orgasmic. Still spiritually decimated.

You never lived that moment down. 

Ever.

Gojo made sure of it.

And yet – despite the absolute catastrophic level of social humiliation – you really thought that was it. A stupid, drunken slip-up. A one-time tequila-fueled tragedy.

But it wasn’t. Because, of course, it wasn’t.

Because this was you and Sukuna.

Disasters. Walking, breathing, kissing disasters.

And this?

This was the biggest, dumbest, horniest fucking disaster of them all.

It wasn’t just a one-time thing.

It wasn’t just a casual phase.

It lasted three fucking years.

God forbid.

Three years of sneaking glances across rooms like the two of you weren’t regularly naked in each other’s beds. Three years of pretending there wasn’t stupidly cosmic about the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching. Three years of pretending it was just fucking.

You were in your last year of college. Graduation loomed in like a loaded gun. Sukuna was finishing his postgrad, looking dangerously adult while you were still using dry shampoo as a personality. And instead of prepping for the real world, you were spending every night tangled in sheets, sweat, and denial.

You weren’t even being subtle about it.

Sukuna’s hoodies lived in your wardrobe rent-free. Your hair ties were all over his bathroom like forgotten corpses. You ate half his fries every time.

It wasn’t just the sex (though, let’s be real, the sex could summon the dead and cancel student debt). It was everything. The way his hoodies, shirts, pants (heck, all his clothes) lived in your wardrobe rent-free. The way your hair ties were all over his bathroom like forgotten corpses. The way you shamelessly ate half his fries every time. The way he memorized your coffee order. The way you always saved him the last dumpling even though you hated sharing. The fact that he punched a guy once for saying your laugh was annoying. You were basically in a relationship.

Just… you know. Without the commitment. Or the honesty. Or the emotional maturity.

But not everything lasts perfectly, right?

Because saying it would make it real.

And if it was real then, it could end. And neither of you were brave enough for that.

You don’t remember exactly when it started to shift.

Maybe when he stayed over just to sleep.

Maybe when you waited for him after class.

Maybe when he threatened his frat brothers for flirting with you.

Maybe when you were too in your feelings, and he was in denial, and the entire relationship had the emotional maturity of a wet paper towel trying to hold a gallon of wine.

It was three fucking years of closeness so intimate it could’ve been called codependency if it weren’t so mutual.

But neither of you said it.

Neither of you dared to.

Not until the night it all went to hell.

Over the stupidest, pettiest, most aggressively idiotic fight in the history of human race. And romance.

Over a fucking LED light.

You blinked out of the memory like you’d just been possessed by a much younger, hotter, dumber version of yourself. Truly, your early twenties needed a warning label.

Only dragged back to the present by the sound of Gojo’s obnoxious laugh and the distant thwack of another golf ball being ruthlessly yeeted into the horizon.

But your mind was still a few tequila shots behind. Still sticky with the memory of hot skin, tangled limbs, and the unforgivable knowledge that Sukuna had once bitten your neck like he was trying to ruin you on purpose. (He did.) That he’d once kissed you so hard you forgot your own name, let alone the fact that you were definitely, definitely supposed to keep things platonic.

You hadn’t thought about that night in years. You’d buried it so deep beneath co-parenting schedules and passive-aggressive text threads that it had fossilized. You’d compartmentalized it like a pro. Filed it under Regrettable But Also Kinda Amazing Decisions That We Pretend Never Happened Because Denial Is a Lifestyle.

But all it took was one look. 

One stupid look from Sukuna and your whole nervous system went, “Hey, remember that time you climbed him like a tree?”

You nearly choked on your own saliva.

Sukuna looked at you, raising a brow. “You good?”

You stared at him. The same eyes. Same smirk. Same stupid, punchable face that you’d once maybe considered kissing in a tequila haze.

You muttered, “I hate you.”

He grinned. “You looked like you were remembering something tragic. Was it my abs?”

You hit him with your golf club. Lightly. (For legal reasons.)

Gojo, watching from the side, completely unaware of your inner spiral, wandered over with the self-satisfied strut of a man who just made par and will never let anyone forget it. “So, what’s the verdict? Are we still pretending you two don’t have wildly unresolved sexual tension or…?”

You glared. “Do you want to die today?”

Gojo just waggled his brows. “I’m just saying, the air’s thick with tension. Like, if I blink, someone’s getting pinned to the nearest flat surface.”

Sukuna, infuriatingly calm, walked past you to grab his water bottle. “Grow up, Gojo.”

That was rich coming from a man who once texted you “wanna come over and fight?” at 2 a.m. and then had the audacity to kiss you like you were air and he was suffocating years ago.

You rubbed your temple. Get it together.

But the memory clung. It had claws. And it wouldn’t let go.

Only the three of you knew. Only the three of you would ever know. You’d made a silent, mutually-assured-destruction type pact after the fact. No one brings it up. No one mentions the couch. No one so much as breathes in the direction of “remember that night?”

And you’d all been doing so well.

Until now.

Until Sukuna looked at you like that.

Until you remembered exactly how he tasted.

Until your body remembered what your brain had worked overtime to erase.

You looked at Sukuna now – older, annoyingly hotter, a single father of a cute, angel-looking gremlin – and your stomach dropped.

Because the worst part wasn’t the memory.

It was the terrifying realization that some part of you... hadn’t actually moved on.

And that? That was the most dangerous thing of all.

It wasn’t normal. None of it was normal. You weren’t normal.

And maybe, just maybe, you didn’t want to be.

Sukuna knew. He knew the moment you glitched like a broken Sims out of nowhere, the subtle shift in your posture, the way your lips pressed into a tight line. He’d seen it before, in the way you tried to bury things under layers of sarcasm and nonchalance. 

And that? That was exact thing that made his chest tighten, just a little bit.

You’d always been good at pretending. Hell, you were great at pretending. But Sukuna wasn’t an idiot. He’d seen the cracks in the armor. He’d felt them in the way you’d tense up when he was too close. In the way you still looked at him when you thought no one was paying attention.

Even thought it’s been 12 years, the memory of your lips on his, the desperate heat of it, was all burned into his mind just as much as it was in yours. That last night had fucked him up in ways he couldn’t even begin to untangle. That fucking fight over LED lights. But he wasn’t going to admit that. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

But now? Now, standing next to you on this golf course, with Gojo prattling on about tension so thick you could cut it with a knife, Sukuna could feel something else — something he wasn’t sure he was ready to confront. 

He’d tried. He’d tried to move on. To tell himself that you were just a chapter in a stupid, messy college romance he could chalk up to a lesson learned. But the way you still looked at him — like you wanted to kill him one minute and kiss him the next — made him wonder if he was really the one who’d moved on. 

You hadn’t said it. You hadn’t admitted it to him, and you definitely hadn’t admitted it to yourself. But Sukuna could feel the pull between you two, like gravity trying to yank him back into orbit. And he fucking hated it.

You weren’t ready to move on, and maybe… maybe neither was he.

Gojo’s voice cut through his thoughts again, loud and obnoxious, but it didn’t help. If anything, it just made the tension worse. And there you were, glaring at him like you wanted to murder him with your golf club. That just made his smirk wider.

He didn’t care what Gojo said. He didn’t care how thick the air felt between them.

He cared that every time you looked at him, he felt something that wasn’t quite hatred. He cared that, despite everything, the memory of that night — the way you fit so perfectly against him — still haunted him.

The worst part?

You were still the one thing that got under his skin.

And that terrified him.

You’re sitting there, waiting outside the school, in his damn car, sunglasses on like you’re trying to hide from the world and also from the fact that your brain’s still stuck in the relapsing and post-golfing haze. The one where you remember way too much of that face – that stupid, stupid face – and the laugh that somehow made you feel things you don’t ever wanna feel again. And don’t even get started on his damn arms. Like, who needs arms to be that distracting in the middle of everything? Seriously, when did he roll up his sleeves? Was there some kind of cosmic mistake? The universe did not need that information. 

And yet, here you are, replaying it in slow motion in your head. Yep, even that night 15 years ago. Even worse, you almost drooled thinking about it. Almost.

It also didn’t need the fact that you almost drooled while thinking about it.

And, God, it’s too quiet. Way too quiet. Normally, you and Sukuna are bantering like two toddlers fighting over the last cookie. You’re both competitive assholes, arguing about dumb shit like whose playlist will play for the ride-back. But today? Nah. You’re both too out of it. Too tame.

You glance sideways at Sukuna, who’s leaning back in his seat too lax. Does he always look like that? But you’ve been staring at him for far too long today, and it’s messing with your internal wiring. You actually almost forgot to argue. Almost.

So, you break the silence first. “I’d rather not get out of the car,” you say, because... why not?

Sukuna looks over at you like you’ve grown an extra head, “What? Did Mrs. Yoshida go up to you the other day?”

The mere mention of her name is enough to spark an internal cringe. You snort but it comes out half-hearted. Like, yeah, you’ve got a serious vendetta against that woman, but even you can’t muster the energy to fully engage. “Yeah. Guess she wanted to show off yet again.”

Sukuna huffed a laugh, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel, “Show off what? Her death grip on passive aggression?”

That earned him a real laugh from you, one that surprised both of you a little. But it fades just as quickly as it came. You leaned your head back against the seat, eyes closed, letting out a long, exaggerated sigh. Like you’ve been holding it since that goddamn golf course.

“She said something about me finally doing the school run for once,” you muttered, your voice low with disbelief. “Like I was doing a cosplay of a present parent.”

Sukuna’s face doesn’t change, but his voice drops into that deep, sarcastic tone. “She would say that. Probably thinks your ovaries are overdue for reactivation or some shit.”

You turned to him slowly. “What does that even mean?”

He smirked. That damn smirk that you swear could put every other man on the planet to shame. “Don’t know. Ask her. I bet she’s got a PowerPoint ready.” Oh, honey, maybe, you’re too down bad after that relapse.

Another snort escaped you, this time more genuine, because honestly? She would. God, the thought of it made your skin crawl, but it’s too funny not to appreciate, “God, I hate her heels. They click like a countdown to emotional damage.”

Sukuna laughs, and it’s the kind of laugh that makes you forget the day’s weirdness for a second. “She probably practices walking in her driveway.”

“Oh absolutely. Full parade route. With flags and a marching band made of guilt.”

That’s it. That’s the sweet spot. You both start laughing, but it’s like a weird patchwork of relief and awkwardness, too. Like you can’t quite shake off the tension from earlier today, but at least now there’s something more normal—something fun—in the air.

And that’s how you found outside the car, now standing in front of the school gates, with Sukuna this time. But standing so goddamn close to you. It made your heart rate do that little skip thing you can’t ever explain. But, no time to be a freak about it.

The bell rings. And of course, who’s the first person you see? Mrs. Goddamn Yoshida. She appeared out of thin air like a mid-tier Bond villain with hair lacquered into a helmet of superiority and lip gloss as weaponized as ever.

“Oh,” she drawls, her voice as sugary sweet as cyanide. “Two school pickups in a week? Someone’s going for Mother of the Month.”

You don’t even blink. Your sunglasses are firmly in place, and you’re already prepping your comeback. “You would know. You still printing the certificates at home?”

Sukuna laughed beside you, a deep, guttural sound that only made Mrs. Yoshida more uncomfortable. He eyes practically twitched. She’s not even hiding the fact that she’s shook that you’re here with Sukuna. The most-coveted bachelor (well, he may be a single dad but technically he’s not yet married) in the country. She opened her mouth to retaliate, but just as she’s about to speak –

“Mom?” 

Riku’s voice rang out like a melody through the tension, and just like that, everything resets. Your brain stutters for half a second as you snap your head around to see Riku, your baby boy (c’mon, he’s 12), running towards you like you’ve just saved his world.

And then, there’s Keiko. Running right behind Riku… but instead of launching themselves into your arms like the sensible kids they are, they both straight up betrayed you. These gremlins ran straight for Sukuna. What you can’t believe was the fact that your son ignored you. He may have called you but no he didn’t even ran towards you. What the fuck was that?

You blink, standing there, totally dumbfounded. Your mouth might even be hanging open a bit. Seriously? They just—what? Your son, the kid you’ve been raising, the one who’s spent years gluing your heart to his every move, just totally... skipped you? And now he’s practically throwing himself at Sukuna?

Your brain scrambles for words, but they’re stuck in some weird loop. "Riku," you manage, but it's more like you're calling him out of instinct than actually knowing what the hell to do with this new development.

But Keiko, of course, isn’t wasting any time either. She’s clinging to Sukuna’s leg like she’s on some sort of mission, because you might probably be jealous of his parenting dynamic with his daughter. You want to tell them both off, but the weirdest thing happens: a tiny part of you feels... left out? Like, what the hell?

Sukuna looks down at the two of them, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips, clearly trying not to laugh too hard at your expense. "Guess your son likes me more," he teases, all calm and collected as usual, though you can tell he’s getting a kick out of it.

Riku finally looks up at you, a little sheepish now, like he knows he’s been caught. "Uh, sorry, Mom. Papa told me he’ll bring us to that sushi place today." He scratches his head awkwardly.

OH. So, that’s what we’re doing now.

Bribery. Betrayal. And sushi.

You narrow your eyes, your expression stuck somewhere between disbelief and parental betrayal. “Oh. Papa told you that, huh?” you repeat slowly, the word "Papa" practically dripping with italics and judgment. The way Riku suddenly fidgets? Yeah, he knows he’s in trouble. Good.

Sukuna just shrugs, the cocky bastard, still smirking like this is all part of his grand villain arc. “Can’t help it if I have good taste and your kid has excellent priorities,” he says, which is exactly the kind of smug crap he always pulls when he knows he’s winning.

You cross your arms, sunglasses still on, even though the sun is hiding behind a cloud like it’s also trying to avoid the tension. “Yeah? Next time, how about you bribe your own daughter and leave mine out of it?”

Keiko, ever the daddy’s girl, finally detaches herself from Sukuna’s leg and gives you an innocent look, but it’s not lost on you that she’s got a mischievous glint in her eyes. “No need, mama! I already love daddy a lot.”

You stare at both of them for a second, blinking as you process this betrayal. "You two are unbelievable. Is this why Riku comes home later than he should’ve been for the past month? Your briberies?”

Sukuna doesn’t even flinch. If anything, his grin widens like he’s thriving under the betrayal-fueled glare you’re shooting at him.

“Oh, come on,” he says, deadpan, “you make it sound like we’re running some underground snack ring. It was one burger trip. Maybe three. And a boba run.”

You squint at him. “And the churros that Riku brought home last week?”

“That was... spontaneous.”

Keiko, bless her tiny traitorous heart, pipes up like she’s on the witness stand. “And the arcade tokens, Daddy?”

Sukuna blinks. Then shrugs. “Okay, five bribery trips. But who’s counting?”

You’re counting. You are absolutely counting. You’re already adding it to the list in your Notes app. You inhale, deeply. Breathe in patience. Exhale vengeance.

“You do realize,” you say slowly, “that he told his math teacher you’re his second emergency contact now?”

Sukuna raises an eyebrow, clearly pleased. “That’s cute. And honestly? Fair. I bring snacks, pick them up, and importantly? Emotional availability.”

You gasp like you’ve just been hit with a flying sandal. “I birthed him.” 

He tilts his head, hand over his heart in mock sympathy. “Yeah, but I took him to watch that new superhero movie twice, and I didn’t complain once. Not even during the post-credit scene.”

Riku nods solemnly. “He even explained the multiverse to me without getting mad.”

You turn to your son like you’re looking at a stranger in your home. “You never let me explain anything without groaning.” 

Riku shrugs with zero guilt. “Your explanations come with a lot of side stories.”

“That’s called context!” you sputter.

Oh, but now this pink-haired bastard is actually laughing. Not a chuckle. Not a smug little puff of air. No. This is a full-on, head-tilted-back, shoulders-shaking, evil-boyfriend-in-a-Kdrama laugh. And the worst part? It's lowkey making you relapse to that 3-year long situationship. Which is exactly what the problem is. You’ve been relapsing since this week fucking started. This shouldn’t have happened. And this all started because he murdered your hedge.

And now, you’re standing there—offended, outnumbered, and tragically out-bribed—and all you can think is: you hate it here.

“I’m surrounded by traitors,” you mutter under your breath, adjusting your sunglasses like they’ll shield your soul from this level of disrespect.

Sukuna wipes an imaginary tear from his eye. “C’mon, don’t be jealous. You’re still the top mom in this cult we’ve built.”

You stare at him. “You literally poached my child with raw fish, sneakers, burgers, gold leaf fries, and Marvel trivia. That’s not parenting. That’s warfare.” 

“And I’m winning,” he says without missing a beat. 

Keiko pats your arm in consolation. “It’s okay, Mama. You still have snacks sometimes at your house.”

“Sometimes,” you echo, wounded. 

Riku’s still awkwardly standing there, clearly feeling the weight of his betrayal. “Uh, Mom, do you still wanna go to that sushi place later?” he asks, his voice full of nervous hope, like he’s waiting for a miracle to save him from your wrath.

You narrow your eyes, looking between your son and Sukuna. “You really think I’m gonna let you off the hook that easily?” You cross your arms again, but this time it’s not as fierce. “I mean, if you wanna bribe me with sushi... I guess I can consider it.”

Sukuna snorts beside you, clearly enjoying the inner battle you’re having with yourself. "See? Told you, bribery always works.”

"Shut up," you mutter, but you can’t help the hint of a smile. Dammit, this is exactly how he got you last time.

Sukuna’s trying to herd the kids toward the car now, like some unholy cross between a playground kingpin and the world’s most chaotic dad. And for one fleeting moment, you catch yourself smiling. Genuinely. The kind that sneaks up on you before you can armor it with sarcasm.

And then—

“I call shotgun!” Riku yells.

“No, I call shotgun!” Keiko yells back.

You’re about to intervene like a responsible adult (because who lets 12-year-olds ride shotgun?!) when Sukuna just shrugs and tosses you the keys. “Guess you’re driving. They’ll keep fighting otherwise.”

You catch them automatically, then freeze. “Wait, I’m driving? In your car?”

He’s already walking to the passenger side. “You’ll be fine. I trust you.”

And there it is again. That weird little glitch in your heart. The one that started on the golf course, peaked somewhere around churros, and now, apparently, comes with keys and unsolicited trust.

You mutter under your breath as you slide into the driver’s seat, “Next time I’m bringing veggie chips and trauma bonding. See how he likes that.”

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you’re genuinely grinning as you walk toward the school gates. Because no matter how many times you roll your eyes at him, you know that, deep down, you’ll always be this close to falling right back into that stupid pattern of chaos and longing.

And secretly? Secretly you don’t mind the shotgun betrayal. Or the sushi bribes. Or even Sukuna’s dumb laugh that now lives rent-free in your brain.

What you do mind is how easy it is to imagine this being…normal.

And that? That’s the scariest part.

Because the last time things felt normal with Sukuna—it ended with heartbreak, a bruised ego, and a pink LED light flickering like the world’s most ironic heartbreak anthem.

REWIND TO 12 YEARS AGO

It had all started innocently enough—just a stupid school project, both of you in your own little worlds, completely unaware of the mess you'd end up in. You’d been frantically pulling an all-nighter for your thesis on marketing strategies, running on a diet of coffee and panic. The room smelled like burnt ambition and three-day-old coffee.

Sukuna had walked in, uninvited (as usual), plopping himself down on the edge of your bed and looking like he owned the place. You didn’t even glance up from your notes.

"Got any snacks, or is your thesis a full meal by itself?” he'd asked casually, stretching his legs across the floor.

��it’s a five-course meal of existential dread. You should’ve brought dessert,” you muttered, eyes flicking over your outline that still had more question marks than actual points.

He made a dramatic tsk noise. ”Really? That bad? Damn, should’ve brought ice cream. Or a priest.”

You finally looked up, dead-eyed. “Unless the priest knows APA format and has a spare conclusion section in his pocket, I don’t want it.”

“Wow, brat. So ungrateful.” He leaned over to snatch your mug without asking, took a sip, and immediately gagged. “What is this? Battery acid? Motor oil? Regret?”

“It’s coffee,” you said, dryly. “And if you touch my highlighters, I will end you.”

He blinked at you. “Gotchu, babe. No touching the holy trinity: coffee, highlighters, and your rapidly deteriorating sanity.”

You grunted. “What are you even doing here, ‘Kuna? Don’t you have people to terrorize somewhere else?”

He shrugged, picking up a sticky note from your desk and squinting at the words like they personally offended him. “Thought I’d check in on my favorite stress case.”

You gave him a look that screamed I am five seconds away from a breakdown and you’re monologuing in my safe space.But Sukuna? He was already distracted, fiddling with your desk lamp like it held the secrets of the universe.

Before you could ask what the hell he was doing, he suddenly grinned, standing up, and twisting the lamp in a way that made the light flicker dramatically.

“What are you doing with my lamp?” you snapped, but he was already flipping the switch.

“Nah, I’m just making sure you’re not too depressed so we gotta change the mood lighting. You need it. Trust me. This is what creative enlightenment looks like.” He flashed a grin that had you wondering if he’d lost his mind.

“If that’s enlightenment, pretty sure the light’s about to start flickering and lead me to a breakdown.” You were so tired, but you couldn’t help the irritation bubbling up.

“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it.” He reached for your lamp again, twisting it in the other direction like he was adjusting some fancy futuristic remote control.

“I didn’t sign up for this!” you said, grabbing his wrist before he could do more damage to your perfectly ordinary, functional lamp. “This is my space, my chaos. You can’t just—”

Suddenly, you found yourself flat on your back on the bed, and Sukuna’s weight was pressing down on you, making it hard to breathe.

“Not a bad way to distract you, huh?” he said, his voice low and teasing. Before you could react, his lips were on yours, and that was it. The floodgates opened, your frustrations morphing into something entirely different.

Heat. Hands. Teeth.

And that stupid lamp still casting romantic lighting like you were in some low-budget romcom with a dangerously high body count.

You didn’t even remember who pulled who first. One second you were yelling about thesis formatting and desk territory, and the next, Sukuna was pulling your shirt over your head like it had personally offended him. You should’ve been worried about citations. APA format. Deadline. But somehow his mouth on your neck took priority.

Again.

You made it to the edge of the bed this time before knocking over a pile of highlighters and flashcards. Sukuna didn't even blink.

“Watch the thesis,” you gasped as your laptop nearly flew off the side.

“Babe, the only thing I’m watching is you falling apart under me,” he said, grinning like the devil, hands already sliding down your waist.

You hated that it worked. Hated how your body betrayed you so quickly—how easily you leaned into him, craved him, even when your life was falling apart in bullet points and overdue drafts.

It was frantic. A little sloppy. Neither of you had the brain cells for finesse. Just something rough and grounding to yank you out of the spiral and straight into Sukuna’s orbit—where logic went to die and pleasure took the wheel.

By the time it was over, both of you were breathless and half-covered in dissertation pages and regret.

And that’s when he did it.

He reached over.

And changed the mood lighting again.

Soft pink this time.

You stared at him, chest still heaving, sweat sticking your hair to your forehead. “What the actual hell is wrong with you?”

“What?” he said innocently, blinking like a man who wasn’t still inside you thirty seconds ago. 

“It’s a vibe. I’m curating.”

“You’re curating? This isn’t a Pinterest board, Sukuna. This is my room.”

“And yet,” he said, gesturing dramatically to the lamp, “I made it better.”

You sat up, immediately regretting it when your thigh cramped. “I swear to God, if you touch that lamp one more time—”

“You’ll what? Write a strongly worded thesis about it?”

“Oh my God, I hate you.”

“You say that,” he said, flopping back onto the bed with a grin, “but you let me raw you like a stress-relief squishmallow, so.”

You picked up a pillow and hurled it at his face.

Hard.

Sukuna caught it with one hand, smirking.

“I’m changing it to red next.”

“Touch that switch and I’m putting glitter glue in your shampoo.”

“…Kinky.”

You screamed into another pillow.

And for a second, it was funny. Ridiculous. The kind of scene you'd laugh about in five years over drinks.

But something in the air shifted—too subtle to notice at first. Like a hairline crack in a dam.

Then he said it. The thing that would claw its way into both of your memories and rot there, festering for years.

“You know, if you put half the effort into your actual thesis that you put into pretending to be in love with me when you're bored, you'd be graduating top of our class.”

Silence.

It came so fast, so sharp, it cleaved the air clean in half.

You sat up slowly. Carefully. Like you were disarming a bomb, but oh—too late. It already went off.

“What did you just say?”

Sukuna’s smirk faltered, but only for a second. He leaned back like nothing had happened, like he didn’t just shatter the air between you.

“You heard me.”

“No, no. I heard you, I just… I’m trying to figure out which part of your brain decided that was okay to say to me. After everything. After this.” You gestured wildly at the bed, the thesis pages crumpled under you, your tangled clothes on the floor, his smug, stupid face.

His jaw flexed. “I’m just saying, maybe I’m not the only one who treats this thing like it’s a joke.”

“Oh, you’re unbelievable.” You were up now, gathering your papers with trembling fingers. “You barge in here like you own the place, like I’m some goddamn stop on your rich-boy itinerary when you get bored of your mansion and your endless supply of zero-consequence bullshit—”

“Oh, please,” he scoffed, standing up now too. “You think I want to be here every time you have a meltdown? You think this is fun for me? Watching you burn out for a piece of paper you’ll hate in six months? You make me your emotional support punching bag and then call it intimacy.”

“I never asked you to stay.”

“Well maybe I should’ve taken the hint three years ago, huh?” His voice was sharp now. No teasing. No heat. Just glass. “When we started sleeping together and you couldn’t even look me in the eye after.”

Your breath caught.

It wasn’t the first fight. Not even the worst one.

But it felt… final.

“You want honesty?” you whispered, throat tight. “Fine. You’re a coward, Sukuna. You sit in this little fantasy where nothing matters because you’re scared to actually want something. To want me. So yeah, maybe I pretended a little. Maybe I lied. But at least I felt something.”

That stopped him. For a moment, he just… stood there. Staring at you.

And then he laughed. Hollow. Low.

“You felt something? Great. Real useful. Let me know if you ever figure out what it was, sweetheart. Preferably not when I’m balls-deep and playing with your lighting setup.”

You slapped him.

You didn’t even think—your body just moved, and the sound cracked through the room like a gunshot.

He didn’t flinch. He just looked at you like something had gone dead in his eyes.

“Wow,” he said quietly. “There it is.”

“Get out.”

“You sure?” He took a step back. “You’ve got, what, one brain cell left and a thesis due tomorrow? Might as well finish what we started.”

“I said get out.” Your voice broke on the last word. Oh god. Not the voice crack. Not in front of him. That was the equivalent of handing him a loaded gun, then tripping and falling onto the bullet yourself. Incredible work. Ten out of ten. Gold medal in Olympic self-sabotage.

He stared for a beat. Just long enough to register it. The voice crack. The heartbreak. The humiliation curdling in your stomach like expired milk.

Then he scoffed. That trademark Sukuna scoff. That “you’re beneath me” noise that made your skin crawl and your heart crumble all at once. Like it wasn’t worth it. Like you weren’t worth it.

Then he left.

No dramatic door slam. No stomping. No cinematic thunder in the background. Just the soft click of the handle as it shut behind him. Quiet. Cold. Like a polite little fuck you from the universe.

You sat there. Alone.

Drowning in a sea of flashcards, energy drink cans, and the pink lightbulb you swore was a good idea when you bought it. You thought it was romantic. Cute. Mood-setting. Turns out it just made heartbreak look like a music video from hell.

Twenty years of friendship.

Three years of blurred lines.

And one second of cruelty you’d never come back from.

And the worst part? The absolute dumbest, most pathetic, most humiliating part?

You still wanted him to walk back in.

Oh god. Oh no. No, no, no, don’t cry. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t—yep. You’re crying. You’re crying in pink LED, like a sad little flamingo.

You wanted him to go slam the door open, with your favorite ice cream on hand (Friday is ice cream nights).

To say he didn’t mean it. To take it all back. To change the fucking light to blue this time, maybe even purple, something less pity-me-Barbie-core, and call it a truce.

But he didn’t. He never did.

Because that’s the thing about Sukuna. 

He didn’t fix the things he broke. He just stepped over the debris in expensive shoes and left before the dust settled. And you? You were always the idiot standing there, broom in one hand, heart in the other, wondering why it still hurt.

You wiped your face with his hoodie sleeve forgotten on the floor sleeve like a Victorian widow who also hadn’t slept in three days. Because your wardrobe is full of his fucking clothes. Oh my god, you’re still in your underwear. And, your thesis stared at you, cursor blinking like it was mocking you.

Fuck, you needed a drink so hard you wanted to forgot this stupid night.

So yeah—after that night, you both did it.

You broke the last, dumb, invisible rule of whatever-the-hell your relationship was.

You slept with other people.

Not out of desire. Not out of revenge. Not even out of rage. No, it was dumber than that.

It was survival.

You hooked up with someone from a rooftop party. What was his name? You don’t know. You don’t care. You laughed too loud, drank warm wine out of a Solo cup, and let some stranger kiss you like it meant something. It didn’t. Because he wasn’t Sukuna. That was the bar. The bar was not Sukuna. You limboed under it like a sad circus clown.

Across somewhere else, he did the same.

In a random ass bedroom in a frat house with lighting that looked like it was allergic to joy, Sukuna let someone run their hands down his back. He didn’t joke. Didn’t flirt. Didn’t whisper dumb things in her ear like he used to do with you. More like earlier.

He just laid there. Face blank. Eyes open.

Because if someone else wanted him—even just for one night—maybe it would drown out the sound of your voice when you’d said: at least I felt something.

Spoiler alert: it didn’t work.

It never fucking works.

Because at the end of it, you both laid there in different places, beside warm strangers who meant absolutely nothing, staring at foreign ceilings that hadn’t heard you fight, cry, or laugh—and realized something ugly: you finally did the one thing you swore you’d never do.

You became strangers.

Strangers with shared ghosts. No one left to haunt but yourselves.

After that night? Radio silence. Nothing.

He didn’t walk over to your apartment anymore.

You didn’t leave the door unlocked. He has his own key to yours.

No Post-it notes on the fridge. No coffee mugs by the bed. No thesis pages tangled with underwear.

Just the hollow silence of absence. The weight of nothing.

And yeah. Gojo noticed.

Because you and Sukuna? You didn’t know how not to touch each other. You were that disgusting duo. PDA central. Couple-core. Fruit-peeling, lap-lounging, casual-hair-touching menaces.

You once made out behind the school bake sale. For charity.

Now? You barely made eye contact. And it’s been what? Three fucking weeks.

And if he walked into a room? You walked out.

Because looking at him was like looking at a memory you weren’t ready to bury.

Because if you looked too long, you might remember.

And remembering was dangerous.

Remembering felt like relapse.

Which—congrats, by the way—is exactly what you’re doing right now.

And now? You’re so disoriented from today (c’mon, two very deeply buried memories in a day flashing you because of that one look Sukuna gave you and sense of normalcy with this co-parenting situation with your son and his daughter being best friends, too?) – picking up the kids today, smiling like you weren’t dying, pretending that the raw fish didn’t taste like regret even as your son beamed up at you? 

So yeah. That Friday night? Alone in your master bedroom, lights off, ceiling staring back at you, while your son sleeps over at Sukuna’s house next door?

That’s when it hit. The full, unbearable weight of your very stupid, very mutual, very emotionally  constipated downfall.

And the worst part? The truly cursed, absolutely unhinged part?

Somewhere, in a dusty, padlocked corner of your ribcage you’ve spent years pretending doesn’t exist—

You still fucking loved him.

Even after that LED night.

Even after the single parenting.

Even after everything.

God. You’re such an idiot.

a/n: lol part 2 is coming sometime this May (?) aaaand as much as i wanna say that this is proofread – it's not :') hshdashadsah thanks so much for reading – i appreciate u all so much!!! also taglist is still open <3

[cobrakaisb]

"is that my shirt?"

summary: a collection of the various times you and luke get caught wearing each other’s clothes OR three times you denied wearing luke’s clothes and the one time he completely owned it.

word count: 1.6k

featuring: 3+1, aphrodite!reader, crop top luke & the headcanon that each cabin has cutsey chb themed shirts

one: luke’s gray zip-up

the dining pavilion is always the quietest in the morning. at least it normally is, but you overslept today. somehow you missed all your alarms, the ruckus of all your siblings waking up, and silena and drew’s fight over whether or not the other stole their makeup. so no one really blames you for walking into the pavilion well after the start of breakfast. 

“could you at least look a little more put together?” carmen, your sister who values tidiness in all aspects of her life, asks as you take one of the only open seats at the table. 

you look down at your outfit: high-top converse, denim shorts, a camp half-blood shirt, your camp necklace, and a gray zip-up to combat the unexpected chill of the morning. not too shabby, you thought, especially considering the fact that you even managed to tame your bedhead and put on some basic makeup. 

“i am put together. aren’t i?” you respond, reaching for the mug of hot coffee damien slides your way. 

“you look fine,” he assures, but his eyebrows furrow as he focuses on your sweatshirt. “is that new?” he continues.   

“what this?” you ask, pointing at the material. 

“yeah. i’ve never seen it on you before,” he continues. 

“don’t you know, damien, that it’s luke’s. he’s like always wearing it,” drew butts in. “they’re like a thing now, or whatever,” she continues, waving her hand as if swatting a fly. 

you huff at her annoyed tone, and the fact that you’ve been called out by your younger siblings. in an attempt to defend yourself you say, “it’s not luke’s. it’s mine.”

drew, damien, and carmen all open their mouths to object, but they don’t have the chance too because luke leans over from the end of the hermes table: “i’ve been looking for that sweatshirt everywhere, but you can keep it. it looks better on you anyways.”   

you feel your cheeks heat up, and luke has the audacity to send you a wink before turning back to his breakfast.

two: luke’s blue flannel pajama pants

friday night sleepovers were basically an aphrodite tradition at this point. what started out as a self-care night full of facemasks, manicures, and gossip sessions for the older campers quickly turned into an all-cabin sleepover complete with a movie, pillow fight, and fort. 

you’re sitting between peter and rosie, the ten-year-old twins from fairfield, connecticut. the two of them were polar opposites; rosie was talkative and outgoing, while peter preferred the quiet and keeping to himself. it was surprising to everyone when he sat next to you and watched intently as you painted his sister’s nails. 

rosie was yapping away, telling you all the details of her day. you were humming along, occasionally adding in an “oh yeah” or “really?” when needed, but for the most part, you were focused on not smudging her nails. peter was leaning against your side, fighting sleep as he listened to his sister. 

“i remember these pants,” he interrupted, fingers tracing the blue, white, and black pattern on your thigh. “luke was wearing them when i had that nightmare about fractions,” he finishes softly, a small bluish coating his pale cheeks. 

“was this the time one third was crushing you?” rosie asks, leaning forward to be closer to her brother. 

peter nods timidly and rosie springs into action, mumbling words of comfort. you, on the other hand, are completely rigid. your back is as stiff and as straight as a board as you look straight ahead, trying not to make eye contact with any of the siblings your age seated around you. carmen opens her mouth, a mischievous twinkle in her eye, but you snap your head in her direction. 

“don’t say a word,” you threaten. 

one look of your vicious glare has her miming zipping her lips. 

three: luke’s ac/dc shirt

this is the third time luke’s sifted through the stack of shirts in his dresser. it’s also the third time he’s come up empty handed. he huffs in frustration, running a tired hand down his face in annoyance. between the overflow of campers, keeping connor and travis in line, and now losing his favorite shirt, luke castellan is at his wit’s end. 

“has anyone seen my ac/dc shirt? y’know the one with the tour dates on the back?” he asks, looking around the cramped cabin. 

several people shrug. some of the younger kids start asking what ac/dc even is, and he does not have time to go into that right now. a few people offer to look through their stuff, saying maybe someone mixed up the wash, but the general consensus is that no one has seen the shirt. 

luke groans in annoyance. he’s starting his fourth attempt at finding the shirt when penelope, one of the younger unclaimed campers, tugs on his cargo pants. luke crouches down to her level, placing a comforting hand on her back while prompting her to talk to him. 

“i think i saw someone else wearing it,” she whispers, shyly twirling around the hem of her cotton dress with a butterfly pattern. 

“who?” luke asks, a little too loudly and abruptly. he clears his throat, taking a deep breath, before repeating much calmer, “who was wearing it, penelope?”

“that girl you like,” she answers, gently kicking the toe of his red converse with her bright pink twinkle toes. 

luke smiles softly at her, rubbing her back. “thanks pen. i knew i could count on you,” he answers. 

penelope giggles at his words, “but you didn’t even tell me to look for it!” 

“but you’re so smart you knew i’d need it,” he praises, ruffling her hair good-naturedly. 

once she runs off, luke leaves the cabin. he’s on a mission to find you, but most importantly, he’s on a mission to find his ac/dc shirt. after a series of questions, and some misguided directions, he finds you standing on the shore of the lake, surrounded by a variety of nymphs, demigods, and satyrs. 

you meet his gaze once he calls out to you, and watches as the color leaves your face. 

“how did you even get this?” he asks, taking some of the fabric between his thumb and forefinger once he’s within reach of you. 

you scoff at his words, “this is mine.” 

luke huffs, crossing his arms in annoyance. he watches as your eyes briefly flicker to his biceps before meeting his brown ones. 

“really? and since when do you buy your t-shirts two sizes too big?” he asks, smirking confidently. he’s got you now. 

“um since i wanted this as a beach coverup. it’s not rocket science, luke,” you answer. 

luke licks his lip, annoyance flickering across his eyes. “name five songs then,” he demands. 

your mouth falls open. “why are you such a guy?” you ask, frustrated.

“if you love ac/dc so much that you’d buy one of their shirts, name some songs,” he continues, but his voice has turned teasing. 

he watches as your nostrils flare and you ball your hands into fists at your sides. it’s cute.

“fine!” you agree. “there’s thunderstruck, and highway to hell, and that one about sex.”

“which one about sex?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “there’s multiple.” 

“all of them!” you shout. “there! that’s five.” 

luke rolls his eyes, but still wraps his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into him. “if you want my clothes, all you have to do is ask,” he whispers into your hairline before placing a soft kiss on your skin. 

one: your pink camp half-blood crop-top

“have you seen luke today?” silena asks, catching up with you as you walk from the strawberry fields towards the archery range. 

“no why?” you ask curiously. 

her smile tells you everything you need to know; it’s wide and luminous, but her pearly white teeth seem to twinkle with the knowledge she’s withholding from you. 

“oh. no reason,” she says, before trying to skip away from you. 

you grab her shoulder, pulling her back towards you. “silena, what did he do?” you ask. 

silena giggles this time. “it’s nothing really, just. gosh, your boyfriend is so handsome, did you know that?”

“yes i did,” you start, “but why are you smiling and giggling like that?” 

she laughs again, “i think you should check the volleyball courts.” 

you hate athletics, but you’ve never sprinted to the volleyball courts so godsdamn fast in your life. when you arrive, you’re not surprised to see the hermes boys and apollo boys playing a beach volleyball match. most of them are shirtless and sweaty (and the entertainment for about twenty other campers) but luke is on the only one with his shirt on. you don’t think much of it, until he jumps for the ball and you get a good look at the color; his shirt is light pink. it’s also very tight around his broad arms and shoulders, hugging the muscles nicely while also showing off his toned abdomen. 

you watch as he turns to high five some of his teammates after scoring a point. his brown eyes meet your intense gaze, and he smiles widely at you. he has the audacity to flex and shout, “like what you see, babe? i figured this color suited me.” 

you roll your eyes at his words, shaking your head side to side as you walk over to him. your fingers trace the collar of your his shirt, gently nudging against the clay beads of his camp half-blood necklace. luke visibly gulps, and you smirk as your gazes connect.

“i think you should keep this,” you whisper, trailing your finger down his chest. “it looks better on you than me,” you finish, stepping away from him.

[leighsartworks216]

You're Not A Burden

Zayne x gn!therapist friend!Reader

Based on my own experience as the therapist friend and my struggles with being genuine about my emotions with people close to me ✌️

Warnings: hurt/comfort, established relationship, childhood friends, crying, nightmares

Word Count: 1,517

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AO3

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Zayne has seen this same pattern ever since you were little; the weight of being the person everyone dumps their problems onto, rants to, leans on no matter how small you may be. It's happened for so long now, he can't remember a time you weren't the one stepping up to bear the brunt of someone else's troubles.

He remembers so vividly one day during recess. Your friend was crying because one of the teachers was being mean and unfair. You held them close, let them cry into your shoulder and blubber about their troubles. And then you went into class with that same teacher, experienced that same cruelty, and held your tongue. It was never about being stronger than anyone else, or that admitting anything was wrong was a weakness; only that admitting anything was wrong would place your troubles onto somebody else.

One time, when his parents were away, he slept over at your house in a pillow fort in the living room. He woke up before you, and you had dry tears on your cheeks.

You take the burdens as easy as you take in a breath of air. Even now, in the middle of your quiet night in, your friend called to rant about their job, their relationships - anything they needed to get off their shoulders. You smiled apologetically at Zayne, kissed his cheek, and disappeared into the bedroom to finish the call without disturbing him further.

He understands, better than most, how difficult it is to watch someone suffer, physically or emotionally. How many times had he gone out of his way to ease the burden of his patients outside of medical care? Trying to get a plushie from the arcade for a girl who was too sick to get it herself. Playing chess with a lonely old man, even when it cut into his lunch breaks. But even he has limits to the burdens he carries.

He listens attentively for your voice through the closed door from his seat on the couch. Quiet hums to show you're listening. Muffled words of advice and support. The call goes on for some time, an hour or more, but not once does he hear you talk about your own struggles. Yet, he knows work has been more demanding lately, you haven't been sleeping or eating well, and you were really looking forward to an uninterrupted night in with him - information gathered through observation, more than not.

Not a single word of complaint.

He can't focus on his book, so he sets it aside in exchange for his laptop. The soft clack of keys fills the silence. It nearly drowns out your voice entirely; the typing pauses every now and then to listen when you speak. His work isn't as efficient, so focused on listening for you, but he manages to get through a few emails and a report or two.

When the door opens, he perks up like a dog whose owner just came home. His fingers are still on the keyboard as he watches you come out from the hallway, smiling apologetically once more as you tuck your phone away with a final glance.

"Sorry about that," you murmur as you sit back in your spot on the couch. He closes his laptop and sets it aside. "Lisa's been having a lot of guy troubles lately and just got back from a bad date."

He hums his acknowledgement and turns his body to face you. Cool hands grab yours, holding them in his lap as his thumbs massage into your palms and work out the tension in your fingers. "You didn't say much."

You laugh lightly, as though it's completely normal. As though it should be completely normal. "I didn't want to bother her with my own problems - she has enough of her own to deal with."

"What problems would those be?" he questions. You tense up, like you want to pull away. You don't, but you stare at the ministrations of his hands with a shake of your head.

"It's nothing."

"But if they're problems," he tilts his head, trying to catch your gaze, "shouldn't I know about them?"

You glance at him with a grin that doesn't quite meet your eyes, and a slight downturn in your brow. "You're not on duty right now, Dr. Zayne."

He lifts one of your hands to kiss your palm. Your fingers brush his cheek. He leans into them without thought. "I didn't think I had to be to listen to my partner's issues," he shoots back, shooting down your deflection. His voice grows softer. "It's unhealthy to keep negative emotions bottled up. I am always here to listen should you need to let them out."

Something stirs in your eyes. Discomfort, at being called out and exposed. Worry, and fear. You look away again. "I don't want to bother you with that stuff."

"Who said you would be bothering me? I want to hear about the issues you have, however minor they may be." He releases one of your hands to cup your cheek. He directs your face back to him, leans forward to rest his forehead against yours, stealing your ability to look away. Your eyes remain lowered, staring at his nose. "You always carry the burdens of others. Allow me to carry your burdens, before you collapse under the weight."

You're silent. He shifts his fingers slightly, resting his middle and ring finger over your pulse point just under your jaw. Your heart is beating wildly. It stutters, jumps, skips. You inhale softly.

"You..." You shake your head slightly, nose brushing his. Your free hand fiddles with your pant leg. "You don't tell me about the issues you have, either."

He smiles slightly, wryly, as though you've just started trying to deal with a shrewd businessman who can't resist haggling.

"I had a nightmare last night," he admits softly. That draws your eyes up to his, finally. "When I woke up, it felt like I was still in the dream."

"What was it about?"

He gives you a pointed look. You frown. Your hand clenches around your pant leg, like admitting anything about yourself is agonizingly painful.

"I... I haven't been eating lunch during my breaks."

It's barely admitting anything, but he hums his approval nonetheless. "I was in the hospital, but the corridors were dark. I heard your voice echoing down the halls..." Your heart skips a beat in time with your concerned look. "Why aren't you eating lunch?"

You squeeze your eyes shut, hiding from the inevitable disapproval on his face. "I haven't been sleeping well, so I've been sleeping in my car during my breaks... I... passed out once, at my desk, because I was so tired... I don't want to concern my coworkers like that again." You wait a few seconds before cracking your eyes open. Sure enough, it's his turn to frown with worry. He knew you were tired lately, but he hadn't heard anything about you passing out at work. He can only be grateful you weren't out on the field at that time. "What happens next?"

"... I can't find you." His frown deepens, eyes flickering down your face, taking you in. "No matter where I look, you're not there. And when I wake up, it takes a moment for my mind to catch up and realize you're right there beside me."

Neither of you speak. Your pulse is calm now. The dark bags under your eyes concerns him more than ever now. The daze in his eyes when you woke up this morning to find him looking over your face flickers back into memory.

Eventually, he breaks the silence. "We'll take our lunch breaks together," he tells you, leaving no room for argument. "The next time you feel faint at work, or too tired to keep going, please tell me."

You nod slowly, silently sealing a promise with him. "The next time you have a nightmare like that, you have to tell me, too."

He nods in return. "I will."

You blink, pausing, waiting for something that doesn't ever come. Waiting for him to decide your burdens are too heavy to bear, or become disillusioned with you now that you're no longer this infallible beacon of strength and dependency. But it never comes. Instead, Zayne strokes your cheek with all the tender patience in the world, rubs his nose purposefully against yours in semblance of a kiss, sits quietly with you with no expectations.

Large drops of water begin to form in your waterline. You swallow, fighting the starting tremors in your lungs. He wastes no time in wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into him, helping you sit in his lap where you hug him around his neck and hide your face in his shoulder.

He kisses the side of your head as your body cries with a practiced silence, rubbing his hand in soothing motions against your back. "You're not a burden for having problems, or for sharing them with others," he whispers. "You don't have to carry everything alone anymore."

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @deepzombieyouth @armycaratlover @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy @an-ever-angry-bi @thejysemongko @deusfoundry @hawtlineblingz @that-lost-one

[railingsofsorrow]

blanket fort

[JJ Maybank x Reader]

summary: river maybank likes cuddles when he's sick.

pairing: dad!jj maybank x mom!reader

w.c: 900

warnings/content: fluff; dad!jj (I need more fics why can't I find it?!!!!?); loving parents; cuddling; mentions of a child being sick.

navi

masterpost

obx masterlist

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The mop of curly blond hair tickles JJ's chin when River adjusts to his father's chest. He had been fussy the entire night because of his fever. Now that it had gone down, he just wanted to sleep but he wasn't able to without any of his parents around.

When you woke up, jerking up to have slept when you were holding yourself back not to, you found your two boys in the middle of the living room. From the moment River had gotten sick, you've been glued to his side taking care of him. When you weren't, JJ was.

The three year old's bright blue eyes that he got from his dad slipped shut against his will until they fluttered open again. He was fighting against sleep and it was amusing to you.

“Hey, bubs.” You leaned down to kiss his chubby cheek, his red nose scrunching up a bit. “His fever is down.” You whispered to the blond whose eyes switched to the two of you.

“I told you that five times already.”

“Shut up.”

JJ held in his laughter to not disturb his sleepy son even more. “Just go to sleep.” He told you for the tenth time that night because when he said he had it handled it's because he had it handled. He could stay all night with River in his arms and he wouldn't complain, he never did. “I got him.”

“I know.” You said, attention falling on how River's tiny fingers twitched slightly when he was falling asleep. “I can stay with him, you've been up all night.”

“Just like you.”

With a roll of eyes, you tilted your head to the back of the couch where you had sat down, staring at the ceiling.

“Think he'll sleep on his bed tonight?”

You munch on your lip, thinking.

“Probably?” When JJ offers you a look, you snort. “Probably not. I don't blame him, I only wanted cuddles when I was sick too.”

“Yeah, me too.” He replied softly, lips pressing against River's curls. “Cuddles are the best healin', aren't they, bud.” His voice was barely heard due to the living room being dead quiet.

The sight brought a smile to your lips, your heart feeling up with a familiar warmth.

“Da.”

River's mumble was barely a croaked whisper, his voice rough, cheek muffled against your jumper. He had fallen asleep not long after JJ placed him on top of you on the couch. You recognized the slight desperation in his voice at not feeling his father close by since he had been in his arms just now. Half an hour ago.

You caressed his back the way you knew he enjoyed and most of the time would put him to sleep.

“Da.” River whines and despite his complaining he buries his face in your shoulder.

“He's upstairs, Ry.” You chuckled, kissing his temple and checking if he's still warm. He wasn't. Thank god. “Mama's here, baby. 's okay.”

“Want Da too.” His little hand closed into a fist with the fabric of your jumper as if he was scared you'd run off somewhere.

“He'll be right d—”

“I've been summoned.”

River doesn't move so much, but the small shift told you he acknowledged his father's presence. Surprisingly, he didn't move away from you and into JJ's arms. So the blond leans down and kisses the crown of River's head before sharing a look at you. You were watching him, a questioning gaze at what he could possibly be doing upstairs since he vanished a while ago.

The sight of pillows scattered around the carpet and a blanket fort in front of your bed provided you with an answer.

You didn't need to see your son's and husband's face to know their matching mischievous smiles. River squirmed out of your arms to crawl inside the makeshift tent, his giggles taking over the place.

“Blanket fort?”

JJ winked at you, outstretching a hand in your direction and you don't take long to lower yourself to his arms where you belong.

“He always sleeps fast in those.” He pointed at the makeshift tent with fairy lights all around it, something you definitely need to watch out for so neither of them would get their limbs stuck as they got out. Like father, like son after all. “You good?” His voice is soft when he addresses you, fingertips grazing against the exposed skin of your hip.

You nod in response. “Yeah, just tired.”

A kiss on your temple and another on your nose that gets you chuckling.

“Go to bed. I'll stay up with him for a few minutes. If he's even still awake.”

You glance at the blanket fort, watching the light flickering inside as River played with his toys.

“You sure?”

“I'm sure, baby. Please, go rest. You can barely keep your eyes open.”

You eventually give up because he was right. You were exhausted from not having been able to sleep an entire night for a few days now.

Before you truly fall asleep, you feel familiar curls tickle under your chin and a strong arm wrap around your stomach.

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taglist: @hoeshissworld

[wander-lustrous]

germanics as bfs

part 1

ft. germany, prussia, austria, switzerland

germany // ludwig beilschmidt.

- This man struggles to settle down in a committed relationship, preferring flings and quick one-night stands. It's not because he's against it, but rather he thinks it's hard to find someone to accommodate his… specific tastes in the bedroom; plus he's so busy he can't imagine fitting a partner into his life. But once he has a partner, he is SO committed. Like planning-your-one-year-anniversary-getaway-a-month-into-the-relationship kind of committed. He tries not to go overboard with it, but he does enjoy thinking about hitting these milestones.

- Ironically he ends up getting in relationship with friends, his coworkers, people he spends the most time around with, most likely in a work setting. He’s a stickler for the rules though, which makes him hesitant to blur the boundaries between work and his personal life. However, once he starts really noticing this person--maybe the way they're always dressed nice, or hardworking, or always has a smile for him--he's fucked. They invade his thoughts at the most random moments, and it makes him want to avoid them. Thankfully he has friends (cough Italy cough) who notice his little crush and persuade him to do something about it.

- Please don’t even mention wanting to get fit to this man. He goes overboard, devising a workout plan, a nutrition regimen, etc. He can be a bit draconic with it too, wanting to push you to be your best.

- While he's not the most emotionally available partner, he is the most reliable. If you complain that your heater not working, he's fixed it by the next day. If you're nervous about approaching your boss about an issue, he suggests you practice with him. If you're sick, he's getting you all the Vitamin C packets, soup, and tissues he can find, stocking you up with them before leaving for work.

-He's rather touch-starved, so he appreciates a partner who is more tactile. He loves when they hug him from behind, or let him rest his head on their lap and card their fingers through his hair. It's the one moment where he doesn't feel like he has to be quite so uptight.

prussia // gilbert beilschmidt.

- He is so the type to be in a friends with benefits situation. He's pretty clueless about romance. 💀 Or not clueless, but... willfully ignorant. He’s more likely to fall into a relationship by being buddies with someone, then sleeping with them, and a few months in realizing oh shit. He actually really likes them. Like more than as a bro.

- Gilbert is nothing if not crafty, so he wants to figure out what you think of him first. He asks around--your friends, other nations, etc. If you ever talk about him, if they know if you're dating someone else, etc. It's so funny because it's painfully obvious to everyone else that he has a thing for you. In fact, Gilbert is possibly the last person to realize you two are a thing...

- He is actually very easy to please. Just praise him. He’s used to hyping himself up to make sure no one forget him. It means the world when someone genuinely thinks he’s great or awesome. A sure fire way to get him emotional is if you cancel plans with your friends to hang out with him. Of course he’s old and he wants you to go have fun! To live a little. But saying that he’s exactly your kind of fun is enough to have him getting a misty-eyed before hurriedly saying that it’s allergies or something.

- He's a very fun boyfriend. He's never quite let go of his childish side. He is very much the type to make pillow forts with you and/or play co-op with you video games. For movie nights, he enjoys picking movies that he thinks will scare you so you'll end up clinging to him, asking him to protect you. The reality is, if anything he is the one getting more disturbed by the kinds of movies they put out nowadays, more than you do. 💀

- In public, he's definitely walking around with an arm around your shoulder. He's just so excited that everyone will know he has such a smoking hot partner.

-You know what, Gilbert is surprisingly good at comforting you. Part of it is experience, but if you're upset, he's not letting it go. He'll keep pestering you to open up to him. And when you finally do, he'll hug you to him, stroking your hair and calling you affectionate nicknames while reassuring you that as your great boyfriend, he'll certainly deal with any of your problems...

austria // roderich edelstein.

- He composes songs about you. He can get quite in a tizzy due to his perfectionist streak, appearing visibly agitated if the song isn’t going exactly how he wants it to.

- He is a strong believer in having dinner together if you’re living together! he thinks it’s a good habit to get into.

- Roderich is actually quite sweet. He sends you good morning and good night texts, and always texts you throughout the day on your lunch breaks, etc., asking how certain appointments or events went in your life.

- Roderich is a fan of appearances, and he is definitely getting you several high-quality Swarovski gifts. It doesn't matter that he's secretly a cheapskate who patches holes in his underwear--he wants you to only have the finest.

- Do you know those people who flirt via critiquing you? That's Roderich. With you, he's never actually cruel though.

-He is the perfect gentleman when dating you. Always pulling out the chair for you, paying for you, etc.

-He likes receiving massages from his partner. He's also a fan of relaxing in the tub, with scented oils and incense.

- He likes people who are quick-witted, fast enough to catch onto his sarcasm.

- He enjoys taking you to the opera, or to see plays or theater performances. He feels like the arts are not nearly as important as they once were.

- One of his favorite hobbies is to people watch with you. The two of you will sit down at a cafe, have some tea, and just make observations about the people around you. For him sometimes it’s great inspo for music. Other times it’s just great fodder for gossip lol.

switzerland // vash zwingli.

- His love language is definitely acts of service and gift-giving. He likes making you gifts or bringing you gifts his country specializes in. Watches, chocolates, etc.

- Of course you’re going to have to have annual trips to the Alps. He’ll do his best to teach you how to ski, but he’s not exactly the patient… he’ll be damned before Italy or that damn France try and teach you though.

- On the rare occasions he goes out to eat, he likes to get fondue. He thinks it’s somewhat intimate to eat with another.

- When he gets drunk, he’s actually kind of a sloppy drunk. He never really gets drunk though; he can hold his beers. He also tends to be the one to keep things together if you get too tipsy. He wants to ensure he can take care of you.

- He is very impartial, so if you want an honest opinion he’ll give it to you. Even if you’re his partner, he will call you out on your behavior as a neutral third-party💀 In his opinion it’s more important for you to grow than for him to coddle you.

- He has such a hard time with letting people know you’re dating. He doesn’t like other people getting in his business; he prefers his privacy. At first, he refers to you as a business partner, then as Lily’s friend, and then as his friend… and then eventually, when he sees another nation flirting with you, he decides it’s time to make it clear you’re taken for, and wraps a protective arm around your waist.

- He likes giving forehead kisses. Sometimes regular kisses feel almost too intimate for him. Plus when you make eye contact after ending a kiss… he gets a bit flustered. He likes that a forehead kiss is quick and easy but does the job. It’s… efficient even.

- He would definitely teach you how to shoot if you were up for it. He wants you to be able to defend yourself.

- The biggest indicator of whether you two will last in a relationship is if you get along with Lily and treat her like your own little sister. If not, Vash doesn’t see this relationship progressing and will cut things off.

[bambieyedoll]

⋆·˚ ༘ * EMBRY CALL HEADCANNONS 𐚁̸.ᐟ

𐙚 childhood friends to lovers

you and embry have been inseparable since you were kids.

it started when you were both six.

you were the new kid in town and he found you sitting alone on the playground, pouting because the other kids wouldn’t let you play their game.

without hesitation, he plopped down next to you, offering half of his snack.

“don’t mind them,” he said, grinning. “we can make up our own game.”

you looked up at him and nodded with your head.

“my name’s embry,” he introduced himself with confidence and charm. “what’s yours?” his dark eyes looked at you attentively.

“i’m y/n.” you simply said. a little smile showing in your face as he smiled back at you.

and from that moment on, he was your person.

he was the quiet but mischievous boy who always found a way to make you laugh, and you were the only one who could get him to open up when he was feeling down.

sleepovers were a regular thing when you were kids—building pillow forts in your living room, sneaking extra cookies from the kitchen, and whispering about the silliest things until one of you passed out mid-sentence.

“if you could be any animal, what would you be?” you asked once, your head resting on his arm.

“a wolf,” he answered without hesitation.

you giggled. “why?”

“because wolves always protect their pack,” he said simply. “and i’d protect you.”

it was sweet. it was innocent.

you two were inseparable, always finding new ways to get into trouble.

one of your favorite things to do was sneak out at night just to sit on the beach and talk about everything and nothing.

one night, wrapped in a shared blanket under the stars, you pushed him slightly with your shoulder, calling his attention.

“promise we’ll still be best friends when we’re old?” you asked, holding out your pinky.

you had this sacred rule: if something was promised with a pinky swear, it was unbreakable.

he hooked his pinky around yours without hesitation. “even when we’re wrinkly and can’t remember each other’s names.”

you giggled. “deal.”

when some older kids tried to pick on embry once, you stepped in without hesitation.

“what’s your problem?” you snapped at the kid twice your size, standing in front of embry like a tiny guard dog.

later, when the kid backed off, embry sighed, rubbing the back of his head. “you know i’m supposed to be the one protecting you, right?”

“yeah, yeah,” you waved him off. “i think i did a pretty good job.”

he smiled proudly. “yeah. you did.”

as you grew up, there were moments—tiny ones—that looking back, maybe meant something.

like the time you were both lying on your backs in the sand, watching the waves, and embry turned to you, quieter than usual.

“hey, y/n, do you ever think about—” he stopped himself, shaking his head. “never mind.”

you turned your head to look at him. “think about what?”

he hesitated, then just smiled and shook his head again. “nothing. it’s dumb.”

but you could have sworn his ears were red.

he didn’t even know at that moment what he was thinking about or why.

you were his best friend, after all.

so he ignored it. it was dumb. it would probably fade.

but instead, it starts to grow into something else as you both grow up.

it starts small—so small he doesn’t even realize it at first.

one day, you call his name, and for some reason, it makes his chest feel weird.

“embry.” just his name. same way you’ve always said it. but suddenly, it sounds… different.

he brushes it off. probably nothing. right?

it takes him forever to figure it out.

you could literally be sitting next to him, laughing at something stupid, and his heart races—but does he realize what it means? no.

“why do i feel like this?” he asks quil one day, annoyed. “like—my stomach’s all weird when she’s around.”

quil just stares at him. “are you serious?”

“yeah?”

quil groans. “dude. you like her.”

“what? no, i don’t,” embry scoffs.

but then he actually thinks about it.

he starts to notice things.

the way your hand lingers a second too long when you pass him something.

the way your knee bumps his under the table, and he doesn’t want to move away.

one day, you grab his wrist to pull him toward something, and suddenly, his skin burns where you touched him.

he swallows hard. oh.

the moment he really starts suspecting something is when he sees you talking to some guy at school.

it’s fine, he tells himself.

you’re just talking. why should he care?

but then the guy makes you laugh, and suddenly, embry hates him.

“dude, your jaw is clenched so hard you’re gonna break your teeth,” quil comments.

“shut up,” embry mutters, crossing his arms.

he totally doesn’t go over to “casually” interrupt the conversation (he absolutely does).

one night, he’s lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, and his mind just keeps replaying every dumb little moment between you.

the way you always save a seat for him.

the way you roll your eyes but still laugh at his stupid jokes. the way you always get him.

and then it hits him.

holy shit. i like her.

he groans and buries his face in his pillow. “oh, no.”

you do something small, like brushing his hair out of his eyes or adjusting his hoodie without thinking, and he just short-circuits.

his heart stops. his breath catches.

and he knows.

he’s completely, hopelessly, screwed.

you weren’t oblivious to this but you didn’t want to believe embry might actually feel something for you.

mainly because he has been your best friend since you both were kids and didn’t want to mess it all up.

but you did care.

you just tried to convince yourself that the things you and embry shared were just things best friends do.

you thought you could live with it.

until, everything fell apart.

he gets sick.

at least, that’s what it feels like.

the fever, the shaking, the pain. and then—the shift.

the moment he phases, his entire world changes.

sam demands that he cuts contact with you.

“you don’t understand,” embry argues. “she’s my best friend. i—i can’t just—”

sam’s voice is firm. “you have to. for her safety.”

the worst part? embry can’t even tell you why.

you don’t understand.

one day, everything is normal.

you and embry are laughing, sharing snacks, walking home together like always.

the next? he’s gone. not physically—he’s still at school, still in town—but he won’t look at you. won’t talk to you.

he turns away when you approach, slips into classrooms before you can catch him.

it’s like you don’t even exist to him anymore.

at first, you think maybe something’s wrong. maybe he’s mad about something. maybe he just needs space.

but then it keeps happening. for weeks.

and it starts to feel like he’s avoiding you.

you had tried everything.

you call. no answer.

you text. left on read.

you show up at his house, but his mom looks uncomfortable, says, “he’s not here,” even though his bike is outside.

you try one last time—cornering him in the hallway at school.

“embry,” you call for him, reaching out to grab his sleeve.

the second your fingers graze the fabric, he flinches back like you burned him.

and then he turns around and walks away.

before you can even meet his eyes.

you try to remain composed even though your heart aches against your chest.

after weeks of silence, you finally snap.

you find him alone behind the school, leaning against a tree, looking exhausted—but still not looking at you.

“are you gonna tell me what the hell is going on?” you demand, storming up to him.

his shoulders tense. he starts to turn away.

“don’t you dare walk away from me, embry call.”

that makes him stop.

his fists clench. he finally sighs. and then, finally, he turns—

and your eyes meet.

the second his eyes lock with yours, everything shatters.

the world tilts. his pulse pounds in his ears. his breath catches.

because there you are.

his imprint.

his everything.

the one person he is meant to love, meant to protect, meant to worship.

and he just spent weeks pushing you away.

you, however, are still furious.

“well?!” you snap, expecting something—an explanation, an apology, anything.

but he’s just staring.

wide-eyed. silent. like he’s in shock.

“embry,” you sigh, frustration shifting to something else; tiredness. “please, say something.” you beg.

he can’t. his throat is dry, his body frozen.

his mind is racing—how did i not know? how could i be so stupid? how could i hurt her?

but he can’t form the words.

he can only stare at you like you hung the damn moon.

your anger twists into hurt. his silence feels like another rejection. and you’ve tried and waited long enough.

“you know what?” you whisper, voice tight. “forget it.”

you turn, ready to walk away—just like he’s let you do every time before.

but not this time.

never again.

before you can take a step, his hand shoots out, grabbing your wrist, desperate.

“don’t.” his voice is rough, pleading. “please don’t go.”

you freeze, eyes widening at the sheer desperation in his voice. you’ve never heard him like this before.

“embry…?”

his grip tightens, not to trap you, but to hold onto the one thing that matters most.

“i’m sorry,” he chokes out, voice thick with emotion. “i didn’t know—i swear, i didn’t know.”

“know what?” you demand, heart pounding.

he just shakes his head. “i—” he swallows hard, searching for words. “just… don’t leave me. please.”

you stare at him, his fingers still wrapped around your wrist, his entire body shaking with restraint.

his eyes—wide, desperate, filled with something you don’t quite understand yet—never leave yours.

“embry,” you whisper, softer now, confused but unable to pull away. “you have to tell me what’s going on.”

he swallows hard.

you see the war in his face—the push and pull between telling you everything and protecting you from it.

but he already lost you once.

he’s not doing it again.

“i—” he exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair, struggling to breathe. “i didn’t know until now.”

you blink. “know what?”

his voice drops to a whisper, raw and terrified.

“that you’re mine.”

your breath catches. “w— what?”

he lets go of your wrist—but only to cup your face, fingers trembling as if he thinks you might disappear.

“i tried to stay away,” he confesses, voice breaking. “sam made me—he said i had to, that it was for your safety, but i didn’t know.” his forehead presses against yours, his eyes squeezing shut. “i didn’t know it was you.”

your hands reach for his wrists, holding onto him, grounding yourself in the intensity of his words.

“embry, you’re not making sense,” you say, heart pounding.

he lets out a breathless laugh, shaky and wrecked. “i know. i know, i just—” he pulls back to look at you, eyes full of so much love it physically hurts. “i imprinted on you.”

silence. a heartbeat.

“you… what?”

and then it clicks.

you’ve grown together listening to the myths and stories the elder people would tell each night around the fire in the reservation he lived in.

you were kids but you remembered.

the stories about finding that one person that makes everything make sense. the person that would change your entire life and ground you to the earth like gravity itself.

it sounded romantic at the time. you never thought much of it. until now.

but if that was real, then the other stories were real too.

and it made sense.

the avoidance. the sudden disappearance. the way he wouldn’t look at you.

because the second he did—his world changed.

your lips part, eyes searching his, piecing together the truth. “embry…”

he nods, like he already knows what you’re thinking.

“it’s you,” he murmurs. “it’s always been you.”

his hands slide down, gripping yours, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away.

“i should’ve known,” he admits, voice hoarse. “i should’ve never let them keep me from you.”

“why did you?” your voice is small, but it makes him flinch like you stabbed him.

his jaw clenches. “because i was scared,” he says honestly. “of hurting you. of losing control. of you finding out and—” he cuts off, shaking his head. “and not wanting me anymore.”

the idea alone wrecks him.

you squeeze his hands. “you idiot.”

he blinks. “what?”

“you already hurt me, embry,” you say, voice wavering. “by leaving. by ignoring me. do you know how much it killed me thinking i lost you for no reason?”

guilt crashes over him like a tidal wave. “i’m so sorry,” he whispers, eyes red. “i’ll make it up to you, y/n, i swear—”

“i don’t want promises,” you interrupt. “just… just want you back.”

he sucks in a breath, like he’s been drowning for weeks and you just gave him air.

“you have me,” he vows. “you always have me.”

it’s barely a choice when he leans in—like gravity pulls him toward you.

his lips ghost over yours, hesitation laced with desperation. “can i—?”

“yes,” you whisper.

the second his lips touch yours, everything clicks.

it’s warm. right. like you were meant to be here.

his hands are shaking where they cradle your face, like he still can’t believe he gets to have this.

when you pull back, he chases after you, breathing hard, eyes full of everything he’s ever wanted to say.

“i love you,” he blurts. then he freezes, eyes widening like he didn’t mean to say it out loud yet.

but you just smile. “i know.”

his breath catches. “you do?”

“of course I do.” your fingers curl into his hoodie, pulling him close again. “because i love you too.”

he wraps you in his arms, holding onto you like a lifeline.

“i’ll never leave you again,” he whispers into your hair.

“good,” you murmur against his chest. “i wouldn’t let you leave either.”

and for the first time since phasing, embry call finally, finally feels whole.

[holyblonded]

I love azulita and I love how olga exist around azulita like a wounded puppy and alexia amused at the interaction between olga and her sister

— yesss okay. when azulita was a little kid, she used to copy everything olga did. if olga wore her hair in a bun, azulita wore her hair in a bun. if olga said she hated tomatoes, azulita swore she did too, even if she had never actually tried one.

— olga was the first person who ever did azulita’s hair properly. she sat her down one summer day, detangled it with a kind of patience azulita hadn’t known before, and braided it while they watched a disney movie. azulita didn’t stop smiling for hours.

— they used to build pillow forts together when olga would visit LA. olga would pretend it was “their base,” and they’d sneak snacks in and whisper secrets to each other. azulita would cling to those memories whenever olga wasn’t around.

— olga always called azulita “mi chiquitina” when she was younger. azulita pretended to hate it by age 10 but secretly loved it every time olga slipped up and used it.

— one time, olga missed azulita’s birthday. she sent a video message and a huge care package, but azulita didn’t open it for days. she was so mad, she refused to even watch the video. when she finally did, she cried herself to sleep with her phone still playing olga’s voice.

— olga used to sneak her into bars of chocolate and little notes in her old backpack, especially when she knew azulita had a rough week. azulita would pretend like she didn’t care, but she kept every note in a little tin box under her bed.

— olga always felt guilty for not being able to take azulita in sooner. she’d lie awake at night sometimes wondering if azulita would’ve been softer, happier, if she’d had someone stable all along.

— when azulita finally came to live with her, olga tried to act like she was in charge— strict rules, curfews, chore charts. but one look from azulita’s exhausted, unimpressed face and she folded like paper. alexia teases her about it constantly.

— alexia loves watching the two of them interact because it’s like watching an old cat and a stray kitten learning to live together. azulita snaps, olga flinches, and alexia just sits there, amused, sipping her coffee.

— azulita acts like she doesn’t need anyone, but the first time olga tucked her in after a nightmare, she didn’t complain. she just let it happen, eyes wide and tired, like she was still trying to believe this version of olga was real.

— they fight like hell sometimes, full-on screaming matches over dumb things like the dishes or curfews, but the second someone else upsets azulita, olga’s ready to throw hands. loyalty runs deep, even if it’s messy.

— they don’t say “i love you” out loud very often, but azulita makes olga coffee in the mornings when she’s had a long night, and olga makes sure azulita always has her favorite cereal in the cabinet. it’s enough.

— the first time azulita called olga “her sister” without flinching, without correcting it to “half-sister,” olga had to turn away so azulita wouldn’t see her tearing up.

[minus-plus-zer0]

Stuck Inside From the Rain

♡ Genre: Fluff ♡ Pairing: Bakugou x Reader ♡ Tags: Aged up (This was supposed to be short u-u)

You couldn't go home, not in this weather.

You had only planned to drop off a video game you borrowed from Bakugou, but the rain had hit so suddenly that there was no way you were going anywhere now.

What's worse, it was getting pretty dark out. At least Bakugou had a nice couch to sleep on...

"Oi!" Bakugou called out from the kitchen. "Dinner's ready!"

Bakugou had fetched some extra ingredients so he could make food for the both of you. You both sat down at his dinner table, with your grilled chicken and peppers in front of you.

"Thank you so, so much for doing this, bestie!" you said. "I think this is the first time we've eaten together in your new home."

"That's not my fault. I invited you over last week. But you were busy with Kirishima..."

You scoffed at how he chewed his food angrily. "He's just a friend, Bakugou. I actually totally forgot about that until now. Are you jealous?"

"Why would I be jealous of some guy with shitty hair?! He's got nothing on me!"

"Then don't bring him up?"

"Don't go blowing me off for Kirishima and then I won't bring him up! How about that?"

"I'll be sure to give you all the attention you want this time, okay?"

Bakugou looked frustrated, but a bit pleased. "You better."

True to your words, you ranted and raved to Bakugou about the food, as always. Bakugou knew that if there was one way to get you to focus on him, it was through his cooking. He looked cocky as you basically monologued to him about your 5-star Yelp review of his food. He offered you the rest to take home as leftovers, because unlike that traitorous rat Kirishima, he found himself to be a considerate and compassionate soul who would never let you starve.

You wanted to help with the dishes, but Bakugou wouldn't let you lift a finger to do chores. The guy was treating you like a guest he personally invited, but you felt a little bit like a burden who invaded his evening out of nowhere (even though you knew he wanted you here).

The night grew colder as it went on, and you could tell even Bakugou was starting to get affected. You attached yourself to his side to warm him up, holding onto him because you knew he hated the cold. He let himself get a little lost in that moment, which was easy to do since nobody was here except for you.

"You're such a koala," he said. "How long are you gonna steal my arm for?"

"Bakugou, if you keep complaining I'm gonna let go."

"Fine, fine! Just walk a little faster with me, I need to get something from the living room."

Bakugou wanted to watch a movie with you, but first he fetched an extra blanket, hoping to drape it over the two of you while you sat on the couch.

"You didn't get your own blanket?" you asked.

"This was all I had! Don't hog the stuff, alright?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be a burden. I'm just cold..."

"You're not a burden. Just get over here so we can share it. Properly."

He drags the blanket around both of your shoulders, bringing you two hip-to-hip.

"It's like we're kids again, huh?" you laughed. "If you had extra pillows, I would've made us a pillow fort."

"I'm too big for that and you know it. It'd just fall over."

"You're no fun. Did anyone ever tell you that you act like such a grandpa?"

"You've probably told me that at least 5 times now, yeah."

You two watched a movie together, some old action flick from long ago. You rested your head on Bakugou's shoulder, and over time he ended up curling one of his arms around you. You're engrossed in the movie, you thought it wouldn't be your style but the movements are mesmerizing! However, Bakugou's glancing over at you repeatedly, gauging your reaction.

As the movie continued, the night grows even colder, and you're retreating into Bakugou's chest for any semblance of warmth. It's easy to do since his Quirk keeps his body working like an oven. Bakugou's tensing up now, stiff and janky in his movements.

You yawned for the 15th time this hour. "Bakugou... I'm sleeeeepy..."

Your heart rate slowed and your eyes felt heavy, and you almost dozed off to sleep with the sound of the rain rushing down outside. Bakugou looked distressed, knowing that you two might fall asleep together for the first time. But you didn't want him distressed, you wanted him happy, because he was your Bakugou, even if it wasn't official yet...

In your sleepy state, you gave him a tiny kiss him on the cheek and then curled up to sleep against him. You heard him swearing up a storm under his breath, and he really went through the entire curse word dictionary as if you couldn't hear him at all.

Then, he kissed you on the forehead right back.

"Night, dummy," he said, his voice very quiet.

[duxearlier]

A RACE TO YOUR HEART

< wanderer x reader x kazuha >

Summery: Its the end of collage and start of summer. Wanderer and y/n started to plan their summer and how they will spend it. Though those plans change after the big argument. Ignoring eachother, y/n's life started to go downhill more and more and wanting to get away from the big city, they run away to old town where they meet kaehedara kazuha. After spending some time with him, they realize that the male likes them more then friends though to make things complicated, They have a crush on their childhood friend, wanderer. Its up to them to figure out if they will accept Kazuha's feelings or decline it and go back to Scaramouche.

Warnings: Swearing, mention of death, yelling, bullying.

Genre: collage au, childhood friends, triangle love, drama, angst, strangers to lovers.

Taglist: open

< < this is it! I will be finally finishing these smau before making the new one. I've been thinking about it and I really want to finish this one. There are a few chapters left, so not many, but I hope you guys enjoy. I did chainge few things as I coudnt find the original photos I've used for the pfp but other then the pictures and few nicknames, it stayed the same! If you would like to be added to the taglist, let me know! > >

CHAPTER TEN

< chapter nine || materlist || chapter eleven >

▪︎___________°••>>>*<<<••°___________▪︎

“Why are we watching this? This movie is so bad” y/n laughed, shaking their head as kazuha couldn't help but snicker “I have no idea honestly but we can still laugh at how bad it is” “I guess yeah” they shake their head. It was one of those movies that were bad but you can laugh at how bad it is. “Well it is ending, wanna watch something else?” y/n hummed, stretching out as they didn't notice how Kazuha was somewhat staring at them. “Hm, I'm not sure. Anything you want, I'm fine with watching it” he spoke as y/n chuckled, turning to look at him which surprised them when their eyes met immediately, their cheeks flushed pink. “Honestly, I'm kinda hungry..I want pizza” they sigh “I also wanna build a blanket fout some reason” they spoke, smiling sheepishly as Kazuki hummed.

“A blanket Fort and food? That sounds like a great way to spend the night” he chuckled, standing up as y/n grinned and nodded. They Immediately moved to grab their phone, ordering the pizza and while waiting, they built their blanket fort. An hour later, the two of them were huddled under a blanket Fort with pizza and some other snacks laying around them.

“y'know..in the end I've never met your friends today as you said” y/n chuckled as kazuha blinked, humming “yeah but we can do that another time. I'll text them later and we can arrange it another time?” He suggested and y/n nodded. “Sounds good to me” they spoke as they nibbled on the pizza, leaning back against the pillows. “I wanted to ask” kazuha spoke up, wiping his hands from all the oil “I want to get to know you more, more better” he started off, looking at y/n “maybe to get to know each other, we can ask each other question and then answer them?” Kazuha spoke as he couldn't help but be more curious about y/n. He wanted to get to know them better.. to get closer to y/n.

y/n blinked, making sure to finish Chewing, taking a sip of their soda before nodding their head “yeah, I don't mind! I would love to get to know you better too” they smile softly at kazuha, noting how he seemed to be staring at them but they brushed it off. It was probably nothing right..?

Kazuha smiles and nods, “How about you go ahead and start?” He asked and that's what they did.

For the next few hours they asked each other questions, from ‘what's your favourite colour’ to a bit deeper ones questions. ‘What is the nature of reality?’ The questions were random, very random, something that they thought of at the moment but it was nice, it was nice to know more about each other and get closer. They ended up talking for hours and hours, exchanging questions and options as well. In the end, they went to sleep around 4ish am and maybe, maybe during the night they might have cuddled at one point but who can say.

▪︎___________°••>>>*<<<••°___________▪︎

< taglist > @archer-fb @veekoko @aeongiies @sketcheeee @kqbukimono @meowanian @jayxncya @inferisk0 @swivy123 @owl778 @v4lerixxq @maayamouii @keiiqq @mochicurls21 @luciledreamz

[ireadwithmyears]

Absent mindedly making me want you

Pairing: Ellie Williams / female reader

Word count : 12 K 💀 I swear it’s worth it I just really wanted a well rounded story even if this is just a one shot

Summary : 

Due to her first-hand experience when it comes to drowning, Ellie takes it upon herself to teach you how to swim. Something that neither of you had anticipated, however, was how intimate this endeavour would be, resulting in a day filled with unresolved sexual tension, that, unsurprisingly and inevitably comes to ahead

Tags/warnings : established relationship, soo much sexual tension, smut (18+, MDNI), porn with minor plot, dom/sub undertones, soft dom Ellie, submissive reader, inexperienced reader (first time), light hair pulling, unsafe lesbian sex, fingering, oral (F receiving), face sitting, lots of dirty talk(bc you cannot convince me that Ellie doesn’t have an absolutely filthy mouth), praise kink, overstimulation, forced orgasm, multiple orgasms, pussy slapping (just once), aftercare, fluff, no use of Y/N

“I’m sorry, wait, hold on. You’re telling me you’ve never learned how to swim?”

The settlement of Jackson has been dealing with, hopefully, the last of its winter storms for the year. Spring had crept its way around the corner, shining its promisingly hopeful rays of warm sunlight for a few, blissfully beautiful, but in the end, all two short days

But then, in what must be mother nature’s idea of a harmless joke, it was crudely snatched away and replaced with icy winds that seemed to settle within your very core, leaving you shivering long after you went inside to get warm. Wyoming had been hit with a blizzard that had caught everyone so off guard, that Jackson was ill-equipped and unprepared to handle it, leaving most of the community snowed in; workloads being much reduced and limited to essential services for the time being, until the snow abated.

This is how you and a group of friends found yourselves in Jesse’s living room, cradling mugs of hot chocolate, enjoying the warmth that seeped into your fingertips, and making a blanket fort as if you were still school children at a sleepover. The snowy days and lack of work seemed to bring out a childish side to everyone, which is how you found yourself engaged in a game of never have I ever, sitting in a tight circle with your friends and girlfriend who, up until a few seconds ago, had been absent mindedly playing with your hair, your head resting against her shoulder, where you had been quite content to stay.

But, she had now pulled back, looking at you with her eyebrows raised, lips quirked down quizzically, as if in thought. You look around at your friends, taking note of everyone else who’s never learned. You’re relieved to find that you’re not alone in this. As expected, the Jackson old-timers, the few of you who have been settled here almost your whole lives, or at least, as long as you could remember, had never encountered an environment that required the ability to swim.

“Nope, it’s never been necessary.” You shrug. 

She tilts her head, thinking, a few wisps of auburn hair escaping her ponytail as she regards you, teeth lightly grazing the bottom of her lip as she appears to be calculating an idea in her mind.

“As soon as it gets warm enough, I’m taking you out, and I'm gonna teach you. Joel taught me because he said that I would never know when it was a skill that would become necessary for me to have until it’s too late,” she says, nodding to herself decisively.

“Ah, I see your dad‘s passed off his overprotectiveness onto you,” you smirk, rolling your eyes fondly.

She hits you with a pillow for that. 

“Quiet, you,” she says in mock offense.

She pokes your belly lightly and you instinctively jump back with a surprised squeal. You hear the quiet amusement of your friends, Jesse barely containing a snort as he watches. You’re about to utter a retort when she reaches out, pulling you against her, settling you on her lap, where you happily go. 

When she presses a chaste kiss to your lips, hand settling at the back of your neck, fingers brushing against your skin, leaving goosebumps to form beneath their eager caresses, any kind of argument dies on your lips. Resistance melts as if it hadn’t been there in the first place, and all thoughts scatter like butterflies, only landing on the one thing that you care to focus on. 

It’s her, with her teasing lips and wandering hands, that explore and touch you as if she wants to know you, to memorize you, like you’re her well-kept and cherished secret. She is the only thing that surrounds your mind, the only one who holds your attention so easily, and it takes you a moment to shake yourself free of this haze. It’s strange, and euphoric, a kind of feeling that you’ve never felt before, and you find that you like it – instantly craving more the second that her lips leave yours.

She's kissed you plenty of times before, and though it’s always been an enjoyable experience for you, it’s never felt like that. You decide to file that information away for now; you’ll sort out whatever the fuck these new feelings are later. 

When you do come back to yourself, your head nestled against her shoulder, her arms wrapped around you as she looks down at you with warm, soft eyes, you think, yeah, you’ll let her teach you how to swim. You’ll let her do whatever she goddamn pleases, as long as it means that she’ll keep kissing you like that, and bringing out those good kind of butterflies that flutter in your stomach whenever she’s close to you.

*

To your surprise, Ellie makes good on her promise at the earliest opportunity.

In your experience, life is full of making plans and dreams that, more often than not, fall through. Even here, even in Jackson, where the walls are fortified and everyone is protected, the act of planning future endeavours is a luxury.

Spring finally comes , for real this time, with its customary blend of warmer weather that makes everyone instinctively turn their faces towards the sun, tentatively brushing its heat against their skin. And then, in complete juxtaposition, rain that starts in a slight drizzle that quickly descends into a downpour that sends those who’d ventured outside to appreciate the sunlight running back inside, scrambling to find cover, while quietly grumbling that they wish it was summer already, if only so that they could be freed from this topsy-turvy weather. 

Humans are funny like that, you suppose. Never fully able to live in the moment, always wishing for the next season the second spring reveals its more wild side. They forget that the scorching heat of summer will have them complaining and wishing for autumn to come faster in a few months.

Nonetheless, it’s early summer, and you find yourself riding astride Ellie’s mare, Hazel, whose step is light and carefree, tale gently swishing in the warm breeze as you make your way to a clearing with a lake, a few miles out from Jackson’s gates. You’ve taken up the rear position, head resting against your girlfriend's back, arms wrapped around her waist.

From her position, she can’t see the expression on your face, the way you worry. Your bottom lip is between your teeth until it starts to bleed, because quite honestly, you’re nervous. Your instinct is to hide your feelings from her, because it feels silly.  “A tough girl like you all freaked out over a little water?” You can almost hear her snark in your head. Logically, you know she wouldn’t say that, not to you, at least. But you can’t help but wonder if she’d think it. 

You also know, however, that the minute you’re off this horse and she turns to look at you, she’ll read right through any bullshit or lies you come up with in an instant. Ellie’s just that kind of person; able to read right through people without them even having to say a word. So, as the bird chatter accompanies the beat of Hazel’s hooves against the ground, you speak, softly, tentatively, half-wishing that she won’t hear, almost hoping that your words will be carried off in the slight breeze that ruffles the braid against your back, delicately freeing strands of your hair.

“You know, I’m actually kinda fucking scared to do this,” you figure if you’re going to admit this, it’s just best to rip the Band-Aid off. 

She holds the reins one-handed as her other comes to squeeze your wrist gently. 

“Can you tell me why?”

You sigh, feeling your cheeks heat with embarrassment as you rest your chin against her shoulder. She’s so warm and steady, confident and self-assured in a way that you couldn’t even attempt to replicate. 

She senses your unease, moving her thumb beneath the thin material of your sweater, stroking against the skin of your inner wrist. She lets it rest at the point where she feels your pulse lightly fluttering beneath her. 

“Hey.” Her voice is soft, encouraging, “Talk to me, Sweetheart, you’ve got absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about.” 

Her thumb resumes its movement, stroking back-and-forth along the inside of your wrist, soothing away the knot that’s begun to tie itself in your stomach.

“It’s stupid, I know. It’s just, I’m scared that I’m gonna drown, or something dumb like that,” you roll your eyes, feeling a little bit pathetic. 

“It’s not stupid,” you’re not surprised that she’s come to your defence so quickly, but the conviction in her voice gives you pause.

She continues, “I almost drowned, once. Well, I guess it wasn’t almost, I did drown, though I don’t remember the details. It was before Joel had taught me how to swim, probably what made him decide that he had to. But, when he did, it took me the longest time to get over my fear. Every time I so much as touched the water, my mind would bring me back to that moment where I thought I was about to die.”

Her voice is sheepish, nonchalant, but you scoot closer to her on the saddle nonetheless, wrapping your arms just a little tighter around her waist.

“My point is, if you would have seen me when I was fourteen, the way Joel would have to coax me into the water bit by bit, you wouldn’t believe I’m the same person now. Now, I can be assured that whenever I go into the water, nothing’s going to happen to me that I can’t handle.” 

She takes your hand in hers, and her voice is completely serious when she speaks now.

“Baby, you know I’m not gonna let anything happen to you, right?” 

In spite of your nerves, you know the answer to this question immediately. It’s not even a question, really, you know without even having to think about it that she’ll keep you safe, protect you with her life if necessary, and you nod aggressively, even before she finishes speaking.

“I know, Elles.”

She gives your hand a squeeze. 

“Good, because if my 14-year-old freshly traumatized from actually drowning ass can learn how to swim, I am fully confident in your abilities.”

Hazel trots on, and for the first time since you headed out today, you feel a genuine smile pulling the corners of your lips upward, your laughter accompanying the birdsong as you ride on.

*

“That’s it, just lean back into me, I gotcha.”

She’s teaching you how to float on your back, first, and as you lean against her and lower yourself into the water, you swear you feel the peak of one of her nipples, hardened from the cold, poking through the flimsy material of her tank top, brushing against your back as you submerge yourself. You have to fight to keep your expression neutral, trying not to betray anything on your face. If she asks why you’re blushing, you’ll just say it’s because of the heat.

Her hand holds you up, pressing into the small of your back as she instructs you, and it’s nice, the heat that radiates from the warmth of her skin. You feel it through your tank top, and maybe it’s because the water is cold and it’s heightening all of your senses, or maybe it’s because you’re in a pair of underwear and a tank top, feeling very exposed to your girlfriend in a way that you’ve never been with anyone, but you’re getting goosebumps, and you know for a fact that it has nothing to do with you being cold.

You hope to yourself that the feeling of having her hands on you will get easier throughout the day, because for some inexplicable reason, the feeling of her hand pressing against you like this is making it hard to focus on what she’s actually saying.

*

You quickly discover that it does not get easier as the day goes on. 

It actually gets so much fucking harder to bear as the sun begins to sail higher in the sky.

When she’s about to teach you how to kick, her hands ghost over your hips, making you jump. 

“Sorry, hun, I should’ve asked,” she apologizes softly.

You can’t bring yourself to look at her, and have to temper your voice to not sound eager as you respond. “No, you’re good, go ahead, I'm just cold, that’s all.”

When her hands caress your sides before settling against your hips, your teeth sink into the inside of your cheek, trying to contain the gasp that wants to escape. 

Is she truly that fucking unaware of what she’s doing to you? 

The skin where her fingers had trailed over tingles, and you have to give your head a slight shake to clear it, because that touch, regardless of how innocently meant it might’ve been to her, suddenly makes you want to get on your knees and beg her to touch you like that again.

You want more.

*

You learn the mechanics of how to propel yourself through the water, arms and legs separately. When it comes time to put the two together, Ellie eases you onto your stomach. The water is still shallow, your toes can still touch the ground. This was as deep as you’d be going today, she had told you, making you feel relieved.

“I’m just gonna put a hand on your stomach to hold you up. You’re still gonna have my help, I’m right here,” you’re stomach muscles tense when her hand lightly presses against it. She must think you’re nervous, because she gently strokes her thumb up and down between your rib cage, in a way that should be reassuring, but in reality, makes heat radiate from between your legs. You’re grateful that she can’t see your face, because the small pool of wetness that blossoms against your panties is undeniable now, and it makes your cheeks heat.

Okay, so you have to admit it now. You’re horny. In spite of the fact that you’ve never had sex and you haven’t been ready to take that step before today, as you slowly move through the water, feeling her hand pressing against your stomach, so close but so, so far from where you want her to be, you know that you want her, in a way that you’ve never wanted anyone before. 

“At a girl, just like that,” she says encouragingly, and you swear you can feel your thigh muscles clenching involuntarily, thoughts drifting to a very different scenario in which she’d utter those words.

*

It’s late afternoon, the sun is high in the sky, warming your shoulders as you stand in the water. You’ve long ago adjusted to its cool, murky depths, and you’re not on edge anymore. 

At least you weren’t, until Ellie suggests that to finish off the day, you try moving a little bit on your own. Your eyebrows raise, in obvious alarm, and her hands settle on your shoulders, quick to reassure you.

“You won’t have to go far, I’ll be right in front of you, I promise, all you need to do is just keep coming towards me.” 

You tilt your head, considering. Yes, you’ve grown accustomed to the water, but whenever you’ve been moving, she’s always had a hold on you, and you felt safe, knowing that there wasn’t even a chance that you would go under. 

Seeing your still evident hesitation, Ellie steps closer, a hand grazing against your waist as she presses her lips to your forehead briefly, before she speaks, her voice low and teasing against your ear.

“Can you do it for me?” She says softly. Her fingers are tracing slow, enticing circles over your waist, soothing you, but making you feel all worked up at the same time. 

She’s so close that you can feel her lips brush against your ear when she speaks, and you can’t hide the shiver that runs down your spine. You’ve lost the ability to form coherent thought, for the moment, and you have to mentally kick yourself to push your mind back into any semblance of reality. God, if she asks you like that, you’ll do anything.

You don’t say that, though. You only nod meekly, not trusting your voice to be controlled when you speak. 

When her hand gives your hip an appreciative squeeze, you feel her breath ghost against the curve of your neck as she speaks. “Good girl,” she practically purrs, a quiet, low hum against your ear that makes your knees buckle so hard that you have to dig your feet into the sand beneath you so that you don’t faceplant into the water.

When she pulls back, taking slow, tentative steps away from you, she knows that you’re watching her every move. She can feel your eyes burning into her, the further she moves away, nerves making you fidget with the hem of your top. When she’s several metres away, she reaches out a hand, beckoning.

“Okay, c’mere, Baby Girl.” 

Her voice is low, persuasive, encouraging you forward. But it still takes you a solid 30 seconds of anxiously staring at her before you actually begin to move. She stands, arms folded, patiently waiting for you to give in, because she knows that sooner or later, you will.

She’s not that far away, not really. She still would easily be able to reach her arms out, steadying you if somehow, even in this shallow water, you managed to bring yourself under. Still, when you kick back, and you no longer feel the assurance of the soft sand against your feet, or Ellie‘s arm wrapped securely around your stomach to hold you up, you freeze. She notices instantly, and her voice is quick to call you back, bringing your racing heart back down with a few, gentle words.

“Hey, eyes on me.” 

You swim forward, it’s unsure and hesitant, but at least you’re moving. You can’t always keep your eyes on her, but when your head is lowered to the water, you can always hear her voice, which she uses to get you to keep going. 

“That’s it, almost there.” 

She eggs you on, making your limbs instinctively move faster, cutting through the water with an almost desperate urge to get to her. You’re reaching for her, arms ready to wrap around her waist when she meets you halfway, scooping you up into her arms.

“That’s my girl,” she whispers against your lips, cradling the back of your head as she pulls you in. Your eyes flutter shut, and you can’t help the small sigh that she elicits from you as she lowers her head to kiss you. Her lips meet yours in a slow, soft caress, searing as her touch sets your skin alight with heat. Instinctively, only half aware of what you’re doing, your legs wrap around her waist, desperately pulling yourself against her with a sudden need that is too strong to be contained.

When her hand, tangled in your hair, gently pulls, forcing your head back as she deepens the kiss, your mouth falling open as her tongue teases past your lips, you are unable to hold back the little moan that escapes you, scalp tingling at the sensation of her fingers, curled against strands of your wet hair, holding tight, keeping you exactly where she wants you. 

She’s so close, you realize. Your legs wrapped around her like this, your heat pressed so near to hers. It’s enough to send your thoughts reeling. Every nerve ending in your body is alive with want and need. 

Her hand makes a slow path, warm, delicate fingers journeying from your waist all the way up to the peak of your breast, leaving a trail of goosebumps to form in their wake. Her hand rests against you, leaving you warm and wanting, and just when you think that you can’t handle any more, she moves her thumb in a slow, deliberate caress over your perked, hardened nipple, which, at this point, your tank top, with its thin, soaked through material that clings to your every curve, leaves little up to her imagination. She can see you, she can see all of you. Your breath shutters, the smallest sound of want, of need, of desperation escaping your throat in a choked, pleading moan that has your back arching.

And that’s when Hazel makes her displeasure and boredom known, letting out a loud, displeased nay of indignation as she stamps her hooves against the ground.

The noise is so sudden, so out of the blue, disrupting the sounds of the water gently lapping around you, and the ambiance of nature that you’ve grown quite accustomed to hearing over the past few hours, that it makes you both jump. You startle so hard that you nearly fall into the waters below, jolting back as your head whips around to discover the source of the noise. Ellie’s arms are secure, though, you feel her adjusting her hold on you, wrapping them around you tighter. She too frantically searches the area around you for signs of trouble.

When you realize that you’re in no imminent danger, and that it’s just Hazel being her typical, dramatic self, you both look at each other, and simultaneously, slow smiles creep across your faces. She can feel you begin to shake with laughter. All the adrenaline leaves your body in a relieved, sudden rush that escapes with the quiet, barely contained snort that you desperately try to hold back. After that, it’s over. Ellie’s face buries against your hair as you both begin to laugh uncontrollably.

You feel her breathy, relieved sigh ruffle your hair. “We should probably go see what her problem is – knowing Hazel, a mosquito probably landed on her and she freaked the fuck out. God, that horse is such a drama queen.” 

She rolls her eyes, but there’s an underlying affection that she can’t keep out of her voice, even if she tries.

“Probably saw us kissing and was offended. Maybe she’s homophobic,” you quip, chuckling. 

Ellie gasps in mock horror. “I practically raised that horse, there’s no fucking way,” you both laugh as she begins to move towards the shore, you cradled against her with your head on her shoulder.

*

Riding back to Jackson when you’re extremely sexually worked up, it turns out, is no fun. 

Your girlfriend, as much as you love her, is doing nothing to help the situation. 

In general, Ellie prefers to ride horses that are the most chaotic, and that carry attitudes that make them almost borderline untrainable. She says it’s because she can empathize with them, she listens to them in a way that no one else does. 

You think, privately, that it’s because it scares the shit out of Joel. He lives in constant fear that Hazel is going to throw Ellie off, sending his already accident prone daughter home with a broken leg and a concussion. You swear, Ellie enjoys getting a rise out of him, making his heart race with all of the reckless shit that she does.

Hazel has been sitting still for too long, and is now thoroughly enjoying the freedom of being able to trot about; she tries to take advantage of it regardless of the cargo on her back, making for a bumpy ride. 

You’re riding in front, this time, and every time you hit an unavoidable bump, Ellie rests her hands on your hips. She claims that she’s doing it to keep you steady, make sure that you don’t fall off the horse. but, you know better. You know an ulterior motive when you see one. The way that her hands linger, fingers slowly teasing At the edge of your still damp top, drawing slow, light circles against the exposed skin she finds beneath, suggesting that she has other plans in mind. It makes you shiver.

“You cold, baby?” Her voice is low against your ear, the unexpected proximity making you jump. She cannot be serious. Even though it’s late afternoon, evening fast approaching, the day is still scorching, hence why you’ve opted out of wearing your sweater on the way back. You didn’t even want to put on shorts over your damp underwear, but alas, you still had some shred of modesty left, not wanting to make whoever was stationed to guard Jackson’s gates uncomfortable.

When her arms wrap around your waist, pulling you flush against her, you swear that you can feel her hips slowly moving as she grinds against you suggestively. Her lips brush against the bare skin of your shoulder, lingering as her warm breath ghosts against your skin, caressing against your neck with its heat. You can’t hold back your gasp at the feeling.

One of her hands travels down, settling against your knee with a gentle squeeze. 

“How’s that, Baby Girl, is that better?”

God! 

If she doesn’t fuck you soon, you swear you’re gonna kill her. Or, at this rate, she’s gonna kill you first with the way she’s sending your heart racing like that.

*

If you had thought that getting home, changing into a fresh pair of clothes, and giving yourself the chance to calm your racing heart would magically put an end to whatever was stirring up inside of you, you were sadly incorrect in your assumptions.

You’re sitting on the couch in your living room, wearing a sundress that falls to your knees because it’s light and you enjoy the slight breeze that it creates when you move. It flutters around your legs gently in the humid air. It might provide next to no relief at all, but it’s still better than nothing. 

Ellie sits across from you in an armchair. Without even looking, you can feel her staring at you, eyes burning into you with a restrained and tempered want. You suspect that she’s holding it back, now wondering if she’s crossed a boundary today and made you uncomfortable. 

That couldn’t be further from the truth, but Ellie is the type of person who acts on impulse, then completely over analyzes and over thinks her actions later, until she’s convinced herself that she’s fucked something up. She’s so bold, so confident in the things she does in the moment. But, in the end, she’s still someone who sometimes needs you to explicitly communicate and validate what she does after the fact. Regardless of how her confidence is so vast, and can sometimes be mistaken for being cocky, on the inside, she’s deeply insecure and needs reassurance.

Glancing up at her through your lashes, seeing the way that she twists and fidgets with the hair elastic on her wrist, the slight frown on her face, the almost guilty way her eyes flit away from you when she sees you looking, you know that she needs that right now, and you fully intend to not just give that to her, but encourage her forward. 

Setting down the book that you weren’t actually reading, just trying to distract yourself with and completely failing, you rise to your feet, and as you move to her, she looks up at you with a smile, slipping back into its place effortlessly.

“Hey, baby, what’s up?” 

Her voice is low and soft, and the way her eyes skim over you, pausing at where your dress falls, the hem barely skimming your knees, makes heat flush at the back of your neck.

“Want somethin’.” 

You admit, crawling into her lap, bracing your hands on her shoulders.

“Yeah? What’s that?” 

She quirks a brow, and the way her eyes smoulder as she looks at you makes you nervous, stomach fluttering with anxious butterflies as she looks intently at you. 

You’ve got her full attention, and now that you do, you don’t know what to do with it. You were fully ready to take the lead on this, but at the end of the day, you’re still shy and inexperienced, and she’s everything that you’re not. To be honest, it’s intimidating, knowing her wealth of experience that you couldn’t even attempt to match. 

The insistent butterflies take flight in your stomach; you decide that the only way forward is by pure instinct, and the blind hope that you won’t embarrass yourself too much.

You lean forward slowly, hesitating slightly until, with understanding, Ellie’s hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, encouraging you the rest of the way forward until your lips meet hers, and suddenly, you forget exactly what your plan originally was, if you even really had one in the first place. It easily slips out of your mind as you melt against her, effortlessly letting her take the lead. 

Her fingers brush against your lower back, holding you securely against her. This isn’t like your usual, every day kiss, one that starts off slow and gentle. Her lips are insistent, pressing against yours with a desperate, persistent need. Her fingers absently brush against your scalp, running through your hair before cupping the back of your neck, the pressure just firm enough.

All you know is her. Her lips, claiming your mouth with a possessiveness that makes you ache for her inside. Her tongue, swiping over your lips, making you gasp slightly. As your lips part for her, you hear the low, satisfied sound she breathes against you as her tongue pushes past your lips, exploring your mouth with a hunger that you’ve never sensed in her before.

Her thigh pushes between your legs, parting them with ease and settling between them, grazing against your clothed heat. When her hand schemes down your lower back, caressing over your ass, before pressing against it with a firm squeeze, you can’t resist the way your hips buck against her, desperately chasing the friction, unable to hold back the small whimper when you’re clit presses against the rough denim of her cut-offs. 

The sound seems to startle you so much that you still your movements, eyes going wide as Ellie pulls back to look at you. She doesn’t even bother holding back the smirk that overtakes her features.

“Oh, so that’s what you want.” 

Her green eyes darken with want, voice low and gravelly with desire as she studies you, perched on her lap with a needy expression behind your innocent eyes.  Her fingers brush against your hips, teasing over your skin.

Heat flushes against your collarbone, spreading to warm your cheeks as you try to look down, wanting to escape the scrutiny of her piercing gaze. She anticipates your movement, and stops you with a hand coming to curl beneath your chin, making a soft noise of disapproval.

“Look at me, pretty girl, and tell me what you want,” 

Her voice is still soft, still gentle, but there’s a warning edge that’s crept into it, an effortless authority, that sends a jolt straight through you, making your already throbbing clit pulse with anticipation. Her fingers nudge your chin upwards, holding firmly as she directs your eyes to meet hers, smouldering with uncontained lust as she watches you. 

“You.” 

Your answer comes out in barely a breath, barely a whisper. 

“I want you.” 

You feel like your response sounds ridiculous.

It sounds small.

It sounds completely inadequate.

And yet, when Ellie’s hand snakes beneath your dress, fingers toying with the waistband of your panties, her lips brushing against your ear as she says low, “that, sweet girl, I would be happy to oblige.” 

She flexes her thigh up against your heat, rubbing over your swollen clit, making you cry out in surprise.

*

Her shirt hits the floor with a dull thump, pulled off by your eager and curious hands. You want to see her. You want to touch her. You want...

But now that it’s off and she’s looking down at you like that, your brain catches up to your body. What are you doing? What are you supposed to do? You don’t know how to do this. You don’t know where to put your hands, and the idea of fumbling around and embarrassing yourself is enough to make you nervous.

She sees the moment you begin to question yourself and overthink it, in the way that you catch your bottom lip between your teeth, the way your hand flexes, curling into itself with anxiety.  

“Hey,” she says softly, waiting for your eyes to meet hers. Her hands caress up and down the sides of your arms, pulling you from the spiral that your mind was going in, bringing you back to earth with a soothing touch. 

“I know that this is your first time, and I just want you to know that I don’t expect anything of you tonight. The only thing I want is to make you feel good. So just, let me do that, okay?” 

When she leans in, arms wrapping around you, and her lips press against your neck in a slow, seductive kiss, she can feel the shiver that runs down your spine, and she makes a note to remember that you’re sensitive there.

You feel her lips close to your ear as she speaks. 

“Just let me take care of my girl tonight.” 

Her hand schemes down your side, fingers drawing teasing circles over your hip. Your eyes close and your breath comes in a sharp, unsteady inhale and all you can do is look at her, eyes hooded, and say in a shaky voice, “please.”

You feel her low chuckle against your neck. 

“Such pretty manners,” she hums against your skin, before you feel the gentle graze of teeth join her lips, delivering a small, sharp sting that you imagine will leave a mark. 

This thought doesn’t scare you in the way that you thought it would. Your first thought isn’t of how on earth you’re going to cover this up tomorrow. The idea that there will be physical evidence of her, of what she’s doing to you, that there will be a reminder of it in the morning turns you on, sending a thrill through you. 

Her tongue replaces where her teeth had just been, gently soothing over the sting. “Good girl,” she breathes, hand coming up to fiddle with the spaghetti strap of your dress. “I want this off,”

She waits for you to nod your consent, and then she’s sliding the straps off your shoulders, letting it fall. It pools around your waist in a soft brush of its material.

Fingers brush over your stomach, and you shiver with anticipation, already knowing the path they intend to travel over your skin. Her hands graze over your ribs, before she curls them around the curves of your breasts. She looks down at them, cradled in her hands, and her lips curl upward. 

Warm, experienced hands massage and knead your breasts, gentle caresses and squeezes encouraging, coaxing your nipples to harden beneath her touch. Her thumb brushes over one of the hardening buds, and you gasp at even the slightest attention. She seems to relish in drawing sounds from you, her index finger joining her thumb, as she rolls your perked nipple between her fingers, adding the slightest pinch. 

“You’re so fuckin pretty, you know that? The site of these,” she tweaks your other nipple, making your breath stutter, “peeking through your shirt at the lake was teasing me all day.” 

Her face buries against your neck, she becomes rougher, more insistent. Still slow and attentive, but there’s a possessive edge to it as she leaves a trail of marks down your throat, your collarbone. 

You love every second of getting to see this new side of Ellie, one that you haven’t seen before. The way that she’s intently listening to your body, finding out exactly how to touch you in a way  that brings out those little gasps and mules that are like music to her ears, you want to see this side of her more often.

She’s enjoying the sight of her marks on you just as much as you are; a thrill runs through her, knowing that everyone will see that you belong to her.

She pauses toying with your nipple as her hand falls to your thigh, letting her breath graze against your skin, before she leans in, lips encircling the pebbled bud with a gentle suck. You whimper as her teeth barely graze your skin, tongue swirling over the small bud teasingly. She makes an appreciative sound against you while her fingers brush the bare skin of your inner thigh. 

Her thumb teases over the seam of your panties, and you swear that you can feel her lips pull into a smirk as she feels the evident wetness pooling there. When she grazes a knuckle over your clothed clit, using a featherlight touch, your hips instinctively buck, you’re so worked up. 

“Ellie,” your cheeks flush at the way that she’s got you whining for her with just one touch to wear you’ve been craving her to be. “Please, I, I need you to touch me there.” 

“Aww, you’re so pretty when you beg for me,” she coos, two fingers caressing over your heat. 

Your head falls back, eyes closing as you try to suppress the whimper that fights to escape at her teasing.

“Ellie, please,” and if you weren’t trying to beg before, you definitely are now.

She tilts her head, a slightly pleased expression crossing her kiss swollen lips as she looks at you, thoroughly unravelled before she’s even fully gotten you undressed.

“That’s all you had to say, Princess.”

Her voice is low and smooth, calm and effortless, in complete juxtaposition to her next actions, because suddenly, your dress is being yanked the rest of the way down, Ellie tossing it to the floor in a careless heap. She lifts you with ease, flipping you around so that your back is pressed against her bare chest. Her arms curl around you, holding you close to her, fingers trailing down your stomach, scheming over the waistband of your panties. One finger hooks under, and she pauses, voice suddenly soft.

“Can I take these off, baby girl?” Her finger strokes along the bare skin that she’s found beneath your panties, just above your mound, inviting, but not moving lower. 

“Ellie,” you say with growing desperation. She’s teased you all day, and you can’t take much more of it. You’ve reached the end of your rope, and you can tell, without even having to look at her, that she’s fully aware of it, she’s just enjoying teasing you a little longer, dragging out the moment for even just a few seconds more. She’s so close to where you need her, but not close enough, and you need her to bridge the distance. “You can do whatever you want,” your head falls back against her shoulder, auburn hair tickling against your face as she leans down to whisper.

“Don’t give me any ideas, princess. You might regret it.” 

Her words make you shutter, but, nonetheless, she pulls, and in a matter of seconds, she’s sending your panties to join your dress on the floor, with a practiced flick of her wrist.

She doesn’t waste much time now; her hands gently part your thighs. 

“Spread your legs for me, Pretty Girl, I want to see all of you.” 

She coaxes, not that you need much urging. You feel her legs cage over yours, wrapping around them, holding them open for her. Fingers ghost over your curls, dipping between your lips. She collects your wetness, fingers gliding effortlessly up to your clit, coating it in your own arousal. 

“Barely touched you, and you’re already soaked for me,” two fingers press against your swollen clit, drawing slow, easy circles over your heat, already making your walls clench around nothing.

Her other hand moves, pausing to give an affectionate pinch to one of your perked breasts, making you gasp in surprise, your hips instinctively jolting forward, pushing against the hand that continues to massage, tease, and press against your clit. It continues its path downward, caressing over your hip, your inner thigh. 

Long, tapered fingers dip between your folds, tentatively swirling around your entrance, gathering the wetness that’s collected there. You don’t realize you’re begging until, achingly slowly, one of her fingers brushes over your tight, glistening hole. She doesn’t push it forward, only curling it slightly to pet at your entrance. 

“F-fuck, please,” your head falls back against her shoulder, and your hips push forward, trying to take her inside, but to no avail.

“Such a needy girl,” she murmurs, smirking at the way that you nod. 

She’s got you so desperate that you’ll agree to anything she says; you won’t even try to deny it. It would be pointless, anyways. All she has to do is look down and see the way that your hips are bucking against her to know that you would be lying through your teeth. Nonetheless, she gently eases a finger inside you and you let out a long, tremulous breath as she pushes her finger, easing it all the way inside until she’s down to her knuckle.

She’s watching carefully for your reactions and she can feel how tight you are around her; she doesn’t want to cause you any pain. But when she tentatively, curiously, crooks her finger slightly upward, searching, a jolt runs through you, your body trembling and hips jerking forward, chasing the contact. It’s too much, and it’s not enough, and you need more. 

“Fuck, I, Ellie, I I want,” your hands grip onto her thighs tightly. 

She presses a soft kiss to the side of your neck before whispering,“That’s it, baby, use your words. Tell me what you need,” her finger pumps in and out at an unhurried, languid pace, barely grazing over that spot that you so desperately need her to touch. 

“Need more of you inside me,” you whimper, unable to keep the desperate edge from creeping into your voice. A second finger joins the first, slowly pushing through your entrance. You immediately feel the stretch, unfamiliar to having someone else’s fingers there, but you’re quickly distracted, because as soon as both fingers are pushing into you, she increases the pressure against your throbbing clit, fingers drawing rough, tight circles over your swollen bud. 

The sound you make is high and uncontained.

Calloused fingers brush against your inner walls, clenching around them as Ellie stretches you out. Her fingers curl, a slight beckoning motion as she easily finds that spot inside of you. The pads of her fingers press firmly against it, fingers insistently petting at your center with small, precise strokes against your sweet spot. She's hitting that spot in a way that you’ve never been able to accomplish on your own. 

You’re seeing stars, because she’s everywhere you want and need her to be, and now, the only thing you can do is grind your hips down against her fingers that are so effortlessly toying with you. 

It comes out of nowhere, the coil that eagerly begins to tighten in your stomach. Your toes curl with anticipation, and your hands are gripping onto her so tightly. You’re pretty sure that you’re the one who’s going to be leaving bruises now. Her fingers continue to thrust in and out of your weeping cunt, and maintain the relentless pressure against your clit.

Ellie’s chin rests against your shoulder, watching attentively, and if you could see her, you’d see how utterly enthralled she is at how much of a mess she’s made you, eyes heavy as she watches her fingers plunge in and out of your cunt. Her voice is low against your ear, rough, commanding when she speaks.

“That’s it, Baby Girl, I want you to fuck yourself on my fingers and cum for me.” 

You’ve always experienced orgasms as a gradual build, a wave, gently cresting against the shore. So, the way the coil in your stomach abruptly snaps, almost an instant after Ellie finishes speaking, has you taken completely by surprise. She’s attached her lips back onto your neck, sucking a mark just against your pulse point, which she feels fluttering rapidly beneath her tongue. 

There’s the stuttering of hips accompanied by a sharp cry and Ellie feels your walls tighten around her fingers, unceasing in her ministrations even as your orgasm barrels through you. 

“Good girl, fucking give it to me,” she nearly growls, as her fingers continue to fuck you through your orgasm. All you can do is whimper uselessly, rocking your hips against her hand, as thrills ignite every inch of your body, making you tremble all over. 

When you come down from your high, you’re collapsed against her chest, and she’s slowly easing off the pressure. 

The first thing you notice is that you don’t feel the same as you usually would if you had just done this by yourself. For some reason, you thought that you were a one and done kind of girl. Usually you orgasm once, and then you take a nap, feeling for the most part satisfied. But as her fingers slide out of you, leaving you feeling empty, all you can think is that you want more.

Then, Ellie’s holding up her glistening fingers, slick with your arousal, in front of her face. You turn to watch her, curious, as she slides them into her mouth, licking them clean. She hums, and you raise a brow questioningly as she looks down at you, her eyes bearing an expression that is almost predatory in its intensity.

“What?” you ask, already feeling goosebumps rising along your skin.

“Nothing,” she shrugs, shaking her head slightly. “It’s just, now that I’ve had a taste of you, I want more.” You turn fully to face her, lips curving into a smirk. Your hand trails over her breasts, and she looks at you with interest.

“Please,” you’re still breathless, and your voice is still unsteady.

“I want you too.”

*

“Atta girl, just like that.” 

Admittedly, as much as you’ve had countless fantasies involving sitting on Ellie’s face, the prospect of actually doing it, as much as you want to, gives you pause. She’s carried you up to the bed, at some point along the way, the rest of her clothes came off, you’ll probably find them scattered along the hallway later. But that doesn’t matter right now.

What matters is that you’re hovering over her face, looking down at her while trying not to look nervous and out of your comfort zone, which you totally are, and she obviously isn’t buying it. Gentle hands reach for you, holding your hips and pulling you against her easily. 

“All the way down, Honey, that’s it,” she coaxes, easing you down onto her. “You’re good, you’re not gonna kill me,” her hand caresses up and down your side, soothing, even as you feel her warm breath ghosting over your heat, making your cheeks flush, as you look down at how close she is to you.

“I gotcha’, Pretty Girl, just relax,” her voice is smooth, assured, confident, in a way that makes your muscles relax in spite of yourself.

That’s when you feel her tongue, warm and wet, brushing through your folds. The sensation is so new, so unfamiliar to you, that for a second, you freeze, your breath catching in your throat. 

Then, her tongue flattens, pressing over your clit and applying a slight pressure that has you arching against her. Her tongue curls over your swollen nub, gently drawing it towards her lips, an almost imperceptible pulling motion that has your hands scrambling for something to hold onto, finding a grip against the headboard of the bed.

She makes a contented hum as her lips wrap around your center, the sound vibrating against you making your hips jolt. Her hands curl around the undersides of your thighs, holding you in place. Your hands hold onto the headboard of the bed for dear life, feeling like it’s the only solid thing that you have to hold onto, keeping you from toppling over the edge and out of control. 

You’ve never felt like this before. Each swipe of her tongue over your heat, the gentle pulse of her lips as she sucks, enveloping you in her warm, wet mouth, brings a new sensation thrumming through your veins, almost akin to fire as it shoots through you, pleasure licking over every inch of your skin like flames. It’s overwhelming, in such a way that you don’t know what to do with it, how to express it. 

All you can do, at this point, is roll your hips against her mouth, hold onto the headboard, and let small, desperate whimpers escape your lips. You’re trying to hold onto some semblance of containing yourself, because you don’t know what would happen if you let yourself unravel completely. You’re terrified of what Ellie might see if you fell apart like that.

She seems to be doing everything she can to break away at your composure though. Her tongue is alternating between dragging slow, tender circles over your clit, and firm, quick strokes, that has your head falling against your hands, braced against the headboard. She flicks her tongue against you, her lips surrounding your clit in a particularly firm suck, and before you know it, you’re spilling over the edge, eyes shut tightly, and breath releasing in a long, shuttering moan that seems to run from the top of your head to the tips of your tightly curled toes, her tongue continuing to caress you over your peak.

She moans into you, and it all becomes too much. Your head is thrown back and your hands are reaching down, tangling in her hair, to push her away or pull her closer; it’s unclear in your fuzzy mind. All the while, her insistent tongue continues to swirl over your increasingly oversensitive bundle of nerves, the relentless and inescapable pleasure making you shiver all over, while a light sweat breaks out on your bare skin.

You only drift back into yourself when you become aware of a shift. It’s so fast, you barely have time to even blink, before Ellie manoeuvres you, flipping you onto your back and roughly parting your thighs with her hands. Her fingers run through your glistening folds, calloused thumb pressing against your aching, overstimulated clit. The sensation has you gasping, crying out, and trying to close your legs, buck your hips, move away.

Frantically, you try to jam your legs shut, trying to escape her mercilessly teasing fingers. Rough hands force your thighs apart, putting you on display for her as she holds you open. 

“Uh uh, not this time, Baby,” she tuts disapprovingly. “No more holding back on me, Sweet Girl,” listening to the low, dominant tone of her voice is like a drug to you, and your eyes roll back into your head as she speaks. 

“I want everyone to know how good I fuck this pretty little pussy.” Two fingers circle your clit and you jolt, trying to move away. But a strong arm pushes your hips down, pinning you against the bed easily.

Faster than you can process, her fingers retreat, and you don’t even have time to feel relieved, because a split second later, her hand comes down against your cunt with a smack, delivering a stinging, rough spank that has you crying out, clit throbbing and pulsing with the agonizingly delicious mix of pain and pleasure. 

“Now, you’re gonna be a good girl, and you’re gonna take everything I give you.” 

Two fingers notch at your entrance, but she waits, looking at you, a silent question, an invitation for you to tell her that this is too much and that you need to stop. You know she would in a heartbeat if you told her that this was too much or too rough for you right now, and that’s what makes you feel safe enough to continue.

So, when you respond by attempting to push your hips forward against her, a soft whimper falling from your lips, she smirks, and with the slightest movement of her wrist, her fingers thrust into you. Seconds later, her face is buried in between your legs, tongue gently lapping at your sensitive clit. After two orgasms, you’re hyper aware of every movement; every swirl of her tongue is sweet, hot agony that undoes you in seconds.

At the same moment her lips take your clit into her mouth, holding it as her tongue swipes a tight, rough circle over your heat, her fingers curl, and she finds that spot inside you that makes your legs begin to shake, pressing against it with each punishing thrust of her fingers. 

Your moans are loud, unrestrained, sounds that you would be embarrassed to make if you were in any way capable of controlling them. But you’re not, because your mind is only filled with her, her and her tongue on your clit, and her strong fingers pumping in and out of your wet cunt, playing with you as easily and as effortlessly as she plays the guitar. 

She’s clearly enjoying the sounds that fall from your lips, every beg and plea and moan of her name making her feel quite smug that she’s undone you so easily…she encourages you to continue, making a contented hum against your clit. She only looks up long enough to say:

“That’s it, I want to hear you being such a dirty little girl for me.”

A third finger slowly, carefully, pushes in; the stretch makes you feel so full, so good, it nearly takes your breath away. Her fingers thrust in and out slowly, testing the waters, wanting to make sure that you’ve adjusted – but you are having absolutely none of it.

Your head is thrown back and your hips are thrusting forward, or trying to, but her arm is so fucking strong that she doesn’t even have to try that hard to keep you pinned against the mattress, exactly where she wants you to be.  You don’t even realize you’re begging until you see her smirking up at you.

“Please, Ellie, please, fuck, I-I want,” it’s a challenge to even string coherent words together, but you’re distracted by her face, now looking up at you as her thumb takes over, stroking against your clit. 

“Come on, Baby girl, tell me what you want,” she presses her thumb a little harder into you, making you gasp brokenly. 

You take a breath to steady yourself, and your words still come out stuttered, but you say them, blushing in a way that she finds absolutely endearing considering you’re already spread out on her bed with three of her fingers buried inside of you.

“I-I want it harder,” you admit, your cheeks burning. “Want you to fuck me.”

“You’re so fuckin pretty when you use your words like that, Baby,” she praises. “Such a good fuckin girl,” then, her fingers are thrusting in and out, setting a rough pace, hitting that spot in a way that feels so much stronger than it already was. 

When she lowers her head, tongue dipping between your folds, returning to feast at your clit rough, persistent swirls and flicks over your swollen center, any slight ability to contain yourself is lost. You’re not aware of the sounds that you’re making, or the way that your hands scramble to find a hold on something, anything solid, eventually coming to clutch the soft bed sheets, holding them tightly in between your fingers.

You’re only aware that your orgasm is approaching, and that Ellie, little by little, is nudging you towards a peak that once you make it over, you think might absolutely wreck you, in the best possible way. All you know is that you want this, you want her. You need her.

God.

You really fucking need her. 

She feels your walls beginning to flutter around her, her free hand shifts down, coming to grip your thigh, opening you even wider for her.

 “Come on, baby, wanna hear all those pretty sounds you make for me when you cum.” 

She says against you, adjusting her wrist to fuck you with her fingers deeper. The new angle has you keening, hips desperately thrusting to chase the friction of whatever new spot she’s hitting. 

Her tongue flattening against you as she draws firm, tight circles over your bundle of nerves, The way that your back is arching, hips uselessly trying to grind down against her and her relentless fingers, fucking into your weeping cunt mercilessly.  She’s guiding you exactly to where she wants you to go, straight up towards that peak. Your vision blurs. 

“Fucking give it to me, Pretty Girl, want you to cum for me, all over my fingers and my mouth.” 

Your back arches off the bed, and suddenly, all you know is wave after wave of ecstasy that crashes through your body, electric shocks that pulse through you, making you jolt and flail uselessly combined with the rhythmic pumping of her fingers, and the dipping and swirling of her tongue against you. 

She works you through your orgasm, never slowing the movements of her tongue or her fingers that continue to drag in and out of you, sustaining your pleasure for as long as she can possibly hold it. Her lips wrap around your clit, as her tongue swipes through your folds, collecting all the wetness that she can find. She hums against you, encouraging your loud moans, and by the time it’s over, you’re a shaking, completely fucked out mess on her bed, 

If you happened to see the expression on her face as she watches you writhing beneath her, your hands twisting the sheets into knots and broken, unrestrained whimpers fall from your lips, she’s taking in the sight with immense appreciation, as if you’re the work of art she’s just created.

*

Turns out, the only thing that you have the ability to do post-three orgasms is roll over onto your stomach, shaking and trembling, and try, desperately, to regain your breath. 

Ellie, for her part, crawls up the bed beside you, hand coming up to tenderly stroke back the hair that sticks to your forehead, before gently rubbing your back.

“Easy, baby, that’s it, just breathe for me.” 

You’re eventually able to regain your breath, but your body feels floppy and light, and you can’t even begin to comprehend the slightest of movements. Ellie tucks a piece of hair behind your ear, saying softly, “I’ll be right back, I’m just gonna get something to clean you up, okay?”  

You nod in slight acknowledgement of her words, but your mind is still fuzzy, and the only thing that you’re really aware of right now is the sudden sleepiness that comes over you in a soft, comforting wave. You feel her stroke your hair once more before she rises from the bed, briefly pausing to look at how fucked out you are, stretched out across her bed, bare skin glistening with sweat that makes your hair stick to your forehead, eyes heavy and cheeks flushed.

“So pretty,” she breathes, before exiting.

She isn’t gone long, and when she returns your eyes are closed, head buried against a pillow. She kneels between your legs, hand reaching out to gently rub your back as you turn your head to look at her. 

“Just need to clean you up, pretty,” she whispers, and you realize how sticky you are in between your legs. 

“Okay,” you mumble, your voice sounding slightly hoarse, similar to the way it does when you first wake up in the morning. Were you really moaning that much?

You feel a warm, damp washcloth brushing against your inner thigh. It’s nice, soothing, but as Ellie moves towards the place in between your legs, you instinctively flinch, overstimulated and slightly sore. 

A large hand splays out over your back gently. “I know, Honey, it’s okay, I've got you,” Ellie soothes. 

She runs the cloth over your folds. “There we go, sweet girl, almost done.” Its brush against your clit makes you cry out, leg kicking out instinctively. Ellie shushes you gently, pressing chased, featherlight kisses against your spine, the curve of your hip, effectively distracting you while she finishes cleaning you up. 

When she’s done, she throws the cloth to the side, coming to sit beside you. “Okay, Baby, I just need you to get up and go for a quick pee.” You turn your head to look at her in bewilderment, staring up at her with your eyebrows raised.

“Why?” You ask, confused. She chuckles softly at your expression. 

“Because, nowadays there isn’t much to protect ourselves from any infections that we could pick up while doing this,” she gestures vaguely. “And this is the one thing that we can do to at least try to help prevent something from coming up,”

“Buuut Elliee, I don’t wanna get up,” you grumble, burying your face back into the pillow.

She sighs softly, “come on, it’ll be fast, and then we can get back into bed and cuddle for as long as you want.” 

That idea is tempting, but she could just get into bed with you right now and cuddle. Plus, you want to know who gave her this information, because it sounds pretty fucking stupid to you. 

“I don’t want to,” you grumble.

Ellie playfully hits you with a pillow. “Come on, Lazy Ass,” she’s guiding you to sit up now, in spite of how much you’re resisting, because the bed is so warm and soft. 

“Besides,” she reasons, “we both go out on patrol in three days, and I am not dealing with you having to dismount your horse every five minutes because you got a urinary tract infection and now you need to pee every time we hit a bump on the path.” 

You dramatically sigh in defeat. “Okay, okay, I get it, Jesus Christ,” you roll your eyes in mock exasperation, but the smile pulling at your lips betrays your true feelings. “On one condition,” you say, folding your arms across your chest.

“What?” Ellie is fighting to restrain a smile, because you’re just too goddamn cute when you’re like this.

“You have to carry me there and back,” you say, reaching your arms up like a child who wants to be picked up. 

She sighs, feigning annoyance, but she’s already positioning an arm beneath your knees. “You’re such a fucking brat,” she mutters against your hair as she cradles you against her chest. 

You snuggle into her, smile growing wide as she moves towards the door, holding you in her arms. “Don’t lie, you love it.”

“Shut up ,” she says, hand sneaking around to give your ass an affectionate squeeze, making you gasp and giggle in surprise, instinctively kicking, nearly falling out of her arms in the process. But her hold is secure, arms tightening around you as your cheek presses against her shoulder.

“Don’t worry, babe, I got you.”

*

After gently setting you back in bed, once you’ve finally gone to the bathroom, grumbling the whole way there and back, Ellie went to get you a glass of water. She’s been gone for less than 30 seconds, and you already miss the feeling of her body, Strong and warm and steady, pressed against you. While she’s gone though, you entertain yourself by letting your eyes roam over your body, finding the evidence of her, left behind on your skin. You discover each new mark, each trace of her presence imprinted on you with the anticipation and joy of a child finding Easter eggs. 

Your hand runs over your inner thigh, Lips pulling into a smile as you take in the sight of the finger shaped bruises that she left from where she gripped onto you so tightly. The site makes a warm, tingling feeling settle in your stomach.

You don’t hear her approach from behind you, and she must not see the expression on your face.

“Did I hurt you? Was it, was it too much?”

You turn, eyebrows raised and already shaking your head with vehemence, to find her watching you, biting her lip, concerned frown on her face. 

“What, no, no, Ells, it’s just,” you avert your eyes, the blush creeping onto your face is mortifying, and in spite of everything you too just did, and how you had expected talking about things like this would be easier now, it’s still hard to admit it out loud. 

She catches your chin in her hand, gently redirecting your eyes back up to meet hers. Seeing her so close to you, you don’t have to look hard to see the anxieties, trying to be contained and hidden, but dancing behind her eyes nonetheless. 

You feel your heart clench. She’s opened up to you about her past on a few occasions, but when she has, it was easy to sense how fearful she was of her own inclinations towards violence, regardless of how necessary and imperative it might have been for her survival. She’s like a fire, impulsive and easy to set off, her flames all-consuming without a second thought. But after, even now, even when all this is small bruises marking your skin in the heated passion of lust, that will fade and be gone within a few days, she’ll still twist herself into knots, thinking and overthinking until she’s convinced herself that she’s ruined you.

“Please, Babe, tell me the truth,” her voice is soft, barely a whisper, but you hate the way that there’s a slight tremble in it, so uncharacteristic of Ellie. It breaks what’s left of your embarrassment, and the words fall from your lips without hesitation now.

“It wasn’t too much. It’s just, I-I liked it...the marks... I think it’s kind of hot.” 

You wonder, in the back of your mind, if she can feel the way your cheek heats beneath her hand, resting against it ever so lightly. Her breath comes out in a soft, surprised laugh, and you’re relieved to see the concerned edges fade from her expression, a smirk instead overtaking her lips. “

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she whispers, fingers coming to trace over the scattered marks, littered across your neck and collarbone. 

“You’re cold,” she observes, hands running up and down your arms, goosebumps beginning to form there. You hadn’t even noticed that you had begun to shiver.

When she crawls into bed behind you, wrapping her arms around you, Holding you against her, her warmth settles into your bones, running through you like melted chocolate. She brings the glass of water to your lips, insisting that you drink, and refusing to back down, in spite of your protests that you’ll need to get up to go pee in the middle of the night and does she realize how annoying that is? 

She does, but she still coaxes you to drink half the glass.

You hold the glass up to her, pouting slightly. “Now you drink some, I feel like you should, too, because you were doing a lot of work, you know, with your mouth,” you say suggestively. 

“Oh my God, shut up,” she groans. She gives you a playful shove that nearly makes the glass tumble from your hand. But she has quick reflexes, and her hand is steady against yours as she gently grabs your wrist, preventing the spill.

“Careful, Hun,” she cautions, plucking the glass out of your hand easily. “If only to appease you,” she sighs dramatically, before tipping it back and draining the glass.

The inevitable crash that you hadn’t, but probably should’ve, anticipated hits you all at once. It starts with a sigh that quickly turns into a yawn that seems to take all of your energy with it. You move to shrug your shoulders, brush it off like it’s nothing, because honestly, it’s only just starting to get dark outside, you can’t go to sleep right now, it’s just too early.

Your bones feel oddly heavy, sore in a way that shouldn’t surprise you, but it does. Adrenaline, and passion have temporarily blinded you to trivial things, like being a human and having a body that can get physically exhausted, especially after trying so many new things at once. You wince because fuck, you hadn’t realized how tense you had been holding yourself today until now, and the consequences are quickly setting in. 

She’s watching you, observing you closely as she always does. She doesn’t say a word, but she intuitively understands.

She brushes your hair off to one side, and you shiver as your bare neck and shoulders are exposed to her. Warm hands settle over your shoulders, there’s a gentle squeeze, an unspoken question, an offering. The way your head falls forward, the low, contented noise that falls from your lips is all the ascent that she needs.

Her thumbs gingerly press into the tense muscles beneath them. She hums sympathetically, feeling how tender you are beneath her. She keeps her movements slow and precise as she presses her thumbs against you, applying a slight pressure, running them over the backs of your shoulders, gently encouraging the tension to release. She’s ceaselessly patient, only continuing her path upward when she can feel your muscles relax, giving into her ministrations.  

She continues to massage across your shoulders and your upper back, seeming to find and undo tension in places that you didn’t even realize you were carrying. It makes you sleepy, the gentle caress of her hands gliding over your skin, paired with the firm press of her knuckles, exactly where you need it.

One of her hands slowly runs up the back of your neck, gently cupping you at the base of your skull.  Her fingers smooth over your temples, stress easing away as your eyes flutter shut.  Her other hand continues to press and massage in between your shoulder blades, firm and insistent as she smooths her thumbs over the tight knot that’s gathered there, with patient persistence, making it unravel at her touch, and forcing the tension to leave your body. 

“Relax, Pretty Girl, I’m not going anywhere,” her voice is a low rumble against your ear. 

Her lips brush over one of the bruises she’s left on the side of your neck, and suddenly, it’s like all the tension bleeds out of you, draining so quickly that you don’t have time to catch yourself.

She laughs softly as you try to contain the yawn that tears through you as she eases you back towards the pillows. She wraps a soft blanket around both of you, covering your bodies and making sure you’re tucked in securely. 

She settles in behind you, warm, bare skin pressing against yours as she curls herself around you. A strong arm wraps around your waist, gently tugging you close to her as her leg hooks over yours. 

You’re barely awake, only aware enough to snuggle into her, saying sleepily, “if this is the treatment I’m going to get after one swimming lesson, what are you gonna do when I’ve mastered it?”

There’s a soft chuckle, low against your ear as she whispers, “don’t worry about that, pretty girl, I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough.” 

She kisses the top of your head, lingering for a moment as she adoringly watches your eyes flutter. You sigh with contentment, letting a sleepy smile graze over your lips. Maybe she doesn’t realize what she’s doing, maybe she isn’t even aware…but, in this moment, you’re surrounded by her. 

Her safety.

Her warmth .

Her unconditional and unwavering love is curled around your heart as closely as she’s curled herself around you. She’s here, she’s safety, she’s love,and right now, she is all that you could ever want.

-

this was actually my first attempt at writing smut, and in spite of how nervous I am to share it, I’m actually really happy with how it turned out. So if you enjoyed it, please let me know, notes, comments, and re-blogs are so appreciated. Thank you so much for reading

[woso-dreamzzz]

New Year's

Hardersson x Child!Reader

Part of The Big Adventures Universe

Summary: You don't want to sleep

"Come on," Magda groans as you duck under her arm again, sprinting from the living room back into the kitchen," Princesse, let's not play these games."

You're freshly clean, all nice and washed from your bath - though it was debatable if it was truly just your bath because you splashed so much that Magda got soaked too. You can't seem to stop moving.

Magda hasn't even fully got your pyjamas on so you're running around with just your bottoms and no top. You skirt around the table when she approaches and then climb under it when she makes to grab you.

It's a bit embarrassing for her, being outsmarted and outpaced by her under five-year-old. It's even more embarrassing when she looks at the clock and realises Pernille will be home in a few minutes and she's yet to get you all ready for bed like she promised she would.

It's New Year's Eve tonight and Magda and Pernille wanted to get you all tucked up in bed long before any fireworks went off so you would hopefully sleep through it all.

"Can't catch me, Morsa!" You cheer as you duck past her again and scamper off down the hallway.

"But I can!"

You're snatched up into Momma's arms before you even register that she's gotten home. She pulls you up onto her hip and blows a raspberry on your belly.

"You're shirtless!" Momma declares with a laugh," Where's your shirt?"

You give her an innocent look. "Don't know."

"You don't know?" She asks, walking you straight to Morsa, who's waving your shirt at you.

"Morsa!" You groan, suddenly going limp as if that will weaken Momma's grip and allow your daring escape. "I don't want my shirt!"

"Too bad," Momma says," Pyjamas fully on and then bedtime snuggles."

After Morsa wrestles you into your sleep shirt (a big Frido Sweden jersey that your moster gave you when she last visited), she falls back onto the sofa and waits for Momma to bring you over for your bedtime cuddles.

You try to escape but Momma doesn't let you, squishing you between her and Morsa.

"No! No snuggles!"

"Why?" Momma asks," Why no cuddles?"

"Cuddles mean bed!" You complain," I don't want bed!"

"You love bed," Morsa says," And you love night time snuggles."

It's true. She's right. You love snuggles and bedtime but not tonight.

"No!" You declare," Erin said-"

Momma groans good-naturedly. "What has Erin told you now? Is it like the sea thing? Princesse, not everything Erin tells you is true."

You ignore her. "Erin said that it's New Year's Eve and that you've gotta stay up until it's New Year's Day!"

Inwardly, Magda swears as she realises how painful this night is going to be. You can be pretty stubborn when you want to be and she just knows that you won't go down without a fight.

"Okay," Pernille says, much to Magda's horror," You can stay up."

You narrow your eyes at Pernille. "I can?"

"You can."

You immediately scamper off back to your room to grab some of your toys.

"Pernille!" Magda hisses," Why did you say that? We'll never get her to bed!"

"We will." Pernille's confidence is admirable. "She'll crash soon."

Magda watches as you run around with your toys and feels her hope dwindling.

By ten, Pernille's hope dwindles too and she actively begins trying to tire you out. She puts on music and makes you dance with Magda (who almost ends up falling asleep on the sofa), she sits you down and reads story after story after story to you for wind down time. She even manages to trick you into getting your usual pre-bed snuggles but it doesn't help like usual.

"Alright," Magda says eventually after maybe half an hour of a restless nap," I'm turning the tv off."

You whip your head toward her, abandoning the little fort you're trying to make out of the pillows and blankets Momma had tried to use to get you to feel sleepy.

"No!" You say," Millie said-"

Momma groans loudly at that, burying her face in the arm of the sofa.

You give her a strange look before continuing. "Millie said that there's fireworks on the tv when it becomes New Year's Day. Want to watch it."

"Manners, princesse." Momma's voice is slightly muffled but still stern.

"Want to watch it, please." You draw out the last word just to make a point.

Morsa crouches in front of you, pulling you out from your fort. "Alright," She says," Here's the deal. You clean up everything now, take down your fort, put your toys away and..."

"And?"

"And you can come up to the Big Bed."

"Want to watch the fireworks."

"We'll put it on the tv in our room but you have to get everything nice and tidy now."

"Promise?"

She interlocks your pinkies. "Promise."

Much with the same energy as earlier, you zoom around the house. Your fort is packed away in record time and your toys are returned to your room.

In that time, Pernille's gotten over her own exhaustion to head into the kitchen to make you your special sleepytime milk. She doesn't make it often (mainly because buying dried lavender is a pain to find) but it always makes you happy when she does and it sends you right to sleep.

"We should have done this earlier," Magda says as she holds Pernille by the hips and rests her head against her partner's back," I love her but she's so exhausting."

"She's stubborn," Pernille corrects," Like you."

Magda ignores the teasing jab in favour of saying," When did we get so old? We used to stay up until midnight all the time."

"We had a baby," Pernille laughs as she adds some honey to the lavender and milk mix, pouring it all into a sippy cup that you had probably outgrown but refused to get rid of.

"Here comes the baby," Magda mutters when she hears the familiar pitter-patter of your running feet. "Have you put everything away?"

You nod. "Time for the fireworks and the Big Bed?"

"That's right. Take your drink with you."

You dutifully take your sippy cup and run off with it.

"Whatever you're planning," Pernille says," It better work because if she's too keyed up to sleep tonight, it's on your head."

Magda has a plan though so Pernille's threat means nothing to her.

She switches on the tv in their room but also turns the light off. She puts the volume on low and makes sure you're nice and settled between her and Pernille.

"Have a drink," She says as she turns on the countdown to New Year's Day," Come on, princesse. You've been playing for a long time now. Have a sip. Momma will play with your hair if you want."

Pernille gives Magda a look of realisation and slowly cards her fingers through your tresses, scratching at your head every so often to make you feel all floaty and boneless.

You yawn a few times and your eyes slip shut even more but you always catch yourself.

Momma pulls you into her chest the later it gets, moving you from sitting upright to lying down.

It makes you feel a little sleepier and you just shut your eyes for a little bit before the fireworks.

The loud countdown from the tv sounds a little blurry in your ears and even Morsa's little chuckles sound floaty and far away.

"I think she's asleep," She says.

"Right on twelve," Momma replies.

You have to force your eyes open as what Sam told you comes to mind. You still feel heavy with sleep as you move around. "Have to...Have to..." Your head lulls a little bit before you force it up again. "Kisses."

You press a kiss to Momma's cheek and then Morsa's.

"Have to do New Year's kisses," You explain as you get comfortable on Momma's chest again," Have to. Sam says so."

You're drifting off again, completely exhausted and limp, as you feel yourself being moved a bit further up and then the two pairs of lips brushing against both of your cheeks.

You smile.

[colorfulrook]

The 100 x 100 Celebration!

I can't believe that I managed to reach 100 after so little time, my dear readers, thank you so much for all of your support and for granting me the privilege to work on your ideas 😭💖

Whether you’ve been here since post #1 or just stumbled in recently — THANK YOU SO MUCH.

And so as a tiny celebration (and a huge thank you), I’ve cooked up a 100 sentence prompt list that you can use to request drabbles! You can pick your sentence—Even two if you desire— the charcacters and request it with your idea or just a genre (AUs as well).

Do not worry if you saw the same sentence on another blurb, I will gladly create something new everytime!.

Here’s to more stories, more screaming in the tags, and more late-night inspiration. I love you all, truly! - Rook

“You have something on your face… let me get it.”

“You talk in your sleep. It’s adorable.”

“I can’t believe you stayed up to wait for me.”

“I made your favorite.”

“Scoot over, you’re hogging the blanket.”

“They’re staring because you look amazing.”

“Are you pouting? That’s so cute.”

“You did all of this… for me?”

“Can I braid your hair?”

“I love it when you wear my clothes.”

“Dance with me. No music needed.”

“You’re my favorite notification.”

“Let’s just stay in bed today.”

“Your laugh is my favorite sound.”

“You smell like comfort.”

“This is our song.”

“I can't stop smiling when I'm with you.”

“You make me feel like the luckiest person alive.”

“You always warm your hands before holding mine.”

“I never believed in soulmates until you.”

“I’ve got a surprise for you.”

“I want to wake up like this every day.”

“You fell asleep on me again.”

“You make everything better.”

“I can’t stop kissing you. Is that a problem?”

“Do you wanna build a pillow fort?”

“I love how you say my name.”

“Let’s grow old together.”

“You're glowing when you're happy.”

“You’re the best part of my day.”

“You remembered the tiniest detail.”

“I can’t believe I get to love you.”

“You gave me butterflies. Still do.”

“You’re stuck with me forever now.”

“This is your home, always.”

“Is that a love letter?”

“Just five more minutes.”

“You’re the reason I believe in good things.”

“I could stare at you forever.”

“Being with you feels like a dream I don’t want to wake up from."

“You don’t love me anymore, do you?”

“Say it. Say you don’t need me.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“You weren’t supposed to hear that.”

“I wish things were different.”

“We promised we’d always find each other.”

“I’m tired of pretending I’m okay.”

“If I tell you the truth, you’ll leave.”

“Don’t make me choose.”

“Why do you keep hurting me?”

“You said you’d never leave.”

“This wasn’t how it was supposed to end.”

“You forgot me. Again.”

“I was never enough for you, was I?”

“I’m not the same person anymore.”

“You were the best thing I never had.”

“Stop acting like you care.”

“Don’t say sorry. Not now.”

“I knew I shouldn’t have trusted you.”

“This silence is louder than any scream.”

“You can’t fix this.”

“What hurts the most… is that you didn’t fight for me.”

“I gave you everything. And it still wasn’t enough.”

“I should’ve let you go a long time ago.”

“Why does it still hurt?”

“You made me believe in something that wasn’t real.”

“You forgot our anniversary.”

“How long have you been lying to me?”

“You left. Don’t act like you didn’t.”

“It’s too late.”

“I wish I hated you.”

“You were my home. And now I’m lost.”

“Was I just a game to you?”

“This isn’t love anymore.”

“I never wanted to say goodbye.”

“You’re still in my dreams.”

“I waited for you. Every day.”

“You broke me and walked away.”

“Tell me it meant something. Even if you have to lie.”

“I loved you. That was my mistake.”

“Say that again, slower.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“You have no idea what you do to me.”

“I could kiss you for hours.”

“Do you have any idea how good you look right now?”

“If you keep looking at me like that, I won’t be able to stop.”

“Try to stay quiet.”

“You’re playing with fire.”

“Do that again.”

“I like it when you say my name like that.”

“Tell me what you want.”

“You should see the way you look right now.”

“You’re mine. Say it.”

“I’ve been thinking about this all day.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

“You’re not going anywhere tonight.”

“Close the door. Now.”

“Make me.”

“You’re blushing again. Cute.”

“One more kiss and I’ll behave… maybe.”

[islakaliko]

— Chapter 21: Birthdays

disclaimer: a/b/o universe, alpha john price, male omega reader, very self indulged

< previous | next >

The house had never been louder.

Streamers hung from the ceiling in shades of pale pink, soft lavender, and gold. There were balloons tied to every chair, tissue-paper flowers taped to the walls, and a giant banner over the fireplace that read Happy Birthday, Luna & Mia!—each letter carefully hand-painted by the kids the night before.

The twins, now eleven, had insisted on blowing up all the balloons themselves. Oliver had orchestrated the party games like a drill sergeant with a clipboard. Emma and Isabella had worked together to frost the cupcakes (with more icing on their cheeks than the cakes), and Benjamin had taken his role as “official gift inspector” very seriously.

TF141 was there too, of course.

Gaz had arrived early with party hats and matching tutus for the babies (“Don’t blame me, Soap dared me”), and Soap had turned face painting into a full-blown competition, leaving Ghost with a little butterfly on his cheek he hadn’t realized was there until it was too late.

“It’s not coming off,” Ghost muttered later, dabbing at it with a napkin as Luna squealed happily from his lap. “She likes it. I’m not moving.”

John had stood back at one point, watching it all—his children, his team, his mate. Laughter in the air. No guns, no danger. Just cake and sticky fingers and soft little squeals from two one-year-olds surrounded by their people.

It was perfect.

————————————

Later, when the sun had dipped below the horizon and the house had gone quiet, John found (y/n) on the porch swing, wrapped in a blanket, hair messy and eyes soft. Luna and Mia had been fed, changed, and tucked in, their new stuffed toys nestled beside them. The rest of the kids were piled in the living room under a fort of pillows and blankets, courtesy of Soap and Gaz.

John walked up with two mugs of tea, setting one down before sinking beside (y/n) and tugging him close.

“Successful mission?” he asked with a crooked grin.

“Complete chaos,” (y/n) murmured with a tired, dreamy smile. “But the good kind.”

They sat in silence for a while, sipping tea as the stars came out, the breeze cool against their skin. John’s hand found its way over (y/n)’s, fingers tangling without thought. They didn’t need to speak. Not really.

But (y/n) eventually leaned his head against John’s shoulder, turned just slightly, and asked in a voice full of warmth and mischief:

“So, Captain… have you finally had enough kids?”

John choked on his tea, coughing and laughing, and looked down at him with that half-wild, half-in-love look he always saved just for (y/n).

“I don’t know,” he said, voice low and teasing. “You’ve always been very persuasive.”

(y/n) gasped dramatically, swatting his chest. “You menace.”

John leaned down, kissed him slow, sweet, and deep, and whispered against his lips:

“I’ve got everything I ever wanted right here.”

(y/n) smiled into the kiss. “Good answer. Because I really like the quiet phase of parenting.”

John smirked. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”

Inside, the house was warm with the quiet breath of sleeping children. Outside, under the moon and stars, two soulmates sat together—surrounded by love, laughter, and the soft possibility that maybe, just maybe… there was always room for one more.

[abbu0414]

when it's raining and you both have the day off, domestic! johnny is the kind of guy who will build a pillow fort. (no matter how many times you tell him you're too old for that kind of stuff)

if you refuse, he'll throw you over his shoulder, give your ass a slap and take you to his fortress in the living room. once he puts you down, you'll see all of your favorite snacks, drinks, blankets and of course your favorite movie.

as you both lay down, he'll put all of his body weight on you, pepper you with kisses and take in your scent with every inhale he takes. (he's a physical touch kinda guy, what can i say)

"i'm never lettin' you go bonnie"

he's not even gonna bother paying attention to the movie