#A THOUSAND EYES AND ONE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!11!!

[softlymellow]

The Order Forgot Me First - Chapter 13

☆⁠ PAIRING : Anakin Skywalker x Reader

☆⁠ word count: 5k !!!!??!?!?!?

☆⁠ story themes: lovers to enemies to eventually lovers

☆⁠ warnings: spoilers to SWTCW, some angst some fluff TW PHYSICAL/MILD SEXUAL HARRASSMENT

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13

"Jealousy in Jedi robes."

The conversation went on, politics and more politics. The senators spoke amongst themselves while you shifted weight between your feet. Anakin did the same, though he had a rather hard look on his face, his Adam's apple bobbing every minute or so. Padme, Bail and Monian seemed quite eager to discuss the political agendas of the night.

You stayed quiet, letting the words pass you through one ear and out the other. It wasn’t until you felt Monian shifting closer to you, his face leaned in. 

“You don’t wear silence well,” he said, low enough that only you could hear. 

You gave him a side glance. “It’s the only thing I’m allowed to do lately,” you snorted. 

He chuckled softly, “they should let you speak more often.” He brought his glass up to his well trimmed beard. “I’m rather keen on your thoughts on the shifting trades.”

Across the circle, Anakin spoke. “You never struck me as someone who was interested in politics.” 

You narrowed your eyes at him, looking at him as if you were back in the training arena. “That’s because you were never listening.” 

The air tightened. Padme blinked, her shoulders still. 

Monian had a rather bemused expression, “the way I see it, a Commander would know plenty about politics,” he said lightly. “The Jedi are a separate body from the Senate. Different ideologies” 

Anakin turned to look down at Monian directly, him being much taller than the Senator. “Real Jedi don’t abandon their lifelong principles so easily,” he said in a low tone. 

“I must be in rare company. Her every move, every breath, says more than half this room’s senators combined.” Vale turns to you, his mouth curling. “I admire honesty. Especially when worn so…effortlessly.”

You didn’t look away from Monian. 

Anakin didn’t either. 

His mouth barely twitched and his arms were crossed. You knew that look. It was the kind before he would snap. Before he did something reckless. 

But he didn’t speak. 

His silence spoke a thousand words. 

And for now, you smiled. 

It wasn’t only Anakin that was silent but rather Bail and Padme too. Monian’s compliment lingered in the air for far longer than needed —entirely too public. 

Bail cleared his throat, “Senator Vale,” he began, his voice measured. “You have always had a way with… words.” 

Monian chuckled, “is it a sin to speak the truth?”

Padme tilted her head. “Sometimes moderation is needed,” she said gently, her eyes flickering to you for a second.” Before Padme could continue, another woman came up to her —presumably another senator– and whispered something in her ear.

Taking the opportunity, you shifted your stance so that Monian’s presence was no longer suffocating. Anakin’s eyes followed every movement made, his eyes sharp. 

Padme nodded, brushing her hands down her gown to smooth it out as the lady finished talking to her. 

“It’s nearly time,” Padme said to the circle. “If you will excuse me I have to get ready to say my speech. I’ve been asked to make a keynote address.” 

“Good luck, Padme.” Bail encouraged a politely smiling Padme. Padme, nodded her head to Bail, and then to Vale, and then to you. She then turned around with Anakin trailing behind her.

The group began to disperse their ways as the main event had begun. The lights had dimmed slightly, indicating the start of policy talks and the never ending diplomatic speeches. 

Monian stood beside you at the bar, murmuring something to the bartender who placed two clear drinks down between you. 

“They only serve these at Republic events. Can’t let the Senators get too drunk.” He shrugged. “Ruins the image.” 

You gave him a faint smile, taking the drink in your hands and bringing it slowly to your mouth. The smell of steriliser hit you in an instant and it began to sting you while it made its way down your throat. Immediately, you pulled it away, a scowl on your face. 

“How could you drink this?” You cleared your throat, your hand rubbing your neck in disgust. 

“I quite like the burn.” He smiled into the rim of his drink. 

“Or the aesthetic.” 

“You wound me,” Monian said as his hand dramatically clenched his chest, then taking another sip. 

You didn’t respond. To be honest, you didn’t have to. Monian would always fill the silence, refusing to let it hold. 

Sure enough, his commlink chirped. Monian sighed, a hand through his slick back chestnut hair. “They want me back at the platform. Padme is speaking soon.” And then he took another sip. “They want the crowd photogenic, I suppose.”

You snorted, leaning against the counter. Monian set down his glass beside you and began to adjust his blazer. 

“How do I look?” 

“Overconfident.” 

Monian shot you a smirk and then, he reached out to you. And his hand rubbed your forearm lightly. 

“Don’t disappear.” And with that, he pulled away and was gone. 

You were alone feeling the burn of his touch on you. You shifted uncomfortably, your back against the bar. 

You watched as he disappeared into the sea of politicians that turned their heads, ready to listen to Padme speak. 

His touch sat on your skin and you couldn’t wipe it off in public. 

Voice’s began to quiet down and laughs died off as Padme’s voice filtered through the speakers — clear, calm and rehearsed. The hall’s lighting had dimmed down with Padme being the center of attention. 

You barely heard her though. You didn’t belong here. Even in the dark you couldn’t miss the glances that some people gave you when they thought you weren’t looking. 

You shifted your weight, turning to face the orange lit bar, ready to down the rest of your drink and tune out when a shoulder brushed yours. 

You flinched. Expecting to see Vale again. The discomfort still there. 

But it wasn’t him. 

It was Anakin. 

“Anakin,” you muttered, startled. “You scared me.” 

Looking up at him made your stomach twist. His hair was slightly tousled, like he had run a hand through them one too many times. And his scar under his eye just caught the warm lighting to make him look more rough. 

“I wasn’t trying to.” He spoke in a low tone. 

You didn’t say anything, only turning so your back was again pressed against the bar. Both you and Anakin watched Padme in her grace and political shine speak. 

Anakin’s jaw clenched. 

“He’s bold,” he finally said, turning his head to look at you. 

“Who?” You asked innocently. 

“Vale.”

You let the silence stretch just so he could feel it. 

“He talks to you like he knows you.” 

You turned to meet his eyes. 

“You’re not exactly in a position to be jealous,” you added softly. 

“I’m not jealous.” He defended himself. The conversation between you two were quiet as Padme’s voice boomed across the hall, neither of you wanting to gain any attention. 

You smiled into your glass. “Sure.” 

Anakin’s robes brushed against your arm, sending a shiver to run down your spine. 

“You shouldn’t let people like him touch you,” Anakin muttered. His eyes glanced down at your drink and then up at you. You felt the heat in his eyes. Like he was trying to decipher every one of your actions but failed to do so. If he looked at you long enough, maybe you’d crack. And it took every part of you to try and not. 

You blinked once. “I wasn’t aware that it was any of your business.”

His jaw shifted. “I’m not saying that it is,” he looked away from you. “He gets real close for someone who only needs an escort.” 

You scoffed and gave him a half laugh, setting your glass down behind you on the counter. “I could say the same thing about you, Skywalker.”

Anakin’s eyebrow rose at your tone. “What do you mean?”

“You haven’t left Padme’s side at all tonight.” You shrugged.

“That’s my job.”

“Exactly.”

Anakin stayed silent and met your eyes. “It’s different. I mean what I said,” he muttered. 

“About what?”

“Padme. There’s nothing on.” 

You tilted your head, “Right. That’s why you answered her comms mid convo with me. That’s why you’re guarding her alone tonight.” 

“I answered because it was protocol,” Anakin’s stare tensed. “And I’m guarding her because I was assigned to it. I didn’t volunteer to do this.”

You didn’t answer. He stepped a little closer to you.

“But Monian?” He continued, his voice dropping low and rough again. “He chooses to touch you—talk to you like that.”

“...and we must not allow wartime to cloud our judgement and values of the Republic that we all serve…” Padme’s voice rang out again. You pursed your lips, your hand tighter around the glass. 

“I think you’re smarter than that,” he said, his figure towering over you. “To fall for his act. He’s not just an overly annoying Senator but he’s interested in the way you look.” Anakin averted his gaze away, as if he was shy to say something like that. 

Shaking your head, you brought one hand up to stop him from continuing. “Okay, Anakin, that's enough. I didn’t ask you to lecture me on how I should act.”

Anakin didn’t blink. 

“And we’re not together,” you said, coldly. “Unless you want to debrief me on something mission-related, I suggest you keep walking.”

His mouth hung open as if he wanted to say something else–but he didn’t.

He knew you were right. 

“...You could’ve said something earlier,” he said quietly. “Back in the medbay. If you didn’t want me around.”

“I didn’t say that,” you replied. “Just stop trying to act like you still—have this claim on me.” Your voice grew. 

You picked up your glass, bringing it back to your lips. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I think you’re better off tending to Senator Amidala.” Your gaze was locked onto Padme who began to descend from the stage, a roar of claps and cheers were made. 

Anakin didn’t move. 

He just stared at you. 

Like he felt this ever growing desire to protect you and it ached him to see the way that you pushed him. No longer embracing his warmth like you did before. 

Eventually, he turned away, 

And walked back into the waves of cheering Senators. 

He left like he had tension boiling under his skin. Your fingers curled tighter around the drink. 

The applause began to fade and Senators began to shuffle around, Padme’s speech already dissolving into the night. It was all noise—the kind that would just pass through you. 

You felt tired. 

Maybe Anakin was just looking out for you but not after everything he has done. You didn’t know if you wanted to rekindle the relationship. It seemed that his methods to gain you back failed every single time. He wasn’t treating you like a friend anymore. He was just treating you as his enemy and now his pet. 

You made a mental note to talk about this with Obi-wan. 

The four of you were once inseparable —Ahsoka included. God you missed her. She would definitely be teasing you over being assigned a silly mission like this one. 

And then footsteps broke your train of thought. Monian returned and slid beside you, a lopsided smile like he hadn’t just missed the verbal skirmish between you and Anakin. You fought the urge to groan and get away from him. 

“Is he always that subtle?” He asked, watching the crowd. 

Furrowing your eyebrows, you felt your stomach twist. 

Monian leaned closer to you, “the Jedi.”

Your gaze flicked up to him. “You mean Skywalker?”

“If that’s what we’re calling him tonight.”

You sipped your drink, not wanting to respond. 

“I always thought Jedi weren’t allowed to get…involved.” His tone changed to a more curious one. “That kind of closeness—it’s forbidden, isn’t it?”

You sharply turned to look at him. “He’s not involved.” You snapped. 

“Could have fooled me.”

You sighed. Dreading the night and its problems. You just stared at the reflection of yourself in the glass. 

“It’s not like that,” you said quietly. 

“You didn’t deny it.” 

Your jaw clenched. 

“There is nothing, Senator Vale.” 

“Doesn’t mean you don’t want him to be.”

You scoffed, your head moving in a sharp moment to look at him. “Really? You ask a lot of questions for a Senator.” 

Monian shrugged. “I don’t pry, but I want to understand.”

You gave him a long look. 

“You want to understand the Jedi Code?” You asked.

“No,” he said. “I want to understand you.”

Staying silent, you began to bite the inside of your cheeks. There was no room between you two and you wanted to escape far away from him, from Anakin and from this event. 

“Then don’t ask about my personal life. I’m here on duty.” You managed to come up with. 

There was a pause between you two. It wasn’t heavy, but present. It was a lot quieter in comparison to the rest of the room. 

And suddenly, a droid came up to the both of you. He was metallic in colour and just taller than you, holding a tray of appetizers. 

“Excuse me,” the droid gave a small bow. “Would you like to try? It’s Nuna cuts glazed in Chandrian sweet-rose syrup.” 

“Oh! Don’t mind if I do.” Monian Vale took a serving for himself and eagerly placed it in his mouth. 

As it touched the tip of his tongue and then into his mouth, he suddenly groaned loudly in delight. 

“Mhmmm.” He chewed on the meat. “You have got to try it, Commander.” 

You shook your head ‘no’ to both the droid and him. 

“Very well,” the droid said before walking in. 

“Wow.” He brought his fist to his mouth, gulping down the meat. 

You stayed silent and watched ahead, Senators taking a plate of their own and piling it with their own choices of food. You never really had the privilege of eating such luxurious food as a Jedi. It was sort of part of their code. Delicacies often lead to greed and gluttony.

You straightened your back. 

Then Monian, softer. 

“It’s strange, isn’t it?” He said, his excitement for the food quietened down. “The things we don’t say. The things we pretend to not feel because it’s cleaner that way.”

You hummed in agreement. 

“Since you’re not a Jedi anymore,” he continued, his voice lower. “What is stopping you? From anything you want.”

You couldn’t tell if he was genuinely asking, or if was still suggesting your relationship with Anakin, or if he was instituting the idea of you and a Senator. 

You shuddered at the last thought. 

“Who said I want anything?”

He smiled, slow and knowing. “Everyone wants something.”

“Okay, Senator…” You shifted away from him. “I think you’ve had too much to drink tonight.”

Monian then laughed, his fingers moving to scratch his beard. “I’ll be at the food table you sweet thing,” he said, stepping back. “If you need someone to talk to—who doesn’t wear a cloak.” Before you could respond, he brought his drink up high towards you and then walked away with a prideful smile. 

You watched his back disappear once again in the crowds. 

And finally you let yourself breathe. Not one that was relaxed. But rather the heavy, slow breath that hurts a little. 

You stood still —straight— just as you had been trained, but your muscles felt weak. 

Your eyes drifted to her again. 

Padme. 

Her gown shimmered as she moved. She had this sort of unmistakable Naboo elegance in every breath she took and every word she spoke. She belonged here. Her words held weight. She could smile and be heard. 

You weren’t like that. You had scars. You were rough around the edges. You didn’t have a royal lineage that backed you. 

And yet, it felt like he had chosen her. Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe it was the loneliness. She was just a shadow he clung to when you were away. But either way, she was there, and you weren’t. 

You didn’t feel glamorous. You weren’t supposed to. You were just a weapon hidden in silk. The kind of girl people could admire from afar but never stayed for. 

You used to think that being loved by Anakin meant being understood. 

But now? You weren’t sure he saw you clearly at all. 

At one point, while Anakin stood by Padme, his arms behind his back like a soldier, his eyes flicked in your direction. But that’s all it was. 

Eventually, the crowds began to shift again. Speeches ended. Plate sand glasses clinked. Conversations began to run loosely as the alcohol would settle in. 

The music from the band began to slowly die, some Senators would sing along with a few off-key lyrics. Some passionate diplomats were still discussing trade routes, their flame never letting out. 

You had made a few loops around the hall since then, you needed action but you weren’t going to get any here. Perhaps in your benefit, mend-gel still applied onto your wounds. Monian had tried to pull you into more conversations, but you had politely declined every time. 

You made your way to one of the arching balconies, your hands gripping the railing, the cold biting at your skin. 

Speeders floated by like sparks in the dark night. 

You inhaled. Exhaled. 

And for a moment. You wondered what it would be like to just jump. Not to die. Or to fall. But to vanish. 

To disappear into someone —or something— that was never claimed by the Order, by Dev or by him. 

Senators began to drift out in pairs behind you, laughter echoing faintly down the hallway. 

It was time to leave. You turned away from the balcony and made your way to the lift, pressing a button and the doors hissed open. You stepped inside along with a couple unknown Senators. The lift buzzed and you felt your weight drop as it began to fly downwards. 

An individual beside you cleared their throat while another kept giggling to themselves quietly, probably too tipsy. 

Once you finally descended, the lift opened and you stepped onto the ground. Making your way out, your eyes scanned the courtyard until you spotted Monian. 

Monian’s eyes met you just as fast and you offered him a courteous nod. 

“I’ll walk with you,” he said. “Wouldn’t want you to get ambushed by another senator.”

You gave him a tight smile. “I think I can handle myself, Senator Vale.” 

He waved his hand in front of you, “Oh, I don’t doubt that.” He began to walk with exaggerated grace of someone trying very hard to not look drunk. But his left step had the slightest drag, giving him away. “Sometimes…It’s not about handling. But being seen.” He leaned in closer to you, his lips curled in amusement. 

“Uh huh…” You nodded, not interested in his antics. 

You both began to walk down the path, Senators outside chatting amongst themselves, others bidding goodbye and some calling for their taxis. Laughter was heard into muffled distance 

That was when he did it. 

His arm slipped around your waist. 

Tightly. 

Casual. 

Confident. 

Like it belonged there. 

Your body froze but your legs kept walking. His arm felt cold yet it burned around your waist. You tried shifting away, subtly but polite. 

It was still there. 

You brought your hand up to your belt, pretending to brush it off. Hoping he’d take the hint.

He didn’t. 

Instead, his grip tightened around you. 

“You really should learn to accept compliments, Commander,” he murmured. “And attention. You’ve earned it…” His lips near your temple. 

“Senator.” You warned, your left hand met his hand around your waist, pushing him away but he didn’t budge. 

“You’re crossing a line.” You hissed. Your voice barely a whisper but your eyes burned. 

You caught the attention of a passing politician –just for a second. A woman dressed in a red dress that sat above her knees. Her gaze lingered. A frown. And moved on past you. 

“Am I?” He slurred. Too pleased with himself. 

“Let me go.” You snapped, your voice dangerously low. Your heartbeat quickened as you felt his thumb brush against the fabric of your waist, your ribs still in pain and now aching from the pressure of hands. 

“Don’t be like that,” he said quietly, he was so close to you that you could feel his breath reek of alcohol. “People are watching.”

“I know they are, which is exactly why you should let go.”

He leaned in again and whispered in your ear. 

“I’m doing you a favour,” he breathed. “Perhaps people will stop seeing you as a Jedi or a soldier. But as a woman.” He said to you as if he was doing you a favour. 

You wanted to take your blaster from your belt and point it at him. But all you could do was stand there— your fingers gripping his own and struggling as he began to push you back. You cursed as he began to use his other hand. 

“Take your hands off of her.” 

The voice was loud. 

You knew it the second you heard it. 

Without warning, Anakin snarled and pushed Monian back. He stumbled over his feet, his grip finally free from you. 

Monian paused and regained his balance. “Ah. Predictable.” He brushed off his clothes as if Anakin’s touch was dirty. “Jealousy in Jedi robes,” he mocked. 

You stepped away from Monian and drew closer to Anakin. Your body screamed with relief with the broken contact but your jaw stayed set. You weren’t going to let Monian think that he had gotten to you. 

Anakin stayed silent, his deathly stare never leaving Monian. 

Monian raised both his hands in mock surrender. “Easy. No harm done.”

Anakin stepped forward with you by his left and Monian straight away. 

He was there, like a wall. Towering over both you and Vale. 

Anakin then turned his head just slightly towards you but he didn’t look at you.

“Go wait by the corner.”

You didn’t move. Your hands were still shaky from what had just happened but our eyes moved between both Anakin and Monian. But the way he said it felt more like a command rather than a request. 

You nodded and inhaled, stepping around Vale, keeping your back straight and your chin high. You didn’t look back but you felt it. The Force rippled like waves. 

“Touchy for a Jedi,” Monian casually said. 

As soon as you were out of sight and you couldn’t see him, Anakin moved. Fast. 

One hand shot out and gripped Monian by his collar, shoving him back against the marble wall. Monian froze, his breath hitching. Anakin;s face was inches from his face, his teeth clenched. 

“You think this is a joke?” He seethed, low and brutal. “You think you can put your hands on her and walk away with a smirk?”

Anakin’s cloak fell slightly from his shoulder while his other arm pressed hard against Monian’s chest. 

“I should break your nose.” Anakin spat. 

Monian swallowed and gave him a glare of his own. “And here I believed Jedi weren’t supposed to get emotional.”

Anakin’s expression didn’t shift. 

“Get angry and make threats.” Monian added, his words clinging to the only thing he had left. “I could report this. Chosen one or not, you land a hand on a Senator and the Council won’t be able to save you.”

Anakin’s grip tightened, his knuckles turning white underneath his gloves. “Report with what?” He hissed. “Your drink-stained shirt? Your slurred words? Or maybe–” his gaze flicked to the corner of his eyes “---the three Senators watching us now? The same ones who watched you touch her.” 

Anakin didn’t budge his grip, just like how Monian didn’t let go of yours. 

“They look concerned,” a bead of sweat finally slid down by Monian’s temple. 

“Good.” He said. “I can answer to the Council once I’m done. Can you say the same for what you just did?”

Silence. 

Anakin let his words hang in the air as Monian continued to struggle against him. 

Then, Anakin abruptly let go, his hands fell back to his side and he stepped back. Monian clutched his shirt like he could straighten it and his pride at once. Anakin didn’t say another word. Not wanting to spend another second with trash like him.

He turned around and began to speed walk in your direction. To the only thing that had tethered him to the Temple in years. 

You. 

Anakin turned a corner and found you there standing alone by a window. The moons of Coruscant casting a night glow on your face. One of your hands continuously rubbed your forehead in anxiety. 

Your eyes snapped up as you looked at Anakin. 

“Did he do anything else before I got there?”

You exhaled and Anakin took a few more steps towards you, his eyes scanning your distraught face. “You shouldn’t have caused a scene.”

“Answer me.” His voice had more weight. 

You tilted your head down. “I handled it.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

You finally looked up at him, your arms tight at your sides. “What do you want me to say, Anakin? That you were right? That I was too stubborn to admit it?”

He stepped closer. 

“I want to know if he did anything more.”

Your throat tightened, tears pricking at your eyes. “Why does it matter?”

His jaw clenched and fire burned in his eyes. “Because if he did–” He stopped himself from continuing. 

“You would’ve killed him?”

He didn’t answer. 

Because you both knew the truth. 

His jaw twitched and his hands stayed clutched at your side. He was fighting himself. 

Finally–

“If he had touched you again,” Anakin began, his voice low. “I wouldn’t have just embarrassed him.” Your lips parted to say something but you couldn’t. It was the truth. It was his honest truth and you knew he meant it.

You turned away, your arms brought up to your chest as you looked over at the city. The lights all blend into one. 

“You can’t keep doing this,” you said quietly. 

“Doing what?”

You sighed, “thank you, Anakin. Truely. But… Showing up like this–” your hand waved. “--Acting like you get to—” you stumbled over your words. “Like I belong to you still.”

Anakin took another step closer to you, enough to begin to feel his warmth. 

“I don’t think you belong to me,” he said. “But I won’t let anyone treat you like you’re their property.” 

Your heart thudded in your chest. 

“I can take care of myself,” you whispered. 

“I know that,” he said. “Believe me, Y/n. I do. But I’m not going to stop trying to protect you because you don’t want me to care.” 

You breath caught. 

“You shouldn’t care.” You murmured. 

Anakin took another step closer to you, too close now. You fully turned to face him and was met with a look of concern in his eyes. 

“I can’t.” His voice barely above a whisper. So soft that it felt dangerous. 

The silence was deafening. It was both heavy and tense. Mixed with emotions you couldn’t ignore. 

Your mouth opened but nothing came out. 

His eyes stayed on yours, unblinking and sharp. 

You couldn’t speak. Not when his hand was so close to your waist, like Anakin had to physically restrain himself from wanting to pull you close and burn the air between you. 

But he didn’t. Because even now, he knew how close was too close. 

And still…he moved. But barely. 

Just a tilt of his head. A shift forward. 

You weren’t breathing anymore. But you felt his warm exhale brushing on the corners of your mouth. 

The space between you two had narrowed to only inches. It was close. Not close enough. 

Anakin’s gaze flicked down —once— to your lips and then back up. 

“You’re not shaking,” he said, his voice low. “Not like before.”

“Just barely,” you managed to breathe out. 

It broke something in his face and mouth fell open like he might say your name but he didn’t. 

“Tell me you don’t want me here,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Say it, and I’ll go.”

It wasn’t a demand. It was a plea.

You blinked at him. No words came out. They couldn’t. You wanted to but you couldn’t lie. Your body craved him, missed him. So you didn’t say anything. 

His breath grew soft against your lips, both your bodies tethered to the floor. Neither of you moved forward. Not back either. 

Your head didn’t dare move unless he did first. And Anakin did the same. As if both of you were testing the currents. 

Then—

A quiet shift of the force. 

A whisper of silk. 

“General Skywalker.” 

Anakin flinched and his breath hitched just slightly. 

You turned to look at the voice. Padme stood, poised and unreadable. Her hands were clasped in front of her gown and her posture was too straight. Her eyes took in everything. Everything. 

“Senator,” Anakin cleared his throat, stepping back half a step, as if he was caught in the middle of something forbidden. To which he was. 

Padme’s gaze flickered to yours for a second and then back to Anakin. 

“Forgive the interruption,” she said, “but the Chancellor’s office is requesting a report on this evening’s security presence. I was informed you were both still on assignment.”

Still on assignment. 

Right.

Anakin’s jaw was tight, “understood.” He didn’t look at you and not at Padme either. His gaze was directed at the floor. 

Padme nodded. “I’ll walk with General Skywalker.”

His breath hitched, barely. Anakin looked over to you. His eyes searched yours like he was waiting for you to stop him. 

But you didn’t. 

Your throat tightened. 

And then—

“I’ll see you around,” he said softly. Like he wanted to promise you but didn’t know if he had the capacity to keep it. 

Then, quieter, almost to himself, “...Goodnight."

Like nothing had happened. 

He stepped back, he was forcing himself to. He didn’t want to leave but his own duty was pulling him away.

And he began to walk away, not before he glanced back at you, just once. His silhouette retreated into the night, Padme’s dress and his own robes brushed softly against each other. 

You stood there alone. 

What had just happened stung your skin and your soul.

It still burnt. 

A/N: THIS WAS LONGGG YALLLLL i hope u guys like it as always hehe also when i put a gif of aotc anakin i hope it doesnt confuse u guys its set in the clone wars 💔this whole padme thing will be explained dw guys plz mwa

And not proof read guys there’s probably some mistakes 💔

LMK WHAT YALL THINK!

Taglist: @endairachristensen26 @hayden-christensen-verse @ducks118 @seventeen-x @movingalongthekiwi @ssnapsaurus @caramelfondu @dayrin085 @devilslittlehelper @f1wh0recom @green-lxght @bettysgardenswift @heyitsbeeeb @user-3113s-blog @fandomhoe101 @veronaspencil @zudooms @hiphopdancer101universe @starfire21 @devotedlypaleluminary @miksxz @lacherrysouldy @lotushzl @biddycums @wandasblacknails @moonixlity @icanmeltanigloo @isntthatsweetiguessso @kiyotofish @balsalmic-vinegar @thereeallink @sylusisbae @queenanababy

if u want to be added or removed lmk! Pls if u want me to be untagged u can msg me privately don’t be shy I feel like a lot of the earlier tags had no idea the series would be this long 😭😭😭

[devilish-cherry]

ᨳ♡₊➳ choso x reader

ᨳ♡₊➳ hurt/comfort, fluff, crack

ᨳ♡₊➳ archive of our own

"You're an artist, a recluse, and a freshly heartbroken wreck whose idea of human contact is apologizing to your Amazon delivery guy. Your anxiety is so aggressive it could qualify for its own horror movie. And then your neighbor moves in. He doesn't get people. You don't get people. Somehow, you get each other. You didn't mean to talk to him. You didn't mean to care. But the more you both fumble through shared silences and botched small talk, the harder it is to pretend you're not watching each other heal, inch by awkward inch."

ᨳ♡₊➳ a/n: hello hello! this is officially my second fanfic on here (mwms will return from the war soon, i promise 🫡) i've been doing just headcanons lately, but this idea has been living in my brain rent free. this story means a lot to me and i'm so excited to finally share it. it's soft, hurt/comfort, still funny bc i can't help myself, and painfully self-indulgent. i'm emotionally unwell and projecting, your honor. thanks for reading, i hope you enjoy! 🖤

When heartbreak hits, nobody warns you about the weird parts.

Of course, you knew to expect tears and snot and piles of damp tissues around your bed like a sad little nest, but nobody mentioned you'd start microwaving empty coffee cups, forgetting to put water in instant ramen, or staring blankly into space mid-shower like a dramatic indie film scene as you wonder whether people ever really know each other.

Nobody mentioned that you'd have dishes in your sink older than some TikTok trends. They sit there like little ceramic reminders of your downfall, crusted with dried curry, melted cheese fossils, and the one sad mug that isn't even really yours. It was a gift from when you still thought a future together was a given, not a gamble.

The heartbreak didn't come softly. It shattered. Loud. Fast. Violent.

Four years of your life. Evaporated in a single hour.

You thought love meant endurance. Compromise. Sacrifice. You thought if you gave enough, loved hard enough, that would be enough.

He cheated on you and left you with three things: debt, abandonment issues, and a half-empty bottle of vegan mayonnaise. You were currently the main character in a tragedy no one watched because you were too socially anxious to tell anyone the show even existed.

The sunlight peeking through closed curtains mocks your misery, highlighting dust particles and making your mountain of empty ramen cups look even more pitiful. Maybe your mother was right. Maybe moving to Japan was dumb. Maybe falling in love was even dumber.

You haven't left your apartment in days. Like, properly left. Not the shuffle to the mailbox in your crocs and oversized hoodie at 11 P.M. where you almost cried once when you heard the neighbor's poodle bark. The dog you loved. The dog you used to pet during your morning walks.

You stopped doing that. You stopped doing anything.

Not because you can't, but because the outside world is loud and full of people and worst of all, requires motivation and small talk. Your body has become one with your gaming chair. Your fingers twitch instinctively toward the WASD keys even when you're nowhere near your PC. The only witness to your decomposition is your cat, Luna, who watches you with the judgmental silence of a thousand ancestors as you sob into a Sailor Moon mug, asking her, "Why didn't he love me?"

She doesn't leave, even when you ugly sob into her fur. She just blinks with those gold eyes like a tiny therapist who's been through this too many times.

Your apartment is a disaster, symbolic of your mental state. Not hoarder level, but there's an entire vibe of decay here. Laundry mountains. A graveyard of Monster Energy cans. That one sock that's been on the ceiling fan for two weeks because you threw it during a breakdown and now it lives there. Plushies lay strewn across your bed like fallen soldiers on a battlefield of despair. The irony of these aggressively cheerful toys amidst your chaos doesn't escape you, but it's not enough to motivate cleaning.

You work from home as a webcomic artist. Your editor hasn't heard from you in two weeks, and you've redrawn the same panel eight times only to delete it. You stare at your tablet like it personally betrayed you. Your characters are supposed to be vibrant. Alive. But now they feel like strangers you no longer understand.

Your job means you technically don't need to go outside. Which is great, because people are terrifying. You never know when a conversation will spiral into someone asking you what your hobbies are, and then you have to lie and say something normal like reading instead of "I hyperfixate on fictional villains and cry about fictional betrayals like they happened to me personally."

You've been eating nothing but whatever's closest to your desk. Chips. Cold udon. Candy. One time you just ate a spoonful of peanut butter and called it dinner. Your sleep schedule is obliterated. You're awake until 5 A.M. watching compilation videos of people crying during anime scenes and then wondering why you can't stop crying too.

The depression is nothing new. But the weight of it now is different. Heavier. Like it's fused to your ribcage.

And you hate that you're still checking your phone. Even now. Even now, when you know better.

Luna climbs into your lap, kneading your stomach with murder in her eyes. You don't move her. Honestly, it hurts, but she's your emotional support cat.

The worst part isn't the loneliness. You're used to that. It's the jealousy. Those little pangs when you scroll past someone's anniversary post, see someone getting engaged, and even groups of friends hanging out. Your siblings only text when they want cash, and your parents treat you like a glitch in the family's emotional software. And you hate that it still hurts. You hate that you're the kind of person who wants so badly to belong to someone, anyone, even if it means losing pieces of yourself.

You were willing to become a doormat in a relationship if it meant someone would stay.

Guess what? He still left.

"Ugh, Luna, is it just me, or is being alive just, like, way too much?" you ask aloud, voice rough and cracked from days of minimal use. Luna, now currently curled in your lap, simply flicks her tail, clearly unimpressed with your melodrama.

"I should, like, move," you whisper, stroking her soft, sleek black fur. "I should... shower. Eat a vegetable. Go outside. Not be a cryptid. One of those things."

Your eyes shift unconsciously to your phone, screen now facing down. One text from an unknown number, some nauseating pictures, and everything shattered.

You honestly don't remember what you said when you confronted him. All you recall was how your hands trembled, how you apologized through ugly sobs – even as he packed his bags and left, without so much as a glance back. Why were you the one saying sorry?

"I'm pathetic," you whisper to Luna, who only yawns, small fangs glinting adorably. You envy her so much it hurts sometimes. Her carefree existence, the fact that her biggest worry in life is when you forget to refill her water dish.

You boot up a cozy farming sim, trying to dissociate into a pixelated field of turnips, but even that feels hollow today. You should be doing something. Anything. Showering. Eating. Brushing your hair. Touching grass. But your brain's on that broken record loop: You're useless, you're annoying, you talk too much, you talk too little, you're clingy, you're a mess, you're–

Knock knock.

You freeze.

No.

No no no.

That did not just happen.

Your entire body stiffens like Luna every time you sneeze unexpectedly. You don't even breathe. Maybe if you're still enough, whoever's out there will just… disintegrate. Like an NPC waiting too long for interaction.

Knock knock knock.

You don't even flinch this time. You just stop breathing.

God hates you. That's the only explanation. This feels personal. It's not just God. This is a group project of divine forces conspiring together, pouring a bucket of cosmic embarrassment onto your entire life.

No one knocks on your door. Ever. Except maybe that one delivery guy who has no concept of boundaries and always tries to sell you his mixtape. But this isn't a knock of familiarity. It's... polite. Tentative. But firm.

Like someone who's trying not to be weird about interrupting you, but also... might be a murderer.

You sit in stunned silence, heartbeat thumping against your ribs like it's trying to warn you in Morse code. You stare at Luna. She stares back. She clearly has no intention of protecting you in the event of a home invasion. She licks her paw instead.

You tiptoe to the door, socks sliding against the warped floorboards, and press your eye to the peephole.

It's a man.

Correction: It is a tall, intimidating man who looks like he walked out of a Final Fantasy boss fight and forgot to change out of his battle outfit. He has two messy pigtails, a black band across his nose, and what looks like dark eyeshadow. Though something tells you it's not Maybelline. He's weirdly beautiful in a vaguely haunting way. But your social anxiety does not care. It clocks his vibes as "terrifying urban legend" and launches you into full panic mode.

Oh my god. The realization dawns slowly and hits like ice.

He's the new tenant.

Of course. The landlord did mention something about someone moving in soon. Though you kind of tuned her out halfway through the conversation because your brain decided to spiral about whether or not your hallway slippers were too loud.

The apartment next to yours has been empty since Mrs. Watanabe moved to live with her daughter in Hokkaido. And he's just staring at your door. Like he knows you're there. Like he felt your anxiety spike through the wall. Why did he knock on your door? What did he want from you? Are you going to get your organs harvested?

"Nope," you mutter under your breath and tiptoeing backwards like you're in a live-action stealth game.

You wait. And wait. And wait.

Eventually, you hear the soft creak of a door closing. Not yours. His.

He's inside now.

"New neighbor," you whisper hoarsely to Luna, who's grooming her butt like the entire world isn't collapsing around you.

She pauses only briefly to glance at you with her usual unimpressed expression.

"He looks terrifying," you add.

She sneezes.

You nod grimly, choosing to interpret it as agreement. "Exactly."

You spend the next three hours hiding in your apartment like it's a bunker during the end times. Every creak outside sends your nervous system into overdrive. You eat a pack of matcha Pocky for dinner and pretend it's a real meal.

Eventually, night falls. You think maybe that's it. Maybe you'll never have to interact with him. Neighbors who never cross paths. You can live like that. That's fine. That's peaceful.

The next day ruins that fantasy in the most aggressively mundane way possible.

You forgot to buy Luna's favorite food.

And the generic kibble in your emergency stash? She hates it. She gives you the most dramatic look of betrayal you've ever seen on a living creature before dramatically flopping onto her side like she's been personally victimized by your negligence.

You stare at her. "I get it. I'm garbage. I'm the worst cat parent. But please don't die of dramatics while I'm gone."

She flicks her tail. You interpret it as conditional forgiveness.

There is no world in which you will allow her to suffer through generic kibble two days in a row. She's your emotional support cat. She deserves better.

You throw on the most aggressively anti-social outfit possible. Oversized black hoodie. Joggers. The exact pair of crocs you told yourself you'd only wear inside. The look screams "Do not perceive me." and you pray the world obliges.

It does not.

Because the second you open your door – he's right there.

Standing right outside.

Holding a box. Clearly mid-move. The moment your eyes meet, your soul does the emotional equivalent of a factory reset.

He blinks at you. No expression. Just… calm.

"Hello," he says.

His voice is deeper than you expect. Smooth. Gentle in a way that does not match his "I could kill you with a stare" exterior. Like a slow wave breaking gently against the shore of your anxiety.

But your brain is not listening.

It's screeching.

You stare. Mouth dry. Thoughts scrambled.

Say hi. Say hi like a normal person. You can do this.

"I'm–I'm–I–I have to go. My cat–she's... she's lactose intolerant. Goodbye!" you blurt, and immediately powerwalk back inside like you're being hunted by debt collectors.

You don't just shut the door. You unintentionally slam it in your panic. Then lean your forehead against it and exhale like you've just survived a near-death experience. Luna stares at you from her perch on the windowsill, eyes wide.

"I panicked," you whisper. "I panicked and now he thinks I'm insane. And that my cat is lactose intolerant. Which she's not."

You slide down the door and bury your face in your hands.

He didn't even look offended. Just… confused. Like you were a puzzle he couldn't quite solve but wasn't mad at either. That somehow makes it worse. You would rather be hated than tolerated with curiosity and confusion.

You spend the next several hours pacing around your apartment, re-enacting the moment like some cringe high school play. You try to justify it. Maybe he didn't hear you. Maybe he thinks "lactose intolerant cat" is a code for something.

Your sleep is garbage that night. Of course it is. You lie in bed surrounded by Sanrio plushies and emotional damage, blinking at the ceiling and whispering to Luna, "I'm going to die alone and everyone will say, 'Yeah, we saw that coming.'"

She snores.

The days pass. You don't see him again.

But you hear him.

Moving boxes. Footsteps. Low hums of music.

Boxes shuffling across old hardwood. The occasional grunt of effort. The metallic clink of something heavy being dropped too fast. Once, the low hum of music. Not loud, not obnoxious, just barely audible through the wall. Lo-fi? Classical? It was hard to tell. There were no lyrics. Just... soft, steady repetition.

You throw yourself into working on your comic. Or... try to. It comes in uneven bursts. Like everything else these days, your creativity is fragile. Fractured. You start pages. Abandon them. Redraw the same expression twenty times. You mostly sketch variations of haunted eyed boys who have unresolved trauma and lesbian protagonists with backstories that rival Greek tragedies. You haven't posted in weeks. Your inbox is full of worried fan messages and even some kind ones from strangers telling you to rest. They mean well, but you can't help but feel like you're disappointing everyone, including yourself.

You avoid the mirror in your bathroom because you're afraid it'll show you the version of yourself that everyone secretly sees: A mess. A ghost in an oversized hoodie. An unreliable narrator.

One night, you're sitting cross-legged on the floor in the dim glow of your laptop, crying into a container of mochi like it's the last kindness left in the world. Luna is perched nearby, watching you with narrowed eyes like you're embarrassing her in front of your imaginary audience again.

Your nose is red. You're wearing socks that don't match. The mochi is falling apart. Everything is, honestly.

And then – a sound.

A thud.

Your breath catches. The sound came from the other side of the wall. His side.

You strain your ears. Silence.

Another noise. Not a crash. Not quite. Something dull, like the edge of a heavy object hitting wood. A chair maybe? A fall?

Your heart stumbles. You set the mochi container down with shaky hands and stand up before your brain even fully decides to. You shuffle toward the wall. The one you share. You press your palm flat against it, then your ear.

Nothing.

Just your own heartbeat.

Is he okay? Is he–

No. No. You are not that kind of person. You don't knock on people's doors. You don't initiate contact. You can't. You literally fled a conversation by invoking a dairy allergy.

You're still standing with your cheek pressed to the shared wall like some socially bankrupt creeper when Luna meows in protest, annoyed that your mochi slathered wrist has stopped midstroke. She headbutts your leg like, "Get a grip, loser." She knows she's the most emotionally intelligent being in the apartment.

"Luna, what if he's fallen and he can't get up?" you whisper, stroking her behind the ears.

She stares at you with her amber eyes. Blinks. Flicks her tail with clinical detachment.

You take that as a, "Bitch, he's literally built like Sephiroth. He's fine."

Right. Probably. You try to pull yourself back to reality, to the known facts: he is built. That man could survive a fall from a second story window and probably apologize to the sidewalk. He did not look like someone who loses fights. Not even with gravity.

Still.

What if?

And that is the exact moment your entire personality gets hijacked by a lifetime of catastrophizing and the haunting echoes of WebMD diagnoses.

Your thoughts spiral like they've been waiting for this. What if he's bleeding? What if he slipped and hit his head on his coffee table? What if he's lying there right now thinking, "I shouldn't have said 'hello' to the weird lactose-cat neighbor."?

You groan and sink onto the floor, half-hugging Luna, half-melting into the hardwood.

You try to get back to drawing. You open your drawing app. Stare at the blank screen. Drag your stylus across it. Nothing comes out right. You draw one eye. Then delete it. Then draw it again slightly different. Then delete it again. You redo it six times before naming the file Pain4.psd and calling it a night.

When you crawl into bed, Luna circles your face like she's inspecting it for sadness and then curls into your chest. You bury your face in her fur. "I am never leaving this apartment again."

But the universe has other plans.

The next time you see him, it's by accident. (Obviously. You would never intentionally see a human being. That would involve making decisions or being perceived. Two things you actively avoid.)

You're outside for one reason only:

Trash day.

You hadn't even wanted to go out. But the garbage was starting to morph into something eldritch.

So there you were. In front of your door, bleary-eyed and bundled up in your outside world camouflage. A faded hoodie large enough to be its own tax-paying citizen and joggers that had seen better centuries.

You were fully committed to being invisible. This was supposed to be a quick mission. In and out.

But then the door beside yours creaked open.

You didn't even register it at first. Not consciously. Just a sound. A background detail. Not until your peripheral vision catches height. A tall silhouette shifting into frame.

You looked up.

And there he was.

Him.

Again.

This time, he's holding a garbage bag. Normal. Totally mundane. A very human act of waste management. The shadows under his eyes make him look sleep deprived or like he's seen the apocalypse and chosen to keep going out of spite. His hair's tied into those same messy twin-tails, and that strange black mark still stretches across the bridge of his nose like a war paint declaration. His expression is deadpan. Neutral.

Your fingers fumble the bag, panic overriding your motor skills. A plastic bottle clinks against your shoe and bounces dramatically down the hallway like it's trying to draw attention to your anxiety. You mutter "oh no, oh fuck," in a voice so small it could be mistaken for the wind.

Of course, he notices.

Because of course.

He turns slightly toward you.

"Hello," he says.

Oh, God. Round Two.

But something about his voice is different this time. Still deep. Still calm. But… tentative.

You stare at the trash in your hands like it might burst into flames and save you.

There is no escape.

You open your mouth. Something comes out.

"Uh." You clear your throat. "Hi?"

It comes out too high pitched. You sound like a balloon losing air.

He nods slowly. You can feel his gaze. It's not judging, just… observing. Quietly curious.

Then, like he's been rehearsing it in his head, he says, "I'm Choso."

You almost drop your bag again. Choso. His name sounds like a video game boss with a tragic past. Like he was designed by someone who cries over concept art. You can already see the character sheet in your head. Tragic backstory. Hidden trauma. You blink at him, brain buffering.

"I–uh, I'm…" you begin, and then your mouth betrays you completely. "I have a cat."

His expression does not change.

You rush on, words tumbling out like a confession. "Her name's Luna. She's not lactose intolerant, actually. I lied. Sorry."

You want to disappear into the concrete.

You just said your cat isn't lactose intolerant. You apologized for lying about your cat's imaginary dairy allergy to a man you've known for less than thirty cumulative seconds.

Good job. Really solid performance. 10/10. Would cringe again.

Choso doesn't flinch. Doesn't even look surprised. He processes it, and then nods.

"I see," he says, evenly.

That's it. Just two words.

Not "Okay…?" Not "What the hell?" Just… I see.

Like he's filed it away into some mental directory. Like there's now a little folder in his mind labeled NEIGHBOR: COWARDLY, LIES UNDER STRESS, CAT IS FINE.

He doesn't elaborate. Doesn't laugh. Doesn't make a face. Just stands there with a slight tilt of the head, as if that explains everything.

You don't know what to do with that. So you nod. Too many times. Like a bobblehead with anxiety. "Yeah. So."

He looks at your trash bag. "You're going to the dumpsters?"

"Um." A beat. "No. Yes. Yeah. I mean – I'm on my way. To the… garbage. Yes."

Incredible.

Truly the Shakespeare of your generation.

You mentally kick yourself into the stratosphere. But Choso just nods again, like you just said something deep.

You start walking, mostly because standing still feels like you'll combust.

To your absolute horror, he falls into step beside you.

You're walking next to him. Next. To. Him.

Your brain short circuits. You can hear your heartbeat in your ears. Your thoughts are looping. 'Oh my god he's walking next to me, this is happening, I don't know how to walk like a normal person anymore, do I swing my arms? Is this arm too swingy? Am I breathing too loud? Is this what breathing sounds like? Should I look at him? No, don't look at him–'

"You don't have to be afraid," he says quietly. The words are so soft, so plainly spoken, that they stop your internal chaos like a record scratch.

Your breath catches.

You glance over, startled. Not at what he said, but how he said it. Like it wasn't a rehearsed reassurance, but a… fact. Like he knew you were afraid and didn't want to scold you for it.

You look away again.

"I'm not afraid," you mutter, too quickly. "I just have social anxiety so intense that I cry after calling customer service. Not the same."

You weren't supposed to say that out loud.

Choso is quiet for a few long seconds. Then, "That sounds hard."

It's not pitying. Not even sympathetic in the conventional sense. Just a calm, neutral acknowledgment. Like he's telling you it's okay to exist that way.

And that makes something ache in your chest.

You reach the dumpsters, and there's this weird moment where you both just… stand there. Holding trash. Awkward trash camaraderie.

You dump yours in first, then back away like the act of garbage disposal has somehow completed your social obligation.

He throws his bag in too, the motion smooth and strangely precise, like even in mundane things he moves like a weapon sheathed in calm.

And then he says, "I'm sorry."

You blink. "What?"

"For frightening you the other day. I was… too direct. I've been told my expressions are difficult to read."

Your stomach knots. "Oh. No. No, it's not you. I'm like this with everyone. You could be a tiny grandma offering me cookies and I'd still have a fight or flight response."

His eyes meet yours, and it's the first time you see them clearly. Deep brown, near black. But there's nothing scary there. Just… tiredness. Worn in sadness. The kind that builds up when you've been carrying invisible weights for too long.

"I moved here because it was quiet," he says.

"Oh." You blink, thrown off by the blunt honesty. "Yeah. It's… really quiet. Most of the people in the building are, like, old or sleep at weird hours."

Choso nods. "My last place was loud. Too much going on. I didn't sleep well there."

You don't ask what he means by too much going on. You want to. But that would require, like, a follow up. And being normal. Still, you mumble, "I hope you sleep better here."

You immediately want to shrivel into the earth. That was such a weird thing to say. Who says that?

But Choso… smiles? It's tiny. Barely there. But it reaches his eyes. "Thank you."

You finally glance back up at him.

That's when it hits you.

He's not intimidating. He's just quiet. A little awkward. Off rhythm in the same way you are, like a vinyl track played just a little too slow. You feel it in your chest. This strange, gentle ache. Not bad. Not painful. Just... familiar. A recognition of someone else who doesn't know what to do with themselves either.

"I should, uh, go feed Luna," you say, already backing toward the stairwell.

Choso nods. "Okay."

Then adds, as if he's rehearsed it, "It was… nice talking to you."

You nod so fast you almost give yourself whiplash. "You too!"

You flee. Again.

Later that night, you sit cross-legged on your floor, Luna eating kibble next to you like a queen.

"He said it was nice talking to me," you say aloud.

Luna doesn't look up. Rude.

"And I didn't completely collapse."

She licks her paw.

"I mean, I did panic, and say dumb stuff, and kind of speed walked away like a coward, but still. I didn't die. That's growth, right?"

You lie back on the floor, arms flopping outward like a starfish in emotional defeat.

Your ceiling fan sock waves at you from above.

"He's nice," you murmur.

Luna yawns. You take that as agreement.

You glance toward the shared wall.

You don't know anything about him. He could be a teacher. A gamer. A very tall barista. A secret poet. A professional garbage thrower. Who knows.

But you do know one thing:

You don't feel like a complete alien around him.

And somehow, that makes him the least scary person you've met in a long, long time.

[sammhisphere]

In the Quiet, You Stay- Lee Know 이 리노

Summary: You and Lee Know have been best friends for years, sharing secrets, dreams, and quiet moments in between your busy lives. But when the line between friendship and something more starts to blur, you find yourselves exploring new feelings neither of you expected. As you navigate this delicate shift, your connection deepens with shy touches, stolen glances, and late-night conversations that lead to unforgettable, intimate moments. This is a story of friendship evolving into love, where vulnerability and desire intertwine, and where the comfort of a best friend becomes the passion of a lover.

Word Count: ~9.35k

Warnings: 18+ (explicit content and mature themes). Contains intimate scenes and sensual moments, slow-burn romance with gradual escalation. Emotional vulnerability and tender moments, degradation.

~

You didn’t expect a knock at your door at 11:47 p.m.

Especially not from Lee Minho, wearing a hoodie pulled low over his head and a tote bag slung over one shoulder like he didn’t just come from performing in front of thousands of screaming fans.

You blinked. “You said you were flying in tomorrow.” “I lied,” he said with a tired smile. “Let me in. It’s cold.” You stepped aside without another word, watching as he kicked off his shoes with a practiced flick and beelined straight for your couch, flopping down like he owned the place.

Same Minho.

“You good?” you asked, walking in with a glass of water. “I’m fried,” he muttered, arm slung over his eyes. “Three straight weeks of filming, concerts, rehearsals. Chan’s threatening to confiscate my phone. Hyunjin told me I look like a broom.” You snorted. “You do look a little like one.” He cracked an eye open and narrowed it at you. “Like you don’t?”

You sank onto the armchair across from him, curling your legs beneath you. “Why’re you here?” Minho sat up slowly. “Just wanted to see you. It’s been a while.” It had. Texts and FaceTime weren’t the same as this, sitting in your tiny living room with laundry on the chair and your half-open bio textbook still on the floor. You weren’t part of his world anymore, not since he moved to Seoul and became a name people screamed at in airports. But somehow, you weren’t not part of it either; you lived 30 minutes from Seoul and met occasionally. 

You studied him as he leaned back again, face drawn but content. “You okay?” you asked quietly. He didn’t answer at first. Then “Sometimes I get so caught up in it all, I forget this exists.” You tilted your head. “This,” he repeated, gesturing vaguely. “You. Home. A place I don’t have to prove anything.” You bit your lip, feeling your chest ache a little. “You don’t have to prove anything anywhere.” He looked at you then, really looked. “You’d say that even if I was jobless and dancing in a convenience store parking lot.”

You shrugged. “I’d make you wear a sandwich board for extra tips.” He laughed, for real this time. “God, I missed you.” You smiled softly. “Missed you too, Min.” The silence settled comfortably again. You watched as he slowly blinked, eyes heavy, limbs looser now. He hadn’t even taken his coat off. Just dropped into your space like no time had passed.

“I have midterms soon,” you said after a minute. “Haven’t slept properly in days.” He peeked up. “Want me to quiz you?” You snorted. “You know nothing about cell signaling pathways.” “I’ll just say ‘wrong’ with a dramatic gasp every few minutes. Like a real professor.” “Don’t tempt me,” you muttered, but your lips twitched.

He was staying over, he always did when he visited. No hotels. Just the spare blanket and the couch he’d claimed as his years ago. You cleaned up your papers and let him change into the extra sweats he kept in your closet, still folded from last time. He curled up like a cat, back facing the room, quiet. You turned off the lights. And just before slipping into your own room, you heard him whisper, almost too soft:

“Thanks for not changing.” Your heart squeezed. You didn’t reply. But he knew.

~

The next morning is cold. Not winter-cold, but the kind that makes you wrap your hoodie tighter and shuffle to the kitchen in fuzzy socks. Your place smells like old textbooks and dust and something faintly citrus from the dish soap. It smells like home.

Minho’s still curled up on the couch when you walk in, a blanket tugged over his shoulder, hair messy and sticking up at odd angles. His phone rests face down on the coffee table, untouched. You make tea instead of coffee. He never liked coffee first thing. As you’re pouring hot water into a chipped mug, you hear him stir.

“… Is it Thursday?” he mumbles, voice rough from sleep. You glance back. “It’s Saturday.” “Oh.” A pause. “Even better.” He sits up slowly, stretching his arms above his head. “Why’s your place always freezing?” “Because I’m poor,” you deadpan. “Do you want the sad blanket or the even sadder blanket?” He gestures toward the tea in your hand. “I want that.”

You hand him the mug wordlessly. He wraps both hands around it, the way he always does, like it’s a ritual. For a long moment, you sit in silence. No phones. No cameras. Just the sound of the water heater and a slight hum from the fridge. Then “How’s school?”

You blink. “Terrible. Want to help me drop out?” He snorts. “If you drop out, you’re moving in with me and paying rent with ramen packets.” “Fine,” you mutter. “I’ll finish my degree.” You both sip in silence again. It’s not awkward. It’s never been awkward.

He looks tired still, but softer, more at ease. You glance over. “How’s… everything? Really?” He sighs. “Loud. Busy. Too many voices telling me who I am.” That sits between you both like a stone. Then he adds, quieter, “Sometimes I forget what it feels like to be just Minho.” You say nothing for a beat. Then, “You’re just Minho here.”

He looks at you. “No fans. No expectations. Just the kid who once tripped over my backpack and blamed gravity.” A tiny grin cracks across his lips. “It was a faulty zipper.” “It was physics.” He chuckles, shaking his head. “God, you’re still such a nerd.” You grin. “And you’re still a menace.” Minho sets his mug down and leans back against the couch, eyes fluttering closed again.

“Do you think we’ll still be like this when we’re thirty?” he asks suddenly. You blink. “What?” “This,” he says again. “Us. Just… sitting. Talking. Not needing anything else.” You smile. “Yeah. I think we will.” He hums. And you know he believes you. You glance at your watch. “I have to study.” He waves a hand lazily. “Go. I’ll still be here. Not going anywhere.” You get up, grab your laptop, and pause in the doorway. “You never have to prove anything here, Minho.” He looks up, eyes soft. “I know,” he says. “That’s why I always come back.”

~

You were curled up on the far end of the couch in Lee Know’s dorm, a steaming mug between your hands and your legs tucked underneath you. It was quiet, the kind of quiet that only comes when you’re close enough to someone that you don’t need to fill the silence. The sound of the washing machine spinning in the background, the soft hum of the heater, and the occasional clink of a spoon from the kitchen were the only interruptions.

He had gotten home late from practice, exhausted, hair still damp from a quick shower. You had already let yourself in earlier in the evening, something you'd done a million times before. His passcode hadn’t changed in years. “You eat?” he asked suddenly from the kitchen as he poked around the fridge, still in sweatpants and a loose hoodie that made him look younger.

You nodded, not looking up from your cup. “Yup. Left some pasta for you.” He walked over with a lazy smile, eyes crinkling, and sat beside you with a bowl in his hands, digging in without a second thought. “You’re the only reason I’ve had a home-cooked meal in weeks.” “You’re welcome,” you mumbled, stretching your legs out until your feet rested on his thigh. He didn’t flinch, he never did. This was just what you two were. Familiar, comfortable, steady.

“You’re quiet today,” he noted between bites. “Long week,” you shrugged. “Three back-to-back assignments, and I have a quiz on Monday.” He gave a low whistle and leaned his head back against the couch. “You’re crazy. I wouldn’t last five minutes in a university classroom.” “You barely lasted five minutes in high school.” “Yah.” You both broke into easy laughter, and for a second, the weight on your shoulders didn’t feel so heavy.

~

Later, you helped him clean up the kitchen. He stood behind you at the sink, reaching over your shoulder to grab a towel, his chest brushing lightly against your back for a moment longer than necessary. Your heart jumped. You moved slightly to the side and turned, only to find him already watching you. The lighting was dim, warm, soft around the edges like a scene out of a late-night drama. But this wasn’t that kind of story.

“Do you ever think,” you started slowly, drying your hands, “about how weird it is that I know everything about your boring personal life, but most people only know the you on stage?” Lee Know blinked once. Then twice. “I like that you know the boring stuff,” he said after a beat. “Feels like… I still have something that’s mine. Something real.” You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak.

~

The night wound down the way it always did when you stayed over. You both lay on opposite ends of his bed, the blanket tug-of-war already starting. Your phone buzzed with another university group chat blowing up, and his alarm was set for 5:30 AM. He looked over at you under the soft glow of his nightlight. “You okay?” “Yeah.” “You’d tell me if you weren’t, right?” 

“Of course,” you lied. Or maybe it wasn’t a lie. You just didn’t know what to say anymore. Because every now and then, moments like that kitchen scene happened. And you’d think, if we weren’t best friends, would this be something else? But you pushed the thought away. Again.

~

The next few days blurred into one long stretch of textbooks, lecture notes, and the gentle ding of notifications from group chats you were tired of muting. You had barely slept, living off cold coffee and half-eaten toast. You hadn’t seen Lee Know all week. He texted sometimes. Usually something random. “I stepped on Seungmin’s plushie by accident, and he looked at me like I committed murder.” or “Are you alive or just slowly becoming part of your desk?”

But Thursday night, he called. You were lying face-down on your bed, brain fried from memorizing physiology notes, when your phone buzzed. “Hello?” you mumbled into your pillow. “You sound like you’ve been hit by a truck,” he said immediately. “I basically have. The truck was made of finals and sleepless nights.”

He didn’t laugh, but you heard his smile. “Come over.” You groaned. “Minho-” “I ordered your favorite chicken. You don’t have to talk. Just come be human furniture for a few hours.” You considered it. Your skin prickled at the idea of fresh air. And honestly, you missed him. More than you were willing to admit.

Thirty minutes later, you were curled up on the same couch, his blanket tossed over you, the drama he picked playing softly on the TV. He sat beside you in silence, eating his food slowly. He looked tired. Not just in the physical sense, something about his posture, the way his shoulder leaned into the cushion, like even sitting up was too much.

“You good?” you asked softly. He blinked, turning to look at you. “I had a rough week.” “You wanna talk about it?” He shook his head. “Not really.” So you nodded. That was the deal. You didn’t push. He didn’t run. You watched in silence as his gaze dropped to your hand resting beside his on the couch. He didn't move. Neither did you.

“Sometimes,” he said quietly, “I feel like I only breathe properly when you’re around.” Your breath hitched. But you didn’t flinch. Didn’t ruin the moment with some half-hearted joke like you usually would. “Me too,” you said. He glanced at you then. That unreadable look in his eyes again. Like he was trying to decide something. Or fight something. You looked away.

~

Later, when he was walking you to the door, you hesitated. “Minho,” you said, shifting from foot to foot. “Do you think we’ll always be like this?” He frowned. “Like what?” “This close. This… safe.” A pause. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I hope so.” You nodded slowly, chest tight. “I just don’t want to lose this,” you whispered. He tilted his head, watching you.

“Then we won’t.” He said it like a promise. And for now, you decided to believe him. “When did you get so big? I can't even hug you anymore.”

~

It wasn’t unusual for Minho to crash at your place when he needed to disappear for a bit. Your tiny apartment, with its mismatched cushions and soft music, was his sanctuary away from rehearsals and the spotlight. But tonight, he showed up with a duffel bag. "Are you moving in?" you asked, raising an eyebrow as he stepped in, hoodie over his head and mask still in place. “Technically? Just for the weekend,” he said, kicking his shoes off. “Chan hyung said I looked like I hadn’t slept in five days.” You made a face. “Have you?” “No comment.”

So you fed him, made him tea, and let him flop on your bed while you sat cross-legged on the floor, back against the side of the mattress, laptop open to your notes. His hand dangled lazily over the edge, fingers occasionally brushing your shoulder as you typed. The silence between you was thick, but comforting. Familiar. Like a song you knew all the lyrics to.

“Y/N,” he said after a long stretch, voice low and tired. “Yeah?” “You’re the only place I feel real in.” The words didn’t make sense right away, not fully. But they settled over you like a soft blanket. Heavy with meaning. Full of things unsaid. You didn’t turn to look at him, afraid the emotion in your eyes might give too much away. “You’re real everywhere,” you said quietly. “No,” he murmured. “I’m someone else everywhere else. With you… I’m just me.”

You closed your laptop slowly. Then crawled up onto the bed beside him. He shifted, making room, and you curled beside him. Not touching. Not quite. The night passed slowly. You talked about small things, music, old memories, the time you got stuck in the rain after a festival, and had to hide under a stranger’s umbrella. He laughed so hard he wheezed. You loved that sound.

At some point, the laughter faded. His hand found yours beneath the blanket. It wasn’t romantic. Not intentionally. But it wasn’t innocent either. You stared at the ceiling, both of you pretending this wasn’t a shift. That your heart wasn’t thrumming. That his thumb wasn’t tracing soft circles on your wrist like it belonged there. “Do you ever think about what people would say if they knew?” you whispered. “Knew what?” “How much we mean to each other.”

He was silent for a moment. Then “I don’t care what they’d say.” You turned to look at him. He was already watching you. There was something in his gaze you hadn’t seen before. Or maybe you'd just never let yourself notice it. You could’ve leaned in. You could’ve closed the gap. But you didn’t. And neither did he. Because this was the space you lived in, the almost, the maybe, the comfort of what could be. And neither of you was ready to break it.

~

Later that night, after he’d fallen asleep, curled toward you, breath soft and even, you stayed awake. Thinking about the way he held your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. Wondering if you were still just best friends. And terrified of what it would mean if you weren’t.

When you woke up, Minho wasn’t there. You got up and noticed him in the shower, so you sat on the couch thinking about last night when Minho returned a few minutes later, toweling off his damp hair. You were curled up on the couch with your laptop, trying to finish an assignment due at midnight. He peeked over your shoulder, reading the first few lines before flopping beside you with a dramatic sigh.

“You’re still doing schoolwork? It’s a Saturday.” “It’s due tonight,” you mumbled, not looking up. “And I procrastinated the entire week, so…” “I literally saw you binge two full dramas in three days,” he said flatly, grabbing a throw pillow and hugging it. “And you ignored my texts.”

“Excuse me, I replied eventually.” “Two hours later with ‘oops.’” You smiled guiltily. “I was immersed.” Minho gave you a side glance. “In the plot or the male lead?” “…No comment.” He smirked and leaned back. “Must be nice. I don’t even have time to finish an episode these days.” You looked over at him, your fingers still resting on the keyboard. “How are you doing, though? Like… actually?”

He blinked, caught off guard. “I’m okay. Tired, mostly. But being on stage kind of resets everything. Makes it worth it.” You nodded, your tone soft. “You always seem like you’ve got it together. But I worry sometimes. I know being an idol is… a lot.” Minho didn’t answer immediately. The room settled into a comfortable silence, broken only by the faint hum of your laptop fan.

“I don’t talk about it much,” he said finally. “But yeah, it’s overwhelming sometimes. The schedules, the pressure to be perfect all the time, the comments online…” You shut your laptop and turned toward him fully. “You don’t have to be perfect, Min. Not with me.” He gave you a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes at first. “I know. That’s why I like coming here. You’re the only person who treats me like I’m just… Minho. Not Lee Know.” You scooted closer and bumped his knee gently with yours. “Because you are just Minho to me. My annoying best friend, who once cried because he bit into a dumpling too hot.”

His mouth dropped open in mock offense. “That was one time. And it burned my tongue!” You both laughed, the moment lightening again. “I’m glad you come here,” you said after a beat. “Even if it’s just to nap and steal my snacks.” “You love it when I nap here.” “I do not-okay, maybe I do.”

Minho tilted his head and looked at you curiously. “You’re one of the only people I can actually rest around.” You swallowed. There was something in his tone, gentle, sincere, almost vulnerable. “I’m glad,” you said quietly. “I always want you to feel safe here.” He nudged you with his foot. “You’re kind of my safe place.” That made your heart thud a little louder than usual, but you played it cool. “Does that mean I get honorary member status?” “No way,” he said instantly. “You’re too normal to survive in that dorm.” “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Minho chuckled, and then after a pause, said, “Promise you won’t disappear if things get busier? Or if I can’t reply often?” You blinked. “Minho… I’m not going anywhere.” He looked at you, eyes softer than you’d ever seen them. Then he nodded, once. “Good.” He didn’t say more, and neither did you. Instead, he handed you one of the pillows and leaned back, letting his shoulder brush against yours. Eventually, you reopened your laptop, and he pulled out his phone. Neither of you said much for a while, but the air felt lighter, somehow. Like home.

The afternoon sun slanted through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the living room where you and Minho sat. You were still curled up on the couch, textbooks spread on your lap, while he absentmindedly flipped through his phone beside you. The easy comfort between you felt familiar, like an old song you both knew the words to.

But beneath the surface, something had changed.

It wasn’t a dramatic moment or a sudden confession. It was the way his hand brushed yours when he reached over to grab a notebook. The way his eyes lingered on you a little longer than usual when you laughed at one of his jokes. The way your heart beat a little faster when he glanced up, catching you staring.

You shoved those thoughts aside, blaming the lingering caffeine and tiredness. “Hey,” Minho said softly, breaking the silence. “Do you want to go out tonight? Just a quiet dinner or something?” You blinked, surprised. “Tonight? Isn’t practice really intense right now?” He shrugged, eyes searching yours. “I want to spend time with you. Away from all the noise.” You smiled, feeling the warmth of that simple invitation spread through your chest. “I’d like that.”

Later, as the city lights flickered on and painted the streets gold, you both wandered through a quiet neighborhood, sharing stories and memories that weren’t usually part of your usual talks. It was easy, effortless, but underneath it all, you felt the weight of something unspoken. At one point, Minho paused, glancing down at his hands. “I’ve been thinking… about us.” Your breath caught. He looked up, cheeks flushed, the vulnerability in his eyes unmistakable. “I don’t want to mess up our friendship, but… I think I’m starting to see you differently.”

Your heart thudded painfully, a mixture of hope and fear flooding through you. “I think… I feel the same.” He smiled, a little nervous, but so genuine it made your chest ache. “So… what do we do now?” You reached out, your fingers brushing his, finding courage in the quiet strength of that touch. “We take it slow. No rush. Just… see where it goes.” He nodded, relief washing over his face. “I’m glad.”

For the first time, as you walked side by side under the stars, the line between best friend and something more felt blurred but beautiful. Neither of you said much, but the silence was full of promise. Because sometimes, the deepest feelings begin not with fireworks, but with the quiet courage to admit what’s already been there.

You kept walking side by side, the city’s hum a soft backdrop to the whirlwind inside your chest. Every time Minho’s hand brushed against yours, it sent a tiny jolt of electricity through your nerves, but neither of you pulled away. Instead, you let your fingers brush, barely touching, like a secret conversation spoken without words.

You found a quiet bench near a small park, where the autumn leaves had started to fall, crisp and golden. Minho sat down first, patting the spot beside him, inviting you to join. You hesitated only for a moment before sitting down, your shoulder almost brushing his. Neither of you spoke for a while. The silence was heavy but comfortable, like the pause between breaths.

“I’ve always admired you,” Minho finally said, voice low and sincere. “Not just because you’re smart or funny, but because you’re real. You never put on a mask for me. And I guess… I never realized how much that meant to me until now.” Your heart softened. You looked at him, really looked, at the way his eyes held a quiet vulnerability, the way his lips twitched in a shy smile. The boy you’d known as your closest friend was suddenly someone else, someone new and exciting and frightening all at once.

“I feel the same,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “You’re the person I come back to when everything else feels too much. Like… my safe place.” Minho turned toward you, the faint glow from a nearby streetlamp illuminating the soft curve of his face. For a moment, your breath hitched as he leaned in, his hand gently reaching to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His touch was featherlight but sent a wave of warmth through you.

“I want to be that for you too. Not just as your friend, but something more.” Your cheeks flushed, and you swallowed hard, suddenly shy beneath his gaze. But then you smiled, an honest, open smile that said yes without words. “Me too,” you said, barely above a breath. He smiled, relieved and happy, but your heart pounded fiercely, like it was trying to break free.

Your eyes met his, and you saw the same mix of hope and uncertainty there. “This doesn’t change anything unless we want it to,” Minho said quietly. “We’re still us, no matter what.” You nodded, the weight in your chest lifting. “Exactly.” You spent the rest of the evening walking slowly, hand in hand, talking about everything and nothing—about dreams, fears, and what the future might hold. For the first time, the possibility of ‘us’ didn’t feel scary. It felt like coming home.

Minho nudged you gently with his shoulder, a teasing grin on his face. “So, are you going to make me jealous with all these deep confessions, or am I still your number one best friend?” You laughed, bumping him back playfully. “You’re definitely still number one, don’t get cocky.” He threw his arm around your shoulders as you walked side by side. “Good. Because I have a feeling you’ll always be stuck with me.” You shook your head with a smile. “I’m not complaining. You’re one of the best things in my life.”

“Right back at you.” Minho looked at you, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Hey, remember that time I helped you study for that impossible exam and you totally aced it?” You groaned. “You mean the time you almost let me fail because you kept distracting me with ridiculous jokes?”

Minho laughed loudly. “Okay, okay, but you still passed. Thanks to me.” You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide your grin. “Yeah, yeah. I guess your stupid jokes were helpful after all.” The two of you kept walking, talking about everything and nothing, your plans for the weekend, the latest funny moments from the dorm, silly idol gossip, and inside jokes that no one else would understand.

At one point, Minho pulled you into a sudden, tight side hug, and you leaned into him without hesitation. “Thanks for always being here,” you said softly. “Always,” he replied. “No matter what.” You paused, realizing how much you valued this friendship, the kind of friendship where you could be your true self without pretending, where silence was just as meaningful as words, and where the simplest moments felt special. “Promise me one thing?” Minho asked suddenly. “Anything.” “No matter where life takes us, no matter how busy we get, we don’t lose this. Us.” You smiled warmly and squeezed his hand. “Promise.” As you headed back to the dorm, the air was lighter, your steps in sync, best friends, partners in crime, and maybe something more someday, but for now, just perfectly content being exactly who you are together.

Back at the Minsung dorm, the energy shifted instantly. The place felt like home, cluttered with shared memories, music, and the unmistakable buzz of close-knit friendships. Minho flopped down on the couch with a dramatic sigh, tossing his phone aside. “Man, I swear you and Jisung have way too much chemistry. I’m just here observing.” You laughed, settling into the armchair across from him. “Chemistry? We’re just best friends. Nothing more.”

“Oh, come on. I see the way you two look at each other when you think no one’s watching.” You snorted, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous. Besides, Jisung is busy preparing for his comeback. I’m just the annoying friend who barges in with snacks and bad jokes.” Minho smiled and shook his head. “You’re more than that. You’re family.”

Just then, Jisung appeared in the doorway, hair messy from practice, a towel slung around his neck. He grinned when he saw you and Minho. “What are you two plotting?” “Nothing,” you said quickly, though Minho gave you a pointed look. Jisung raised an eyebrow and smirked. “Uh-huh. Right.” Minho stood up, stretching. “I was just telling Y/N how you two have some kind of secret language or something.”

Jisung laughed and walked over to sit next to you on the couch. “We do. It’s called years of friendship.” You nudged him playfully. “Yeah, and a lot of teasing.” Jisung grinned and gave you a quick, brotherly side hug. “Well, get ready. After this comeback, I’m dragging you to a dance practice. I want to see those moves you always brag about.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled. “You’re lucky I like you.” Minho laughed, grabbing a bag of chips from the table. “I swear, one day, you two are going to surprise me and admit you’re secretly dating.” “Keep dreaming, Minho,” you said, nudging him back. Jisung glanced at you with a playful smirk. “Maybe I should.” You caught his gaze, your heart skipping for just a moment before you shook it off. “Not happening.”

The evening slipped into easy chatter, discussing upcoming schedules, favorite songs, and ridiculous idol gossip. The way the three of you fit together felt effortless. At one point, Minho picked up the remote and switched the TV to a dance competition show. “Alright, Y/N, since you’re the pro dancer around here, teach me something.” You laughed and stood up, stretching. “Prepare to be embarrassed.”

Minho grinned, dropping down into a loose squat, ready to follow your lead. Jisung joined in, leaning against the wall with a smirk, clearly amused. As you demonstrated a tricky footwork move, Minho tripped over his own feet and fell backward, groaning dramatically. “Okay, okay, I surrender.” You helped him up, and Jisung laughed so hard he had to hold his stomach. “That’s my boy.” For a moment, the world outside the dorm melted away. There was just the three of you, best friends who could tease, challenge, support, and just be.

Later, as you curled up on the couch wearing Jisung’s oversized hoodie, Minho sat beside you, nudging your shoulder gently. “You look good in that hoodie.” You smiled shyly, pulling the hood over your head. “It’s comfy.” Jisung teased from across the room, “You stole my hoodie again, huh? That’s the third one this week.” You groaned, hiding your face in the fabric. “I’m cold.” Minho shook his head, smiling warmly. “You’re lucky you have us to keep you warm.” You glanced at both of them, grateful. “I know.”

~

The soft glow from the dorm’s living room lamp cast warm shadows as you and Minho settled onto the couch after dinner. You leaned back, your legs curled under you, and he stretched out beside you, the air between you charged but unspoken. Minho caught your gaze and gave a sly grin. “You know, you’ve been spending a lot of time here lately. Should I be worried you’re trying to steal my spot?” You smirked, nudging him playfully. “Oh, please. You’re the one who keeps making excuses to stay up late with me.”

He chuckled low, the sound vibrating against your skin. “Guilty as charged. But can you blame me? It’s rare to find someone who actually gets me.” You felt your cheeks warm as your fingers brushed against his arm. The contact was electric, a quiet current that neither of you rushed to break. Minho’s hand slid closer, his thumb tracing slow circles just above your wrist. “Do you ever think about what it’d be like… if this wasn’t just friendship?”

You swallowed, your heart beating faster. “All the time.” He leaned in, his breath warm near your ear. “Me too. But I’m scared it might change everything.” You turned your face just enough to catch his eye, lips curving into a teasing smile. “Maybe some things are better when they change.” His hand tightened slightly, bold but gentle. “You’re dangerous, you know that?” Your smile grew wider, matching his mischievous spark. “Only for you.”

The room seemed to shrink as the tension grew. You could almost feel the heat radiating from him, mixing with the nervous excitement coiling inside your chest. Suddenly, Minho’s fingers brushed your hair back from your face. “You’re so beautiful when you’re like this,” he murmured, voice low. You swallowed hard, breath hitching as his hand lingered a moment too long. “Minho…”

He smiled softly, lips just inches from yours. “We don’t have to decide anything now. Just… maybe let things happen naturally.” Your heart raced as you nodded, eyes fluttering closed for a second before opening to meet his. Minutes passed, the unspoken promise lingering in the air. Just friends, but maybe something more, something neither of you dared say out loud yet. Then, with a teasing grin, Minho pulled back and threw a pillow at you. “Okay, enough serious talk. Let’s see if you can keep up with me in a pillow fight.” You laughed breathlessly, the tension breaking, but the spark still glowing bright between you.

The pillow fight quickly turned into a full-on, laughter-filled battle. Feathers, or whatever stuffing was left, flew everywhere as you and Minho chased each other around the living room, dodging and weaving between couches and the coffee table. Your chest heaved with laughter, and Minho’s eyes sparkled with joy and something more, a hint of desire barely contained.

You tackled him lightly onto the couch, breathless from laughing and the chase. Minho caught you effortlessly, his hands resting on your waist. His gaze dropped to your lips, then back up to your eyes, like he was weighing some silent question.

For a moment, time froze. You could almost feel his heartbeat through his chest, felt your own thundering in your ears. Then, with a playful grin, he leaned back and whispered, “You’re lucky you’re so distracting.” You rolled your eyes, but your smile softened. “Distracting? You’re the one who can’t keep his hands to himself.” Minho shrugged with mock innocence, but there was a spark in his eyes that said otherwise. He traced lazy circles along your side, fingers light but deliberate.

“You make it hard to just be friends, you know.” You shifted closer, your shoulder brushing his. “Maybe we don’t have to be just friends all the time.” He smiled, that slow, knowing smile that sent shivers down your spine. “Careful what you wish for.”

The room felt warmer, smaller somehow, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. The world outside faded to nothing but you and him, the space between charged with promises neither dared say aloud yet. Then Minho leaned in, his voice low and teasing. “So… what’s stopping us?”

You bit your lip, heart racing. “Fear, probably.” “Or maybe,” he said, eyes locked on yours, “we just need to stop thinking so much.” You laughed softly, the tension breaking but not gone, lingering like the last notes of a song. Minho’s hand found yours again, squeezing gently. “One step at a time, yeah? For now, I’m happy just having you here.”

You nodded, squeezing back. “Me too.” And with that, you both settled back, the quiet comfort between you now layered with something sweet and new, the thrilling hint of something more waiting just beneath the surface.

~

The apartment was quiet, save for the soft hum of the fan and the muted background noise of a drama playing on the TV, neither of you was really watching. You were curled up on one end of the couch in one of Minho’s oversized hoodies, bare legs tucked beneath you, a bowl of half-eaten tteokbokki resting between you two.

Minho sat next to you, legs stretched out, one arm lazily thrown over the back of the couch. The proximity wasn’t unusual, this was how it had always been. Close. Comfortable. Maybe a little too comfortable lately. You leaned over, pointing at the screen. “That’s totally you when you’re mad.” He scoffed. “I don’t pout like that.”

“You do,” you teased, nudging his thigh with your foot. “Especially when I steal your hoodie.” He smirked, but didn’t argue. Silence stretched, not awkward, but charged. The kind of quiet that says too much without words. You could feel the shift in the air. His gaze lingered longer than usual. Yours met it and stayed. “You’ve gotten... different,” he murmured after a while, his eyes scanning your face slowly.

“Different how?” you asked, heart suddenly thudding too loudly in your chest. He shrugged, but his fingers brushed yours as he reached for another rice cake. “I don’t know. Glowy. More confident. Kind of annoying.” “Wow. Thanks.” You rolled your eyes but smiled. You didn’t pull your hand away when your pinky hooked with his. Another pause.

“Do you miss home?” he asked softly, eyes still on the screen, but you knew he was watching you from the corner of his eye. You nodded. “Sometimes. But not when I’m here.” His eyes flicked to yours. “Why?” “Because you’re here,” you said, too fast, too honest. Then you panicked. “And, like... the food is better.”

He laughed, eyes crinkling. But then he shifted a little closer, and your knees brushed. Neither of you moved away. You turned toward him slightly, and he mirrored the motion. Close enough that you could see the faint scar on his jaw, the warmth in his gaze. His eyes dropped to your lips for a second before flicking back to your eyes. Your breath caught. The tension, long buried under jokes and casual touches, sparked and curled low in your stomach.

He leaned in slightly. His hand, warm and strong, settled on your waist, not possessive, just anchoring. ���You think about this?” You nodded, barely. “Don’t you?” His forehead rested against yours, breath mingling with yours. The moment crackled with restrained emotion, years of friendship teetering on the edge. “I think about you all the time,” he confessed. Then his hand moved, slow and deliberate, sliding around your waist and tugging you gently into his lap. You didn’t resist. Your thighs settled on either side of him, the hem of the hoodie riding up, skin brushing his sweats.

Neither of you said anything. You were just… there. Breathing the same air. His hands on your hips, your hands gripping the sides of his hoodie. His eyes locked on yours. You shifted slightly, unintentionally, and his grip tightened. Your bodies aligned, the slow roll of tension more electric than any kiss. He exhaled shakily. “If you keep doing that, I’m gonna lose my mind,” he murmured. You smiled, teasing. “Doing what?” He groaned softly, leaning forward until his lips hovered near your ear. “You really want me to show you?”

The air between you sizzled. But neither of you moved to close the distance completely. Not yet. This wasn’t the moment for that. But it was close. And you were both okay waiting a little longer, just to make sure when it happened, it meant everything. You shivered at his breath grazing your ear, the warmth sending a spark that spread all the way down your spine. Your heart hammered in your chest, loud enough that you were sure he could hear it too.

“Show me,” you whispered, your voice barely steady, teasing yet full of hope. He smiled, slow and knowing, his fingers tightening just a little around your waist. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, searching, asking silently if you really meant it. You nodded, biting your lip, cheeks flushing.

He shifted, moving his face slowly closer, his lips just inches from yours. You could feel the heat radiating between you. The world around you blurred, and the only thing that mattered was the space between your lips. But just as his lips were about to brush yours, he pulled back, eyes dark and filled with restraint. “Not yet,” he said, voice low and rough. “I want this to be right. I don’t want to ruin what we have.”

Your breath hitched, emotions swirling. You knew what he meant. The friendship, the bond you’d built over the years, was fragile and precious. But there was something deeper now, something electric and undeniable. You reached up, cupping his cheek gently, thumb brushing over the faint stubble there. “I don’t want to lose what we have either. But I want to see where this could go too.” His hand left your waist to slide into your hair, fingers threading through the strands at the nape of your neck. His eyes searched yours again, softening.

“Then let’s take it slow,” he murmured. “One moment at a time.” You smiled, a slow, genuine smile that made his chest tighten. “I like that.” He leaned in again, this time slower, more deliberate. When his lips finally met yours, it was gentle—an exploration, a promise, a question all at once. Your body melted into his, the heat building with every second. His hands moved from your waist to your back, pulling you closer as if afraid you might slip away.

You tangled your fingers in his hair, deepening the kiss, your pulse racing. When you finally pulled away, breathless, his forehead rested against yours. “You’re driving me crazy,” he whispered. “You’re not so bad yourself,” you teased, your voice a soft laugh. He grinned, and the tension broke, replaced by a warmth that settled comfortably between you. For now, the promise of more hung in the air. And you were ready to see where this path would lead, side by side.

After that first kiss, everything felt different but still the same. The easy comfort of your friendship remained, but now it was laced with an undercurrent of something more, a delicious tension that made every touch, every glance, feel electric. You both stayed like that for a while, foreheads touching, breathing slow and steady. Then he pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his smile shy but full of warmth.

“Can I stay a little longer?” he asked quietly, as if the words were the hardest thing he’d said all day. Your heart skipped. “Yeah,” you breathed. “I want that.” He settled beside you on the couch, close enough that your legs brushed. You felt his hand slide to rest on your thigh, palm warm and steady. You looked down, feeling your cheeks flush. You didn’t pull away.

Instead, you let your fingers trace lazy circles on his arm, your eyes meeting his. Neither of you said anything, the silence between you was comfortable, filled with all the unspoken things you both wanted to say but weren’t quite ready for yet. Then, almost playfully, he shifted so his body pressed closer, his hips nudging yours. You felt the heat pooling low in your belly.

Lee Know’s hand moved slowly up your thigh, fingertips teasing just beneath the hem of your shorts. You swallowed hard, heart pounding in your ears. He caught your gaze again, and in that look was a mix of mischief and something softer, affection, maybe even a little nervousness. Without breaking eye contact, he started to grind just a little, slow and deliberate, testing the waters.

You bit your lip, warmth blooming all over. Your hands moved to his waist, steadying yourself but not pushing him away. His breath hitched as the movement grew bolder, and your body responded instinctively, matching his rhythm. For a moment, the world outside faded away, it was just you and him, close and connected, exploring the edges of something new and thrilling.

When he finally stopped, resting his forehead against yours again, both of you were breathless. “I don’t want to rush,” he whispered. “But damn, you drive me insane.” You laughed softly, heart pounding but happy. “Same here.” He brushed his nose against yours, a silent promise hanging between you. 

You stayed pressed together on the couch, the air thick with heat and unspoken desire. His hand slid from your thigh to trace slow, teasing circles higher up, barely hidden under the edge of your shorts. You swallowed hard, heart pounding like a drum in your chest. Lee Know’s eyes darkened as he watched your reaction, his thumb brushing over the sensitive skin at the top of your thigh. “You’re driving me crazy,” he murmured, his voice low and husky.

You bit your lip, your fingers tangling in the fabric of his shirt as he shifted closer, grinding his hips gently against yours. The friction was electric, sending warmth straight to your core. Your breaths came faster, breaths mingling in the small space between your faces. His hand moved deliberately, sliding under your shorts, fingers grazing over your bare skin with feather-light touches that made you shiver. You reached for his neck, pulling him in for a slow, deep kiss that tasted of everything you’d been holding back.

His tongue traced the seam of your lips, asking for entrance, and you eagerly parted for him. The kiss deepened, hungry and sweet, as his hand explored further, slipping lower between your thighs, finding the heat that was already wet and waiting. Your body responded instinctively, arching into his touch, a soft moan escaping your lips. His fingers moved with expert care, circling and pressing, making you gasp and tremble beneath him.

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his breath ragged. “You feel so good,” he whispered, his voice thick with need. “I’ve wanted this for so long.” You smiled through the haze of pleasure, your hands threading through his hair as he kissed a trail down your jaw and neck. His lips left hot, lingering marks that made your skin burn.

The grinding between your bodies grew more urgent, hips rolling together in a slow, sensual rhythm that made you dizzy. You wrapped your arms around him, pulling him impossibly close, your hearts beating in sync. “You’re mine,” he murmured against your skin, voice rough with desire. “Yes,” you breathed, needing him as much as he needed you.

Time slipped away as you lost yourselves in each other, every touch, every sigh, every whisper deepening the connection between best friends, becoming something more.

He pushed two fingers in, not caring about you, and started thrusting them in and out. You almost screamed but he curled his fingers right at your g-spot, like he knew your pussy, like he has done this a million time before, causing you to moan loud. "Fuck y/n-" as he curls them again and again and your fingers find their way into his hair. He never took his eyes off you, "Cum on my fingers, let me watch how you look when you go dumb with my fingers" that caused you to shatter under his fingers.

He never stopped his fingers. "Too much Minho," you whimpered, only then he pulled his hand out, licking both the fingers and moaning at the taste. When you finally came down from the waves of pleasure, Lee Know held you tight, his fingers tracing lazy patterns along your skin as you both caught your breath.

“This is only the beginning,” he promised, lips brushing softly over your temple. You smiled, heart full and alive. “I’m not going anywhere.” You stayed curled in Lee Know’s arms, the warmth of his body grounding you as the aftershocks of pleasure settled. His fingertips traced slow, soothing lines along your spine, every touch sending little sparks that made your skin tingle all over again.

He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss just beneath your ear, his breath warm and intoxicating. “You’re breathtaking,” he whispered, voice husky with something raw and real. You blushed, heart hammering, fingers playing with the hem of his shirt. The way he looked at you now, like you were the only person in the world, made your breath catch. It was more than friendship; it was a promise, a beginning neither of you dared to say out loud yet.

Lee Know’s hand slid down to your waist, fingers tightening just a bit as he slowly ground against you again, this time with more purpose. You gasped softly, hips instinctively rolling into his rhythm. His lips found yours once more, deeper and more demanding this time, hands exploring every inch of you, mapping out the places that made you shiver. You melted against him, every nerve alive with pleasure and longing.

The couch creaked beneath you, the world outside disappearing as you two lost yourselves in the moment, teasing, grinding, exploring, and discovering. His fingers slipped beneath your tank top, fingertips grazing over your bare skin, and you arched into him, breath hitching. He kissed down your neck, teeth grazing your skin just enough to make you shiver and sigh. “You’re incredible,” he murmured against your collarbone, his lips leaving a trail of fire.

You bit your lip, hands tangling in his hair again, pulling him closer, needing every bit of him. The way he moved against you, careful and confident, made you feel cherished and wanted all at once. When his hand slid lower again, brushing over your soaked core through your shorts, you shuddered, biting back a moan. His fingers stroked you gently, the friction driving you wild.

Lee Know’s eyes locked on yours, dark and intense. “Do you want more?” he asked softly, voice thick with need. You nodded, words failing you, lost in the way he made you feel, safe, desired, alive. He smiled, slow and teasing, before capturing your lips in another searing kiss. “Then let me show you.”

And with that, he deepened the connection, bodies pressed, breaths mingling, and hearts beating in time as your friendship melted into something far more delicious and profound. Lee Know’s lips pressed firmly against yours, slow and deliberate at first, like he was savoring every second of this new closeness between you. His hands found your waist, fingers tracing gentle lines under your shirt, pulling you just a little closer. Your breath hitched, a flutter of nerves and excitement pooling low in your belly.

You’d been best friends for so long, sharing laughs, late-night talks, and quiet comfort. But now, this, this was something new. His touch was both electrifying and safe, grounding you in a way no one else ever had. Your hands reached up, threading through his hair, pulling him deeper into the kiss. You felt his smile against your lips as he deepened the kiss, his tongue brushing softly, exploring like he was learning every part of you. The warmth of his body against yours made your heart race, and the boundaries you’d always kept so firmly began to melt away.

Slowly, he shifted, lowering you down onto the couch where you’d spent countless hours just hanging out, watching TV, or sharing stories. But tonight, the couch was a different kind of stage, one where your friendship blurred into something far more intimate. Lee Know’s hands traveled down your sides, resting at the curve of your hips. You shivered as his fingers pressed gently against your skin, his touch so light it was almost teasing. Your body responded without hesitation, leaning into his warmth, needing more.

He whispered against your ear, his breath hot and enticing, “I’ve wanted this for so long.” Your cheeks flushed. “Me too,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. You let your hands roam over his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palms. The weight of years of friendship wrapped in trust made every touch feel sacred, every movement slow and meaningful.

He took your shorts off, no permission needed. He knew you wanted this as much as him, if not more. "I can't do this anymore." You watched as he pulled his shorts down, revealing himself. His dick was huge, you gasp and he caught that. "Think you can take me?" he smirks at you, as he crawls over you, lining up next to your awaiting opening. "You're not the first cock I'm taking. I've seen bigger dicks" you tease. "Yeah? Bet no one knows how to make you come with just my fingers. Did you ever beg someone?"

"I don't beg." He raises one eyebrow. You are confused as to why he isn't moving, so you try to lift your hips, to show him that you want some sort of friction- anything. He pushes you down with one hand, forcefully. "Try that again babygirl and see what happens" which leaves your mouth hanging. "What do you want? Say it, bitch"

"I want you, in me, NOW." "Yeah? Ask nicely," you whine as he starts pulling away from you. "Please-" he smirks and stops his movements. "Was that hard now? Say that again," as he starts lining up again. "Please fuck me Minho, I need you, please."

Lee Know’s hips shifted, pressing against you hard, the friction sending a delicious heat spiraling through your body. You matched his rhythm instinctively, grinding gently against him as your bodies started moving together in perfect harmony. He slammed into your walls, like you were his toy to use.

"You're mine now, Gonna fuck you dumb. Gonna fill you up, slut" The feeling in you was both new and familiar, like rediscovering a favorite song with fresh ears. "Don't stop......please," He smirks at your begging. "You learn quick, keep begging like that, for my cock, yeah?" His hands slipped under your shirt, tracing the smooth skin of your ribs, sending shivers in their wake. Your fingers tightened in his hair as he deepened the kiss again, his tongue dancing with yours as desire bloomed into something undeniable. Between kisses, his voice was low and husky. “You’re mine now,” he murmured, fingers curling to cup your cheek. Your breath hitched as you smiled against him, “I’m yours.”

You felt him smile, his lips brushing yours once more before his hands traveled down to your thighs, fingers pressing firmly through your clit, sparking a fire that spread through you like wildfire. " Think about it, and I'll stop right here" he said when he felt your walls clenching. Grinding against him, your body tingling with sensation, every curve, every movement heightened by the closeness, the trust, and the warmth that had always been there but never this raw.

You couldn’t help but laugh softly, breath catching, “So… we’re definitely not just best friends anymore.” Lee Know chuckled, eyes dark and full of affection. “No. Definitely not. But that’s the best part.” The air between you was thick with unspoken promises, of tenderness, of passion, of the kind of love that grew slowly and deeply, rooted in years of friendship and understanding.

He pulled out of you, and you whined at the loss of him in you. "Stop being a brat, you needy little slut. You'll get to come." He flipped you on your stomach and pulled you up on your knees, instantly slamming inside you. You couldn't hold it in anymore as you shattered without warning, yelling his name loud "Minho-" His hand lands on your ass, "You feel so good, gonna fill you up. You want that?" You moan hard as he thrusts one more time before releasing his hot strings of love into you, filling you up deep as you clenched, sucking every little drop inside you. 

After a while, when both your hearts are pounding, breaths mingling as you lie tangled together on the couch, Lee Know brushes a strand of hair from your face, his fingertips soft and gentle. “You feel like home,” he whispered. You smiled, resting your head against his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heartbeat. “You’re my home too.” He tightened his arms around you, holding you close as the world outside faded away.

~

Days passed, each one deepening your connection. You shared stolen kisses in quiet moments, playful touches that sent shivers down your spine, and late-night talks that stretched into the early morning. The easy comfort of friendship remained, but it was now woven with the thrilling electricity of being something more.

One evening, as you curled up on the couch, his hand finding yours and holding it like a lifeline, he looked at you with a softness that made your heart swell. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said, voice steady and sure. “I’m yours, if you want me.” You smiled through happy tears, squeezing his hand. “I want you. Always.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Masterlist

Taglist: @straykids4lifeee

[quiddling]

how many eyes does lord bloodraven have?

[mrfunnyinthebank]

i'm so skeeved out by kids being on tv because i do not have reason to trust the entertainment industry (because i constantly see them being cruel to children and adults who grew up as child stars are often speaking out against what they were put through and/or dying of drug overdoses)

i just hope big justice is ok. i really don't think that it's worth the risks that he's being exposed to, but it's possible that he's got decent people to help him out when something goes wrong

[fushitoru]

ranking types of hugs he'd be comfortable with another guy giving his gf! a nanami kento fic / drabble

cw: nanami kento x reader, a little suggestive maybe, established relationship, fluff, nanami is a green flag but he's just a man, light jealousy / posessiveness, crack, based off this (instagram link). gojo ver here

general masterlist

"Ranking types of hugs I'd be comfortable with another guy giving my girlfriend." 

Kento’s not the type to aimlessly scroll on his phone --- he prefers to be in the present, not deplete “his reserves of dopamine” too quickly, but right now he’s bored. You’ve yet to come from work---you’d texted him you were running late, buying some groceries---so Kento’s laid on the couch looking at his phone. Even though he hates using social media and the rabbit holes that result from said use, he answers your reels and TikToks religiously. After all, he values everything you have to say, even though they are a bit silly.

But just before he could respond to the baby fever videos you sent him----he does have to admit, it’s a bit cute---his screen auto scrolls onto the next piece of 30-second content, and with that, he’s hooked, observing the slots of rankings the filter auto generates for the guy on his screen.

For a bit, he multitasks on looking at the video and reading the comments, then frowns at how possessive they seem. 

catcher hug is 1000 bodies 😭😭

No one is hugging my girl

PUT EVERYTHING AT 11 CUH

a/n lmaoo these are real comments on the link above honestly i love when men are pathetic

Surely, it can’t be that bad … right?

Kento prides himself on being an emotionally mature and secure man. It’s not to say he doesn’t have his own flaws, but while it seems the rest of his gender has fallen to the gym bro gurus and alpha male podcast bros, he’s involved himself in constant communication with you and makes sure to educate himself. 

And yet. He doesn’t know he’s going to almost be on the brink of tears as he opens the filter to try it out by himself.

The filter shuffles, presenting the first option: A back hug.

Kento exhales sharply through his nose, eyes narrowing slightly. He doesn’t immediately react, but there’s a flicker of something in his gaze. He ranks it a nine.

Then, the next: A slow dance hug.

His jaw tightens. The thought of you in someone else’s arms, swaying under dim lights, your cheek resting against another man’s chest—it’s enough to make something unpleasant curl in his stomach. Ten.

The filter shuffles again. One-armed hug. He sighs through his nose, rubbing his temple. Three. Acceptable. Barely.

e waits, trying to keep his thoughts level, but when the next option rolls in, his grip on his phone tightens. A slow catcher hug.

His face is blank. He blinks once. Twice.

Then, a deep, audible sigh fills the room as he drags a hand down his face, thumb and forefinger pressing against the bridge of his nose.

The image is unwelcome, vivid—someone else catching you, your legs wrapping around their waist, the ease, the familiarity.

His phone clatters onto his chest, and he stares at the ceiling. The muscles in his jaw are taut, his lips pressed in a firm line. A moment passes. Then another.

And that’s how you find him—lying on the couch, stiff as a board, staring blankly upwards like he’s contemplating the meaning of life itself.

“Sweetheart?” you call, stepping closer. You set down your groceries, taking in his unusually tense form. He doesn’t immediately acknowledge you, just continues his thousand-yard stare.

“What’s wrong?” you press, now more concerned. “Are you feeling sick?”

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, still staring at the ceiling. Then, in a voice that’s a little too measured, he finally speaks.

“If another man so much as thinks about catching you in his arms, I’ll break both of them.”

You freeze. Blink.

“… What?”

Finally, he turns his head to look at you, eyes dark and serious, but there’s something almost resigned in his expression—like he knows he’s being ridiculous but can’t bring himself to care. You’re surprised at the turn of events to---it’s unlike him to be so…possessive and droopy. It’s actually really cute---he reminds you uncharacteristically of a wet, droopy dog.

“I don’t like that filter.” His voice is calm, but his fingers twitch slightly where they rest on his stomach. “I don’t like thinking about other men touching you.”

It’s so unlike him—so openly possessive—that you’re momentarily stunned into silence. Then, amusement bubbles up in your chest.

“Did you just get jealous over a TikTok filter?” you tease, stepping closer.

He exhales, slow and long, closing his eyes briefly before muttering, “I was curious. I regret it.”

You bite back a smile, reaching down to brush your fingers against his jaw. He leans into the touch, almost instinctively, before sighing again.

“You’re the only one I want to touch me, Kento.” you reassure, and his lips finally quirk at the edges—barely, but it’s there.

“I know,” he says, voice softer now. “But if I ever see a man standing with his arms open around you…” He exhales one final time, shaking his head before murmuring, “… I can fight.”

You giggle, pressing a kiss to his cheek before moving to put away the groceries, leaving him lying there, still brooding.

As you walk away, you hear him mutter under his breath, just loud enough to catch:

“Slow catcher hug… ridiculous.”

general masterlist

a/n first time writing for nanami kinda nervous :') i have def areas to improve upon but for the meantime pls accept this <3 thank you for the req cutie !! @girlyuuta choso ver is going to come too :3

[girlfictions]

something i’ve been thinking about lately is like. growing up muslim right after 9/11 is something i’d never really reflected on much because it was all i’d ever known — at 5, my friend’s mum didn’t let her invite me to her birthday party because i was the only brown girl in our class, at 12, my classmates would joke about my family being part of isis, at 16, my dad was interrogated by american airport security for hours — and it always stung and it always hurt but it was just the way things were because the western world hated muslims. but i don’t think i’ve ever fully comprehended the extent to which we were hated until now.

palestine is being turned into a mass graveyard. every single day there are new photos of the atrocities being carried out against them and videos of them pleading for help and still those who can actually intervene turn a blind eye. israel is claiming to only be targeting hamas “terrorists” while bombing a refugee camp. israeli police raided and assaulted a non-zionist jewish neighbourhood. israeli soldiers are posting tiktoks of them torturing captured palestinians. this is not a complicated issue and it never has been. ethnic cleansing is being committed right in front of us. and yet the western world leaders refuse to call for a ceasefire.

and while zionist organisations accuse pro-palestine demonstrations of anti-semitism, while zionist celebrities insist that they’re afraid to leave their mansions in los angeles, a six year old muslim boy was stabbed to death and his mother wounded in the same attack in chicago. a muslim doctor was murdered while sitting outside her apartment complex in texas. hundreds of peaceful protesters have been arrested (many of whom have been jewish). despite what zionists want you to believe, this is not a jewish/muslim conflict. i have so much love and gratitude to my brave jewish brothers and sisters all over the world who are condemning israel for their actions.

ultimately, israel have been granted impunity by the west. they have slaughtered thousands upon thousands of innocent palestinians. they have bombed hospitals and schools indiscriminately. they have used white phosphorus, violating the geneva convention. they have completely eradicated nearly 900 bloodlines. how many more need to be wiped out? how many more children need to be buried underneath the rubble? how many more doctors need to be confronted with the bodies of their own family members? how many more journalists need to detail the horrific acts of violence they are witnessing? what more can be done to the palestinian people that has not been done already?

i truly believe that palestine will be free one day. i believe the palestinian people will receive the justice they finally deserve. but what breaks my heart is how much they have suffered and will continue to suffer before they are deemed worthy of help. and it would be to all of our detriment if we ignored how much of a factor palestine being a predominantly muslim state has played into the way the world has reacted to their genocide.

[marblehazel]

Sitter

dbf!Joel Miller x f!reader

Part One | Part Two: Deeper

You’re spending spring break alone at home while your father is five thousand miles away when all of sudden, you fall sick. Enter Joel Miller: your father’s buddy, sent by him to check on you.

Tags: Explicit MDNI, no outbreak, age gap, no mother in the picture but your father has a named girlfriend (sorry), no bra household, dry humping, footjob while watching SpongeBob, oral (m and f receiving)

Word count: 6.8k

“Dad,” your voice is hoarse like it has just come out from a dying goose, and you spend the next five seconds trying to clear your throat.

“So like, I’m… sick, kinda, but it’s not really bad, so—” A train of coughs that feels like they are going to tear your lungs apart. “—sorry about that. It’s nothing. Don’t worry too much, don’t even think about it. I just wanted to let you know.” Another coughing fit. “Okay. Have fun, I love you.”

You click your phone screen and let the voicemail find its way to your father’s ancient block of telecommunication. It’s 11 p.m. for you, 5 a.m. in Tuscany, you calculate with your fingers. You might be wrong. Either way, your father is probably asleep. He had been away for a couple of days with his girlfriend Amy for her nephew's wedding. And they plan to spend another week there, because it’s their anniversary, and Amy had always wanted to go to Italy.

“Will you be okay?” your father asked, apologetic. He leaned onto your bedroom door’s frame while you were unpacking your backpack.

“Yeah, Dad, what am I, eight? Go.” you laughed lightheartedly.

“It’s just you came down here from school and then I go, you know. I wish you’d said yes and come with us.”

“And third-wheeling you and Amy for ten days?” you giggled. “Dad, it’s okay. Come on. We’ll still have the weekend together when you come back.”

You heard Amy call for your father from downstairs, followed by a question about his dress shirt. You grinned, gesturing for him to go.

“Me and Amy will make sure the fridge is full, okay?” he says, voice fading as he steps down the stairs. You shook your head. You’ve survived on dry ramens and day-old coffees in college. You would be okay. Right?

Loud buzzer sound. The game show on the TV you put on to distract yourself from the fever is not doing a good job. You try to focus, but the noises coming out of it sound muffled, and the colors are just so bright and saturated that they make your head spin. You click on mute before slamming the remote on the coffee table, and it lands safely on some crumpled Kleenex. A thermometer is sitting next to the box, the tiny display screen blank. It’s broken, and you make a mental note to scold your father for always keeping faulty things around the house as if he’s going to fix them. A few bottles of pills you fished out of your father’s medicine cabinet to at least ease your aching muscles are toppled next to a half-empty Nyquil Nighttime Relief bottle with its cap screwed but crooked.

You second-guess your decision to let your father know that you’re unwell. But again, he hates surprises, so letting him know that he might find your rotting corpse in front of his TV when he gets back is, perhaps, doing him a favor.

It’s dark in the living room, and the leather couch is sticking to your sweaty leg. You should probably put sweatpants and a hoodie on instead of biker shorts and a stretched out shirt that looks more like a rag than a proper clothing item. But climbing the stairs now? No, thank you.

You shift your body, trying to find the best position to fall asleep in since the wrong angle seems to block your nasal passage. A groan leaves your throat when you can’t pull the fleece blanket to cover your body. You find out you are sitting on both ends of it. To hell with it.

You blink slowly. The Nyquil seems to start working. Can’t sneeze or cough if you’re knocked out, you think. You close your eyes, the colors from the TV somehow find their way in and flash washed-out red, white, yellow behind your eyelids. You’re too tired to reach for the remote.

Maybe you’ll feel better when you wake up.

You jolt when something cold makes contact with your forehead. Within microseconds, you yeet the thing away hysterically, hitting yourself in the process. The thing flies and lands on the wooden floor with a wet, thwap sound.

“Easy, easy,”

If it was just a little bit not so sudden and confusing and designed to constrict your blood vessels until your organs fail, you would have yelped. You nearly snap your neck trying to find the source of the voice, and your tense shoulders fall as quickly as they were raised when you notice the familiar face belonging to a broad frame standing next to the couch.

It’s Joel Miller.

Of course it’s him. Your father likely has him on speed dial.

He and your father go way back. Went to the same school, crushed on the same girls, hit the same bong, and so on. They were even in a band together. Your father has pictures of them from years ago, with greasy hair, earrings, bass and drumsticks in their hands. Cringe.

Well, just your father. Not Joel though.

You haven’t seen him in like, what, a year? And yet he looks good as ever. Well, Joel has always looked good his whole life. When you saw the pictures of him from high school you thought, Oh Fuck, I Would Totally Have A Crush On This Guy. And then you had to sit in silence and ponder, because, well, you are having a crush on this guy. Sort of. Maybe.

He bends over to pick up the thing you just yeeted on the floor, which is apparently a washcloth, and dunk it in a basin on the side table, which is now clean from all the stuff that was previously there.

“Joel,” you chirp. “Hi.”

“Hey.” he smiles as he squeezes the washcloth. Beads of water come trickling down his knuckles back to the basin, gleaming in front of the still-turned-on TV.  “How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay. What time is this?” you straighten up, rummaging around the blanket to find your phone to no avail.

“One-thirty. Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. Your old man asked me to check on you." He folds the cloth in two and dab it before stepping closer and pressing it against your forehead, nice and cold. His other hand supports your head from the back, basically cradling your skull.

“Your front door was unlocked when I came in.” says Joel, as if you are capable of digesting any kind of information at the moment. “You shouldn’t do that.”

“Sorry,” you say sheepishly. “And sorry my Dad made you come here. You didn’t have to, it’s not so bad.”

“Come on, it’s only a ten minute drive. ‘S okay. I checked your forehead. Not too bad, but still a fever, y’know. You took the Nyquil?”

The thought of Joel Miller touching your forehead with his palm in the dark while you were asleep somehow makes the neurons in your brain stop interlinking for a second. Were you sleeping with your mouth open the whole time? You knew you did fall asleep that way since you couldn’t breathe through your nose. Man.

“I did.” you nod, shaking the thought away. You feel your lungs tighten, though. Another coughing fit incoming.

“Good,” Joel presses his hand to your forehead again as if trying to make sure the wet washcloth is properly glued onto your face. The soft pressure disrupts your composure and you cough like a machine gun submerged in a container full of Elmer’s glue, hacking up thick mucus up your throat. Joel leaves your side with hurried steps and, within seconds, somehow has a paper cup under your chin for you to spit into.

You try to grab the cup, flustered, but he doesn’t let go and instead helps you sit up straight, patting your back.

“Spit.” he says as you wheeze with phlegm in your mouth like an imbecile. You awkwardly grab his wrist for support and spit the mucus out into the cup. Soon you’ll realize how foolish it is to grab someone’s wrist using the same hand you used to cover your mouth while coughing. The string of saliva takes a ridiculously long time to break free from your lips, but Joel is unfazed. He takes a glance at the mucus, likely checking the color and consistency.

“Thanks,” you blink rapidly, still processing.

“You wanna go to urgent care?” Joel asks.

“Nu-uh,” you shake your head. “I’m okay, I promise. I feel a lot better already.”

“It’s probably just a bug,” he pats your back again before walking to the kitchen to dispose of the cup. “How long has it been going on?”

You wait until he comes back because you don’t think you can speak loud enough for him to be able to hear you from the kitchen without tearing your throat apart. Joel thinks you didn’t hear him the first time and is about to repeat his question when you say, “Uh, it got progressively worse last night.” you realize how serious that sounds and quickly add, “But not like, worse worse. I mean, compared to,”

“And before that?”

“Just a scratchy throat.”

He looks like he’s mentally taking notes with arms folded in front of his stomach. It’s the first time that night you take a full look at him under the glow of the muted TV. You can’t really make the colors out, but he’s wearing a dark t-shirt under an unbuttoned flannel shirt and jeans. He’s keeping his beard kind of thin compared to the last time you saw him, but still the same, well-tended mustache that makes a strong presence over his lips. You can’t help but notice the graying strands of hair that stick out among his dark, messy hair, complimenting him so well. You are pretty sure the ratio between light to dark hair has been shooting up this year. You like it.

And his eyes. They’re rich, and dark, and the fact that he furrows half of the time that it creates permanent dents between his eyebrows just makes him ridiculously hotter.

The mucus factory must be working overtime tonight because you can feel the slight slippery feeling of lubrication where you’re sitting. Fucking stupid, you think, read the room.

All of sudden, a lightning flashes, lighting up your surroundings before the grumbling roar of thunder follows through. For a second, you can make out the shapes and silhouettes of everything in the room like a photograph. Joel fits rightly in the left third of this main piece in your mind exhibition. You wish you could take screenshots with your eyes and keep it to admire later.

Joel glances out the window. Heat lightning reveals the blobs of clouds outside, and the strong wind is starting to blow debris to rattle the windows. He shifts his focus on you again. “Did you eat?”

“I’m okay,” you shrug. Storm is coming, Joel better go home before it gets worse.

He chuckles. “Yes or no?”

That chuckle tickles something deep inside of you. You smile shyly. “Yes, Joel. I’m okay.”

Joel stares at you, and you are pretty sure he senses that you did not, in fact, eat dinner. “I’m starvin’, actually,” he gets up and takes his flannel shirt off, and then tosses it on the couch before making his way towards the kitchen. You scream internally at the sight of his biceps like a deranged fangirl.

“Mind if I take a look in the fridge?” he yells while opening the fridge door. Just being polite. He knows your father will let him dismantle the house and take the pieces home if he wants to.

You free the tangled blanket from around your legs, only noticing now how under your old, sweat-dampened, Marlin Club shirt, your nipples are as erect as fireman’s poles. Was it the temperature, Joel, or both, you can’t conclude.

Joel whistles when he finds that the fridge is full. He grabs a can of beer and pops it open, studying the contents of the fridge and thinking of what he can cook for you as he gulps the beer down.

You follow him to the kitchen, jump to sit on the kitchen island as Joel grabs some produce off the fridge and sets them next to you. He looks at you, blinks a couple of times, then occupies himself with the food cabinet over the counter. You try to be helpful by unwrapping the basil and cherry tomatoes.

“So, how’s school?” Joel breaks the silence as he washes his hands. “And don’t just say okay, please.”

“You got me there,” you laugh. “Nothing really amusing, really.”

Then a few more superficial, classic-catching-up questions while you both prepare the pesto. Joel asks about the trip to Italy, how your father mentioned proposing to Amy soon, what do you think about that. You ask about his brother Tommy, work, and the average cost to renovate a room, to which Joel answers in detail really nicely. Then come the usual do-you-remember-when stories, melting down the strange and awkward atmosphere between the two of you. Laughters fill up the room. It’s fun and familiar.

“Did you remember when you used to call me Uncle Joel?” Joel sneers as he tosses a pan to the sink. “You used to be so nice and polite.”

“I was like six!” You snorted. “And you can’t even pay me to call you that again, Joel.”

Then, the once-your-pops-and-I anecdotes. You’ve heard some of them from your own father’s mouth, but you still listen to Joel’s versions eagerly anyway.

At one point, you start to cough again so Joel instructs you to just sit down on the counter. You don’t complain—it means you can just sit back and watch him from the back and imagine how it would feel to run your fingers through his hair.

When Joel stirs the pasta with the pesto sauce, the weather has gone full-blown insane out there.

“You should stay the night,” you try to sound as nonchalant as possible. His presence is sending arrays of erroneous signals to your reproductive organs, which will most likely result badly if he stays, but how can you let him drive home in this kind of weather?

Joel hands you a fork and pushes a plate of fusilli for you to eat. “Eh, we’ll see,” he shrugs. “I don’t mind drivin’ through a storm, but I can’t just leave you alone if you don’t feel well.”

“Dad told me you got a folded chair smashed through your windshield last summer.” You take a bite, the thick sauce coats your tastebuds and you groan in satisfaction, even though you can’t really taste it to the fullest because of your stuffy nose.

“Oh, yeah, that.” Joel chuckles. “I was lucky it aimed for the shotgun.”

He eats standing up across you, one elbow on the counter. When you both finish the meal, he takes your plate and starts washing the dishes. You tell him to do it later, and then offer your help, and he says no to both. You insist on drying the dishes anyway, standing side by side with him.

After the very late dinner, the two of you retreat to the living room. Joel asks you to take some medication again and you decline, stating that you feel better already.

“Headstrong, ain’t ya?” Joel sighs. “Okay, sleep then. Wanna sleep in your bed?”

“Not really sleepy,” you shake your head. “Feel free to take Dad’s bed, by the way. You have work in the morning, right?”

“Nah, I’m alright by the couch.” Joel scoots to make room for his legs and lies on his back, groaning like every other old person when they finally get to be horizontal. His feet are dangling on one side, his head on the opposite armrest. You take the old recliner that doesn’t even recline anymore near Joel’s feet, facing both the TV and Joel at an angle.

The TV is still on, showing the same game show but already on a later season. You unmute it and watch it together with Joel for five minutes before you realize that none of you has laughed yet, and you ask Joel if he wants to watch a movie instead. He says why not.

You open a streaming service and browse for movies on the home page. Joel probably likes action and other classic old man genre types. You pretend to read some of the summaries and see if Joel perks up at one of them, but he doesn’t seem to really care about the TV.

“I don’t know what to watch,” you admit. “Do you wanna pick the movie?”

Truth is, Joel can’t give a single shit about no goddamn movie. He’s been distracted by so many thoughts in his mind. But he gestures for you to scroll back up anyway.  “Let’s see the trending ones.”

You stop at a tally of newly released and currently popular films at the top of the page, giving Joel a chance to read about them before moving to the next one.

“This one looks excitin’.” Joel points at the screen. The poster shows a man in classic Viking attire, staring intently at the viewer with striking blue eyes. Some kind of pelt is draped over his shoulders. His hands are on top of each other, resting on a sword handle, the blade facing the earth. Dried mud and blood are splattered over his face and armor. The Conquest, it says. You don’t recognize the actors listed. The summary says something about revenge, passion, blood, power, blah blah. You click play.

The movie opens with a battle scene. The movie looks like it runs out of lighting budget, and you need to squint to be able to tell what they are actually doing. Nothing can be heard except grunts and blades clashing. You look over at Joel to see his expression, but he’s looking at you. He quickly averts his gaze back to the screen.

Twenty minutes pass, and none of you are really paying attention to the plot. Not until the main guy enters a wooden tub filled with steaming hot water with his asscheeks out, and then a woman enters the scene with nothing but a thin white veil covering her body. She drops the cloth and joins him. The warm light from the torches is highlighting her breasts.

“Woah,” you look at Joel again, but he says nothing, but you can see his Adam’s apple moving awkwardly.

They kiss, and he grabs her bosom with his humongous palms and knead them. Then he buries his face between them, with the woman kissing the top of his head. After what feels like a millenia, he lifts her lower half from the water, and then puts her down to sit on the edge of the tub before performing cunnilingus. She moans.

You start to feel a pool of heat brewing inside of you. This feels invasive of their privacy, somehow, with no soundtrack added, just fire crackling and water splashing and erotic moaning.

Joel clears his throat. “Uh, maybe we shouldn’t watch this,”

“You’re the one who picked the movie.” you say, eyes fixated on the screen.

“Well, it didn’t say nothin’ about eatin’ a lady out in the summary.”

He reaches for the remote and turns the TV off, leaving only the sound of rain hitting your window in your eardrums.

“Hey,” you whine. “That’s not nice. I didn’t say yes.”

“It’s late. Go to sleep.” Joel folds his arms over his chest, partly staying warm, partly because he’s so flustered he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He then closes his eyes, knowing damn well he’s far from feeling tired let alone fall asleep.

“We’re both adults anyways,” you mutter, but Joel doesn’t move. He’s probably actually tired.

Your gaze is affixed on him. He surely doesn’t look like he’s sleeping in peace right now but he’s still handsome nonetheless. His old shirt is a tad bit too tight around his biceps. You can see the protruding veins beautifully decorating his arms and hands. His legs are slightly crossing with one ankle on top of another, and his breath is steady. He’s gorgeous.

In your wildest dreams, you would jump to straddle Joel, and he would grab your hips and fuck you to death. Is it bad that your immune system is fighting one of the worst battles in your life, and yet your number one priority is somehow to get laid, by this man specifically? It’s both excruciating and foolish. 

The movie you just saw doesn’t help, either. In fact, it makes everything worse. Your mind keeps wandering back to it, the way the man eats the woman out, and then back to Joel, imagining the top of his head would look like when he eats you out. Fuck. You know that if you don’t get to touch this man in the next 30 minutes, you are either going to combust or burn everything in the vicinity.

You close your eyes, try to do the mindfulness practice you once saw in a magazine. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. You repeat “Release me from this earthly desire” in your head like a rookie buddhist wizard trying to cast a spell with a broken wand. You ball your fists in your lap so hard the joints start to hurt.

It’s not working.

Your mind keeps wandering back to different scenarios, different positions, different spots around the house. Low grunts, fingertips pressing your sides, tongue between your lips…

You can’t do it anymore. You need release. You need to at least be able to feel something, a little reward for your throbbing clit. Trying your best to be as casual as possible, you pull your folded legs closer to your body, your left heel even closer to your biker-short-covered cunt, and shift your body weight on it.

The pleasure that has been building up there bursts like a balloon. You sigh.

There are two things that Joel is not: young, and oblivious.

Oh, he is totally aware of what’s happening. You are not doing a good job trying to be subtle. From the non-stop staring, to the constant fidgeting, to the borderline sexual sighs, to the hard nipples, Joel knows you are going through something that is completely different from just being ill.

And he totally understands. He’s been there, done that. There was a time when his back wasn’t hurting and his face hadn’t been ‘graced’ with crow’s feet and age spots yet, when his hormones were at all-time high and his blood liked nothing more than flowing to his cock recklessly at the slightest inducement. He understands what you are going through.

So when you start grinding yourself onto your left heel followed by soft moans, he is not exactly surprised, just mostly in awe of your debauched audacity.

That is too much, even for him. He clears his throat, hoping you’d catch the hint and stop for good. But you don’t, and your eyes are closed and your eyebrows are knitted together in concentration, and your hips are moving slowly, sensually, chasing something, the sight of it stirs something up in his guts.

It is vulgar, and most importantly indecent in every way, but Joel can feel his own arousal creeping up no matter how hard he tries to convince himself that it is not happening.

He calls your name. Your body responds faster than the critically thinking part of your brain and you stop like you just got cursed by Medusa. 

You can physically feel your heart drop to your ass. Your neck moves stiffly to find his eyes like a broken animatronic. “Yeah?” you croak.

“Do you think I don’t know what you’re doin’?”

You blink. Deny? Act stupid? Admit? Deny, deny. Wait, deny? No, act stupid.

“What… Do you mean?” you say, and you realize that you chose the dialogue option that actually sounds the dumbest.

Joel clicks his tongue. “Might as well hump me if you want it that much.”

Wait, what? Your eyes light up. “Really?”

Joel stares at you in genuine perplexity before lifting one hand up to massage his temples. He takes a deep breath, and in the softest way possible—like telling a puppy she can’t eat electronic parts—sighs, “No.”

“Oh,” you cover your mouth. “I thought you meant—“

“Yeah, yeah. My bad.” he sighs again, sounding significantly more frustrated. He then uses his hands to support himself to a sitting position, composing himself.

Silence. You don’t dare to look at Joel, but your cunt keeps pulsing like a metal detector. You understand that the beeping—desire—will not die down unless you get the valuable artefact from the bronze age—Joel—in your hand. Is this time to be bold and brash?

“Joel,” you call, and you can swear that was not a sober decision, but the stage curtains have been pulled back, and you are pushed to the stage to play your part.

“Hm?”

“What if… I hump you anyway?” you stand up, and your knees are slightly buckling but you act tough and bold regardless.

Joel’s jaws opens and stays slightly agape for a while before he says, “That fever is really messin’ with your brain, huh? Sit down.”

“You’re bricked up, Joel.” you accuse. You don’t actually know for sure since Joel keeps a hand on his lap to cover his crotch, but Joel gulps. Gotcha.

“Unrelated to you.” he hisses in defense.

You scoff.

“Joel, please,” you grouse, voice cracking and desperate. “I want this so bad.” you whisper as you take slow, threatening steps towards Joel until your crotch is not even an inch away from his knee. “I want you so bad.”

“This ain’t right, kid.” Joel puts a hand on the outer side of your arm, and it’s worth pointing out that he’s shaking. “You know that.”

Joel doesn’t tell you that he’s battling demons in his head, and he’s currently losing. A million impulses are catapulting burning boulders onto the gate of his conscience, and all he got is one bleeding, sickly troop with a chipped wooden sword. But he puts his best stern expression despite the fact that his body is betraying him.

He could leave now. Push you away. Clear his head. Come back later. Or not come back at all.

But he knows he doesn’t want to. He can hear his blood rushing and his heart singing battle cry. Not to mention his cock, hard and nearly burns a hole through his jeans.

A long pause. You want to push him further, but you know you don’t need to. The black marlin printed on your shirt does a worthless attempt at distracting Joel from your hard nipples, putting him into a trance.

Joel takes a deep breath. He knows he has lost. “You can help yourself, that’s all,” he nods, more trying to convince himself rather than talking to you. “Just to make you shut up and get rest. That’s it.”

That’s an unenthusiastic barf-colored green light, but it is a green light nonetheless.

You put your hands on Joel’s shoulder before putting your left knee next to his right leg and lower yourself down onto his thigh, while your other knee rests in front of his crotch and presses onto his raging hard-on. Your cunt pulsates in pleasure upon contact, and you let out a gasp. Joel anxiously places his hands on your sides to keep you steady, one thumb ‘accidentally’ brushing your nipple, earning a whine. You lock gaze with him, and start moving.

The friction sends buzzes up your head. You make each grind count, and every single one feels like heaven despite the layers of fabric between your cunt and his beefy thigh. Moans and Joel’s name spill from your lips indeliberately, and he tightens his grip on your body until his fingertips turn white as if you would fly away with a gust of wind if he doesn’t. If you weren’t so absorbed in your own pleasure, you would’ve noticed how shallow and rapid Joel’s breath has become. It turns him on watching you getting off because of him, using him, how your eyelids flutter and your pupils are having a hard time staying in place.

Joel wants to break free from his denim, badly. While he consciously thought, planned, and stated that he’s doing what he’s doing only for your satisfaction and be done with it, it isn’t exactly nice having your kneecap pushing button-flies shaped caves on his crotch repeatedly. Especially not when his cock, which probably has its own brain, has been begging to be taken care of, too.

You, on the other side, are having the best time of your life. As your climax is building up in your south region, you smile at Joel, who smiles back. His hand leaves your ribs briefly to brush the hair that is sticking to your sweaty forehead away from your face.

“That feels good, doesn’t it?”

You nod weakly. “So good, Joel, so good,”

For a moment there you consider kissing him. His face is merely two inches away from you, and he looks ravishing, all sweaty and blushing. And how you just want to have your tongue inside his mouth, his lips all over yours sloppily. But that feels like overstepping boundaries, like a whole uncharted area you can’t cross, spreading the flu aside. You opt to put your chin on his shoulder instead, trying to focus on your orgasm.

“I want to see your face,” Joel says in your ear, his beard grazing your cheek. Takes you three whole seconds to process that, and when you do, it tingles your core. Before you can answer, he continues, “You’re so beautiful like this.”

You pull back, meeting his gaze with flushing cheeks. You don’t know what to say, and maybe you don’t have to. You continue to be dumbfounded when Joel stops your motion and helps you to stand up.

“Hold on,” he says as he undoes the buttons of his jeans. “I need to take these off.”

He quickly kicks the jeans off his legs, revealing a dark gray boxer briefs under. A wet patch adorns the bulge right in the center. He then manspreads and gestures for you to come back onto him, to which you comply. “C’mere,” he says, “I need to feel you on me.”

You straddle him, positioning your cunt right on his cock, and on everybody and their mother, it feels good. No, it feels right. Joel lets out a groan that cuts into a gasp when you start to grind. “Fuck, yeah,” he grabs your ass, helping you settle on a rhythm.

The contour of Joel’s cock, albeit still covered by the fabric of his boxer briefs, touches every last nerve ending of your cunt in such a different way that his thigh did. You pick your pace up, getting the pleasure to build up again. 

“Joel, I’m gonna come,” you moan, voice quivering. You rake your fingers through his hair, your noses almost touching.

“Keep going, baby,” he says through a smile. “Don’t hold back. You sound so pretty.”

The encouragement is shooting up fireworks in your lower belly, and you start making more sounds. You’re close. So close.

“Makin’ me so hard all night, you,”

You whimper as you come, hips convulsing. Time slows down, and it feels like your cunt is pulled towards a strong gravitational force within your own body as you are sinking down a quicksand, all while pleasure forces your brain to reboot itself.

“That’s it, that’s it. There you go. You’re so good.”

Joel holds the back of your head while you’re laying on his chest, limp. When you pull yourself away from him, he presses a palm to your cheek, smiling. “Attagirl.”

When you finally gather yourself, you pull away from Joel, leaving a huge wet spot on where you just had your cunt on, and scoot to the spot next to him on the couch. You are about to lean onto his shoulder when he stands up and picks his jeans up from the floor. He sees the wet trail of arousal you left on the fabric in the thigh area and snickers.

“Damn, kid, you’re practically a snail,” he points to it. “Poor thing.”

You wince. “What are you doing?”

“Puttin’ my pants on?” he answers in the exact same tone, fixing the position of his boxer briefs.

“But you haven’t even come yet!” you protest. “What the fuck? Take them off!”

“That’s not what I agreed to, remember? I help you come so you’ll shut up and sleep. You’ve come, now shut up, and go to sleep.” he lays it out like basic math while you press the base of your palms onto your eyelids, confounded.

“You’re a sick person,” you shake your head, and then point to his crotch. “You’re literally still hard.”

“That has nothin’ to do with anythin’.”

You stare at the open space, like you’re trying to break the fourth wall in a sitcom. Can you believe this guy?

“Joel, your line is ‘I’m going to fuck you so hard.’ Now let’s start again from the top.”

Joel, who’s struggling trying to fit his bulge back in the jeans without hurting it, stops fussing with his button-fly shortly to push your head back—softly—to the couch. “Sleep,” he drags his palm over your face to close your eyelids.

“Joooooel,”

“Your line is ‘Yes, Joel, good night.’”

“Yes, Uncle Joel, good night, Uncle Joel,” you mock as you swiftly jump from the couch and pull his jeans down to his ankle and force him to step out of it. You hear Joel yelling hey, hey, hey as he tries to simultaneously fight you and not hurt you. You throw the pair of pants across the room with all your might and it lands with a loud thud.

“What are your pants made of, steel?”

“What is wrong with you?” he takes a step to fetch it, but you stand up and push him back to the couch. Joel is for sure going easy on you, because if he wanted to, he could definitely launch you through the walls. Instead, he just accepts his fate and stares at the ceiling, defeated.

“Nobody sleeps with jeans on, Joel,” you reach for the TV remote again. “Now let’s watch something again and then sleep.”

“We’re not watching the viking movie again.”

“We’re not watching the viking movie again,” you repeat. “We’re watching SpongeBob.”

Joel groans.

“What, you don’t like SpongeBob?”

“Not my era,” Joel says. “I watched Gumby. Tom and Jerry. The Muppet Show.”

“No wonder you act like the heckling old guys.”

“I don’t, but, sure,”

“Oh, you’re more like the eagle. So serious all the time.”

Joel rolls his eyes. You play the first episode of the first season of SpongeBob Squarepants, and the familiar intro begins. You take a look at Joel in the corner of your eyes, how he has one of his forearm on the top of his head, bicep almost as thick as his head. The other hand is resting on his thigh, and you can tell that he’s at least still half-hard. You wonder how he looks under those boxer briefs.

On the screen, Squidward and Mr. Krabs are climbing a post with a sea of raging anchovies under them. Joel’s lips slightly turn upward. Ha, eat that, Mr. Old Cartoon Head.

You shift so that you’re on your back, legs resting on Joel’s lap. He gives you a look, but doesn’t say anything. Minutes later, totally absorbed with SpongeBob pestering his neighbor with a reef blower, he has a hand on your ankle, caressing it without much thought.

They would have written about you in a Greek tragedy the way you’re consumed by greed and lust. When your toes stroke Joel’s bulge, totally by accident and not precalculated at all, you pretend like you’re captivated by the TV. It’s hard and you can definitely discern the ridge of possible veins and the head of his cock.

Joel exhales, sounding so done and tired.  “I know you were going to do this,”

But he doesn’t push you away. And that excites you.

You don’t say anything or look away from the screen, but you keep rubbing the outline of his cock, which is now more visible and grows slightly larger, with the space between your big and index toe. Your brain automatically puts the ice clinking in a vase while SpongeBob is getting dry under Sandy’s treedome as background noise to amplify Joel’s restrained grunts.

You like this. You like having Joel wrapped around your finger. Soon after, you withdraw your legs and sit up, causing him to open his eyes over the sudden halt.

You stare at him, bold. “Would you like my mouth?”

Joel nods.

You don’t even wait for a second. Joel helps you take off his boxer briefs, the length of his hard-on springs out like jack-in-the-box. You admire how it looks, how the tip is totally sticky and glistening, before lowering your tongue. Joal lets out a sound akin to a whimper as you let your saliva ooze down the underside of his cock and quickly retrieve it into your mouth using your tongue. He tastes slightly salty, like sweat. And if you could smell better you’d see how hypnotizing his scent is, like calling you to stick his cock down your throat until the world collapses.

“That’s it,” Joel says, out of breath. His cock is now grazing the soft wall of your cheek, and he wonders how experienced you actually are because you definitely don’t act like an amateur. You use one elbow to support yourself, the other one taking turns massaging his balls and the base of his cock.

The only downside of this is that Joel can’t really look at your face. He craves the sight of you, how your lips are wrapped around his cock, and how your cheek is bulging like a squirrel full of him. One of his hands crawls up your back under your shirt, rubbing it before it finds a new target: your breasts. He kneads on one, thumb flicking the bud. You can’t help but moan and take him deeper, sending vibrations from your throat to his cock.

Joel knows he won’t last much longer, and he would very much like to keep this thing going as long as possible. So he asks you to stop, averting your disappointment by lifting up your shirt and sucking on one nipple. He’s surprisingly tender with it, taking his time. You reach a hand to his cock again, trying to at least get him off with your hand, but he pulls your wrists back and locks them on your sides.

“Joel,” you whine. “Fuck me. Please.”

“No can do,” Joel answers as his lips are trailing down to your stomach, where he peppers kisses all over. You scoot backwards and like reading your mind, he tugs the hem of your shorts down to your ankle before yanking it away, revealing your throbbing, desperate cunt. He then dives down, nose pressing against your mound as his tongue explores the new treasure island.

Just like in the movie.

You try to grab on something, anything, but the leather couch does nothing but squeaks, and Joel instinctively laces his fingers with yours. The view of the top of your head is exactly how you imagined it would be. The moans released from your lips are rather loud, especially when Joel creates a suction cup with his lips right on your clit.

“Joel, Joel,” you grasp his hands with all your might. “This is fucking unfair, I’m so— I’m gonna—”

Before you get to finish your sentence, your body already decides that it’s time for another release. Your heels are planted firmly against the couch as your hips lift to the air, and Joel lets go. He kneels before your cunt, pumps himself to oblivion and comes all over you before you get to collect yourself, staining your stomach and breasts. Later you’ll realize that the first spurt went a little bit rogue and landed on your hair.

“Fuck you, man,” you complain, sticking out a middle finger at him. “I was supposed to make you come.”

Joel rests his head on the couch armrest, eyes closed. “You did.”

“I meant technically,” you attempt to nudge him with your leg, but he dodges and stands up to grab the washcloth he used to compress you with earlier. He then wipes your stomach and breasts with it, the cold water making you squirm.

“What now?” you ask when he hands you your clothes.

“Sleep. It’s four in the mornin’.” he says as he puts his stained, sticky, wet boxer briefs on and sits on the recliner. So you can’t drive me mad anymore, he says.

You whine, but you realize that your eyelids are actually very heavy. “Blowjob first time in the morning?” you offer before letting yourself drift off.

“Thought you were s’pposed to be sick.” Joel shakes his head. But he grins.

[prettyboykatsuki-moved]

cause we're, y'know | k. bakugou

✮ tags ; gender neutral reader, fluff, post relationship jitters, bakugou being down bad a little bit, friends to lovers. not 18+ but minors do Not follow me.

✮ wc ; 1k

✮ a/n ; a comm for @euthymiya who gave me free reign to do whatever which i used to write corny bkg fluff... thank u for commissioning me most beloved riv <3

✮ synopsis ; bringing his friend turned lover a lunchbox is normal, alright? plenty fucking normal.

Bakugou taps his fingers along the edge of the bench he's been sitting on since evening - beating to an unsteady rhythm.

He can hear Sero's voice in the back his hand as he squeezes the wrapped bento a little closer to his torso. The shitty, sing-song teasing lilt when you and Bakugou were less then lovers but more then friends.

And now you're lovers proper, as fucking corny as he finds it. But maybe he's not finding it corny enough because he's sitting in the lobby of your office building with a bento he made by hand. There's some chatter from strangers coming in and out of your office building - the occasional ding of elevators, the passing whistle of a janitor.

The awful, loud, no good thump of his heartbeat ricocheting against his rib cage as he goes back and forth on whether or not this shit was a good idea.

He's... fucking nervous. Which is total bullshit because he doesn't have anything to be nervous about. It's not like this is the first time you and Bakugou have ever met up to eat lunch. It was just that before, he was coming to meet you as a friend.

Some part of him is thinking, so what if he's your boyfriend? Who gives a shit, anyway?

Another part of him feels so mixed about the ordeal he sort of wants to puke.

His phone buzzes from the pocket of his pants and he grabs it - your phone and contact flashing across his screen

(sent 11:12am) coming down :]

Bakugou smiles to himself, at the stupid emoticon. He thinks about just liking your reply but before he gets the chance another text follows through.

(sent 11:12am) missed you <3

He blushes almost furiously. Partially over the text but mostly from his internal reaction. Stupid. This whole thing is so stupid. He types fast.

(sent 11:14am) hurry your ass up.

That's all he can manage to say without feeling like his chest is going to collapse in on itself. He waits another minute before he hears the elevator doors ding again - a crowd of people dispersing as the doors open. He looks for you among them.

He finds you after a minute, hand waving overhead of the sea of people. He huffs, amused at how rapidly you wave your hand, and thinks about texting you again but you're close enough that he doesn't bother.

You march towards him with a renewed vigor after you aren't lost to the sea of strangers. Bakugou snorts as you hurry your way over to him, almost seeming out of breath - like you ran to see him.

"Hey,"

"Hi!" You say, chipper as always. "You're here."

"No shit."

You laugh. He's heard it before. A hundred times, a thousand maybe. It still sounds weirdly different to him.

"Did you have anywhere in mind to eat?" You ask.

Horror dawns on him at the realization you still didn't realize what's in his hand. "I'm up for anything I think. Feeling adventurous."

Your eyes are sparkling when you ask. Bakugou freezes, blue screening momentarily before taking a breath.

He holds the boxed bento out to you sheepishly, a hand scratching the back of his neck. This is way more embarrassing then he thought it'd be.

"Fuck. Whatever. Look," He says, shaking the upset off of him with a frown. " He doesn't look up at you, doesn't even want to know what he might see. Something bright enough to fucking blind him, he's sure. "Don't say shit or I'm never making you one again."

You blink owlishly before letting your eyes flicker down again at what it's in front you. There's a beat of silence between you before Bakugou sees a grin slowly creep it's way up to your face in a way that makes his chest feel tight.

You take the wrapped bento from him, assessing the weight of it in your hand as you give it a good look. You hold it up to admire it and Bakugou feels the blush crawl further down his neck.

"Stop acting like I just handed you a diamond or some shit," Bakugou says lamely, even by his own standards. Your lips form into affectionate pout.

"You made me a bento." Your lower lip trembles all too sudden and Bakugou's eyes go wide. "I love you,"

?!

Bakugou looks at you, mouth agape. You're completely serious. Nevermind the inappropriate timing or the fact this is the first time you've expressed yourself with a word so serious. He's more concerned about the almost tears at your eyes. He pulls his sleeves over his hands to wipe them from your eyes.

"Dumbass, what are you crying about? You're still in the office, get it together."

"But I love you," You say, more whine then coherent word. Bakugou feels a headache coming on.

"Yeah I got that. Am I really such a shithead me bringing you lunch is worth sobbing over?"

"You made it for me."

"Cause I ain't no punk. Anyone can pay for you you but we're," He stops himself mid way, too embarrassed to get the rest out. "Anyways whatever. It's just lunch. I just... fuckin' realized I never made it for you. Dinner and shit is one thing but we're,"

"Dating," You finish before he can. He falls victim to more blushing.

"Yeah. Whatever. This much is pretty standard, at least." He wipes another tear off your face. It's funny. Anyone else pulled some shit like this and he'd rolls his eyes. "Stop cryin' already."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't gotta say sorry either."

"But,"

"No buts. Hurry and wipe your tears before your breaks over so you don't go all puffy eyed back in the office."

You laugh through a sniffle. "They'll think my boyfriend was being mean to me, huh?"

He snorts, voice full of playful sarcasm. "Yeah exactly. I've got a great reputation to uphold and all."

"Katsuki," You say gently. He gives you a look.

"Hm?"

You lean forward, craning up just slightly to press your lips to his. Your third kiss, now. Not that he's been counting.

"Thank you and," You pull back mischievously, brows furrowing. "Revenge."

He's in so deep. Fuck.

"You're such an idiot." He says, fighting off his own feelings.

"You love me,"

Maybe he's an idiot too.

"Yeah." He says, flicking your forehead and watching you beam. "Unfortunately."

[starmapz]

what you know - ch17: ghosts || r. sukuna

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

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

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

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

❦ words ; 22.7k.

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

Two million, seven hundred and eighty seven thousand, four hundred and three. That's how many of those stupid little dots are scattered across Sukuna's aging apartment's popcorn ceiling.

Well, no- it's not. But mindlessly counting from absurd numbers is preventing his stomach from upheaving any more of its contents.

Funny, that he pretends to count the spots on his ceiling, but he can't count how many hours he's been awake, fighting against his own body to get some rest. His back, forehead, and the valleys of his chest and abs are nothing more than pools of sweat, his sheet and blankets long tossed aside in favor of cooling down his perspiring skin.

He groans in pain as his stomach churns, clutching his abdomen as he finds himself breathing deeply in an effort to prevent the inevitable. He can't decide whether the taste of the Everclear from earlier in the night coming back up or the feeling of shame as he’d passed by Uraume sprawled across the couch on the way to the washroom is worse.

He'd had more than enough of their scolding for one night. Is it even still night? He isn't sure anymore. If he twists to look at the clock, he'll be sick.

What's worse is that even as his hair sticks to his forehead, slick with sweat, he thinks he'd do it all over again. There's another bottle barely an arms' length away, tucked in his drawer for the moment he would need it most, the same one he’d contemplated having before Satoru’s frat party months ago. It's one of those party favor bottles, the one meant to be a sampler that's hardly a single shot, but with Everclear, it'll go the distance.

It’s not dependency, it’s just… escape. A cowardly escape.

He doesn’t consider himself to be a coward, but there’s relief that comes with the idea of being one, just this one time. If he can’t fix things and reverse the trial then… Just once, he wants to be allowed to do something for himself, even if it’ll actively make him feel worse afterwards. Still, he wants to forget, until the wounds close and the scars fade and his day-to-day routine isn’t filled with questions.

How could he have done better? What had he missed?

What stage of grief would that put him at, anyway? Three?

Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.

He wants to say that puts him at the bargaining stage, but in truth he thinks he’s experiencing them all at once in some sort of unfair turmoil. The denial and anger hit months ago, as though he knew from day one that he’d lost, but the bargaining and depression hit hard and fast after the trial, pummeling down whatever was left of him.

The acceptance… That slunk its way into his psyche somewhere along the way, like a parasite he never noticed taking root. He can’t remember when it was that he realized he’d lost and began preparing himself, but it was long before the trial ever even started.

His eyes are heavy lidded as he trails his gaze across the ceiling, the rise and fall of his chest weighed down by his stomach churning again.

He groans again, slowly raising an arm to rest over his overheating forehead as he’s reminded of his pounding head. He supposes he can only blame himself for that, Uraume had forced him to drink two full bottles of water before letting him pass out. If they hadn’t, he figures he would be worse off.

As the sun rises and filters through the gap in his curtains, a strip of light casts vertically across his wall, his stomach settles enough that he manages to flip onto his side and get some rest.

He can’t say how long he slept, but it can’t be much later when he’s awoken by the sound of knuckles rhythmically hitting the door. Dazed, he groans as he pushes up onto his elbows, bleakly letting his eyes adjust to the dim light. His shadow is cast over the strip of light at the center of the room, his hair sticking up in every which way.

Rubbing at his dry eyes, he kicks his feet off the edge of the bed, still in yesterday’s clothes. Still half asleep, he can practically see his little brother shuffling from foot to foot with teary eyes just outside his door. Probably another nightmare, Sukuna figures.

That makes it all the more jarring as he opens the door and finds Uraume staring at him. It hits him like a head-on collision and he’s pulled to the present suddenly, reminded of just where his life sits now.

Uraume’s gaze evaluates Sukuna’s well-being before they let out a long sigh. “I made you some coffee.”

“Thanks,” he mutters, his mood soured as reality settles in. He pushes past them, making his way to the old coffee machine sitting atop his counter, the vinyl scratched beneath the machine from the amount of times he’s pulled the machine forward and backwards. He pulls the brewed pot out of place, met with a sudden pain right above his left eye as he reaches for a mug. He squints hard at the onset of a hangover headache, setting the mug down and pouring himself a cup of black coffee.

Turning from the counter, he presses the ball of his palm against his forehead in an attempt to dull the pounding, squinting hard. Rubbing small circles into his skull, he takes a sip of his drink, the familiar bitter taste and caffeine providing clarity to his morning, if it can even still be called that.

Half past one in the afternoon. He supposes that makes sense after his tumultuous night. He doesn’t even think he was at the bar that long, completely plastered before ten o’clock even hit, but his stomach kept him up most of the night.

“Are you ready to talk about last night?” Uraume calmly stands opposite him, arms crossed across their chest with a mostly neutral, albeit slightly unimpressed expression.

“What’s there to talk about?” He grumbles from behind his hand, peeking up at them with one eye still shut.

“I’d like to start with what drove you to order three shots of Everclear within an hour,” they begin pointedly.

He sighs, frustrated. “You know what did.”

Uraume nods slowly, casting their gaze aside in thought. “Right,” they affirm to themself quietly. Moving to the side of the open concept apartment, they pull a chair out from the table, taking a seat and settling their hands in their lap. “Everyone knows now,” they state.

Leaning his hip against the counter, he takes a sip of his coffee. “Whatever. Doesn’t matter anymore,” he grumbles.

“Do you really think that? Have you actually given up?”

Sukuna pauses in thought, rubbing the pad of his thumb above his eye to relieve the pressure of his headache.

Does he really think it’s fruitless? He wants to say no, but is that just the first stage of grief, still? Is he just in denial that there’s nothing he can do? He supposes he doesn’t have a definitive answer to their question, like he wants to believe that he has a chance at turning things around.

But… What else can he do? He’d searched endlessly for incriminating records concerning Kaori. He’d searched the internet tirelessly, he’d been through his records twice, and he’d called enough telecommunications companies to last a lifetime. What’s left? At the end of the day, he thinks it’s little more than a daydream to hope for evidence to show up on his door on a silver platter.

Maybe he’d missed something in his documents? But still. Twice, he’d gone through everything. Kaori had tied every loose end with a bow at the end to really rub it in.

His lack of response is all that Uraume needs for their lips to quirk up into a minute smile. He’s not resolute yet in his acceptance of the loss of his brothers, and that’s enough for them. His spark isn’t out yet.

It’s dim, but it’s there. He may not have it in himself to nurse it back to life, but unbeknownst to Sukuna, he has a support system more than willing to help him bear the weight of his loss, if he’ll just let them in.

But therein lies the problem, doesn’t it?

“Maybe you missed something,” they point out, “when you went through your old files. I can take a look through them with you.”

Sukuna’s attention turns back to Uraume as he considers whether they could be right. He wants to say he’s looked through everything rigorously, but some files are harder to look through than others. Some of them he’s more than willing to admit sting to the very core and he avoided looking at them for too long. Some bring back memories that seem to burn the back of his eyelids, desperate to be seen once more, even when he closes his eyes to them.

He wants to say it can’t hurt to check again, but it hurt to check the first time.

He thought the second time would be easier, but that wasn’t the case either.

Still, the old storage closet filled with bankers’ boxes may have been stacked by Sukuna, but it was Uraume who packed them, all those years ago when Sukuna couldn’t bear to do so. Maybe they’ll see something he didn’t.

“Fine,” he relents, pushing a hand through his knotted and messy hair. It still sticks up in places, a sheen of sweat clinging to each and every strand after his shitty night. His skin is slick with that same sickening feeling and his head pounds with no sign of relent. “Not right now, though,” he grumbles, turning away to lean his elbows on the counter as he hunches over with his head in his hands.

Uraume gets up and pats him on the back, setting a bottle of Advil beside his elbow. He recognizes the telling rattle of the bottle and doesn’t hesitate to pop an extra strength tablet into his mouth, completely forgetting about his coffee as he throws the fridge open and grabs a half finished jug of apple juice- one of Yuji’s favorites- and drinks straight from the jug. He supposes it doesn’t really matter anymore.

Tossing it carelessly back onto a shelf in the fridge, he lets the door shut and throws himself down on the couch face-first. His limbs hang over every side, but his headache calms down the moment he’s laid across the cushions.

Unfortunately for him, Uraume’s always had a tough sort of love.

“Let’s start now,” they push, moving across the open kitchen and living space towards the hall.

“Fuck no,” he groans, muffled by the couch cushion. “Gimme a day or two, christ.”

Uraume grimaces, pushing his feet aside as they turn to take a seat at the end of the couch. They want to push to get it done as quickly as possible given that he has one month since the end of the trial to file for an appeal and it’s already been just over a week, but pushing won’t get anywhere when the throbbing of Sukuna’s head is making him increasingly grumpy.

Grumpy is better than numb, though, by Uraume’s standards.

“Can we talk, then?”

“Whatever.”

Uraume’s unphased by his frustration, settling their hands neatly in their lap as they begin. “Satoru told everyone he felt bad. He didn’t mean to get under your skin like that.”

Sukuna’s silent, staring blankly at the coffee table as he slowly blinks.

“You know, I actually think you two would get along well.”

“So I’ve been told.”

Uraume lets out a breath through their nose, something akin to a chuckle. “Toji?”

“Mm.”

They nod to themself, staring up at the movie shelf beside the TV. It’s usually full, with a little Star Wars Lego tank off to one side and a few bead lizards dangling off the higher shelf. That’s not the case anymore, though. A handful of family movies are missing, and the lizards that used to be scattered across the entire apartment have all been gathered in a pile they can just barely spot atop the shelf, mostly out of view.

He’s also cleaned up the final remains of the tinsel that used to pop up every so often from Christmas, the one that used to hang from the edge of the TV now having finally disappeared.

In fact, contrary to Sukuna’s personal living space, which is a mess- clothing everywhere, empty energy drinks and coffee cups scattered across every surface and a surplus of laundry ready to topple over the basket- the apartment is startlingly clean.

They recognize this pattern in him from when he lost his dad.

Wake up, lay in bed until he’s forced to his feet by an outside force, and find any and every way to keep himself busy, whether that’s chores or work or working out. Back then, that outside force was Yuji and Choso who would keep him on track. Now, Uraume can only pray that work is enough of a driving factor to get him out of that slump.

It’s why they aren’t exactly keen on leaving him to his own devices right now.

Moving along, Uraume says your name, trailing off for a moment before they continue, “you didn’t kiss her, did you?”

He shuffles, pulling his feet out from behind Uraume. “No,” he sighs, sitting upright. “Don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so?”

His chest rises and falls heavily as bile sits sourly at the back of his throat. It tastes of Everclear, strong and repugnant. “I didn’t,” he doubles down, sinking back against the couch as his head rests on the back, his weary gaze plastered to the ceiling.

“Did you want to?”

He doesn’t move his gaze as his hands flail up into a frustrated shrug. “I guess, yeah.”

“Do you have feelings for her?”

Sukuna’s head whips up to look at his friend. “Can you stop? Fuck, I don’t wanna talk about it.” He winces as his head pounds in response to his snappy behavior, like sweet karma. Still, he’s too irritated and exhausted to be willing to apologize right now.

The thing about Uraume is that they don’t take anything Sukuna says to heart, really. They’re used to his outbursts and simply move on without a second thought. Simultaneously, Sukuna knows not to take their bluntness and tough love to heart when they’re a little bit too honest. That’s the dynamic that allows their friendship to work so well and has Sukuna just a little bit more willing to let Uraume in.

It’s sheer stubbornness, on their part. They walk in and take matters into their own hands. It pisses him off sometimes, but it was exactly what he needed back when Uraume caught wind of Sukuna’s situation all those years ago. They walked in and taught him the ins and outs of managing a one-year-old’s diet and baby proofing a new apartment, no matter how adamant he was on shutting them out. They even showed up out of the blue to help him pack up his dad’s old room when he couldn’t bear to.

They were there. They were there, and they found a way to help him manage, and they’re here now. For all his complaining and groaning, he appreciates it. Somewhere deep down, there remains a scared and lost man who’s grateful he isn’t alone.

He is, however, genuinely less grateful that they won’t drop the fucking subject.

“It’s a simple yes or no question, Sukuna.”

“It’s not fucking simple,” he growls, twisting in search of his coffee to find he’d left it on the counter. Huffing, he lets it go, unwilling to risk his head pounding if he attempts to get up.

“Why isn’t it?”

He flashes a snarl at his friend. “It’s just not, okay?”

“Why not?”

“Christ, how old are you?” He hisses in exasperation, letting his head hit the back of the couch with enough force that Uraume winces at the sound. “Stop fuckin’ asking, you’re worse than-”

Yuji.

The words die in the back of his throat, his shoulders slumping as realization crosses his face again.

He doesn’t need to finish his sentence for Uraume to catch his drift. With a sympathetic smile, they get up and cross the room, grabbing his coffee and handing it to him. It’s not quite as hot as he’d prefer, but it’s better than nothing and it’s helping to settle his stomach a bit more, which still churns every so often.

Uraume rephrases their initial question now that Sukuna has some more caffeine in his system. “You do have feelings for her, don’t you?”

Sukuna’s grip on his mug tightens. He wants so badly to say that it’s the hangover making him feel sick again; that maybe three shots of Everclear is too many (two is perfectly acceptable though, of course), because admitting that he drowned his sorrows is easier than admitting there’s something to be said about the way his heart seems to take a different shape when you’re around.

The piece of himself that you hold has transformed over time, becoming something else that he isn’t quite sure what to do with and it’s easier to push it away. Last night, though, something in the way your eyes shone in the moonlight struck a chord with him. Your eyes gleamed, not with pity or sympathy that Sukuna's tired of receiving, but with care.

All the shit he’s put you through, and you’re still goddamn there. Putting your heart into every single thing you do for him.

The clammy skin of his palms sticks to the mug as the same feeling from last night sits heavy in his stomach.

He stills wants to kiss you. Not to guide you to a bed and chase a night of pleasure before moving on with his life, no, he wants to feel how soft your lips are again. He wants the taste of whatever lip gloss you decide to wear to permeate his tongue and coat his own lips. He wants to keep you tucked tightly to his chest and fend off anything or anyone that dares to take your warmth from him, as though your care is fleeting.

Heat blooms in his chest, rising to his throat. It’s not like bile, it doesn’t taste quite as bitter, just… foreign. He doesn’t think he minds it, though. Like your warmth last night, this offers respite from the onslaught of bad thoughts and guilt that presses down harshly on his lungs and threatens to stop his breaths.

It’s almost a relief, he thinks, to come to terms with the thought that he’s been running from for so long now.

Fuck, he has feelings for you.

And they run deep. They’re ingrained into the way he seeks your company, or the pull at the corner of his lips when you say something so sweet that he can’t help but smile. They’ve taken root in him in such a way that holding your hand and wrapping an arm around you is second nature.

But with that realization comes the tightening of his throat, the undeniable and inevitable feeling that he’s not what you deserve, and you both know that. You don’t see him in the same way as he sees you. Why else would your hands press against his chest last night, pushing him back?

Maybe you’re okay with him seeking comfort in your kindness, but the intimacy in which he held you last night was too much.

It’s sickening, to think he’s only just come to terms with something he thinks he’s known all along and you’ve already slipped through his fingers. How many times does he need to lose everything and start over again before he gets a break?

He remains silent for a long while before his thoughts slip from his lips without a second thought. “Doesn’t matter. She pushed me away.”

Nodding slowly, Uraume shifts to face Sukuna. “I’ll admit, I suppose I don’t know how she feels,” they agree, “but you’ve made it through this much and your friendship stayed intact, is it not worth it to ask?”

The truth is, Sukuna doesn’t know. So many last chances crushed under the weight of his arrogance, what if that’s the final straw? He’s not sure if he can handle that.

Not right now.

There’s too much going on, he’s not willing to drown you in his demons or to start something only to pull back when everything is too much to bear. He knows himself well enough to know that no matter what angle he looks at things, he can’t do that to you.

No matter how hard it would be, he’d rather be just your friend than bring you down with him. He’d rather drown alone than be forced to watch the life leave your eyes as you drown alongside him. It’s easier this way.

“‘M gonna go shower,” he mumbles, deflecting Uraume’s question as he sets his mug on the coffee table.

They grimace as he holds his head while he walks away, but they’ll take any amount of progress when it comes to the grumpy man struggling once again to find his place in the world.

–

It was a relief to hear from Sukuna the morning following the night out, even if it was the driest of updates.

Quite literally. He sent a thumbs up emoji.

Uraume had given you updates on him throughout the night. Maybe even too many, honestly. According to their nearly hourly texts, he’d been up most of the night throwing up, which was… a gross dozen texts to wake up to. It’s not like you didn’t expect it (eight shots, and all), but you still didn’t need that much detail.

Hearing from Sukuna himself made your afternoon just a little bit easier. It also made your study session with Kento infinitely more productive as he helped to guide you through the final few chapters of your textbook, putting you back on track with your most difficult class.

A godsend, that man.

In fact, all of your friends are. The views on Sukuna seem to shift over the course of the weekend too, as you fall into step with Suguru the following Monday on your way to lunch. He’s looking relatively disheveled himself in unusually baggy clothes for him, with his hair down, rather than his signature half-bun. Strands fall in front of his eyes as he gives you a small wave.

“Morning,” he greets you with the easy smile he always manages, pushing his raven hair back out of his face.

“Morning, Suguru! How was your weekend?”

He hums. “I’ve had better,” he chuckles, casting the thought aside. “And you?”

“You and me both,” you sigh. “Everything alright?”

Suguru finds himself chuckling once more. “I’m fine, don’t you worry one bit about me.”

Pouting, a crease forms between your brows as you look up at him. “But-”

He interrupts you with a firm statement of your name, though his tone is playful and scolding. “I’m fine,” he reaffirms. “I’ll admit that I’ve been better, but I’m managing. I have lots of support from people with less on their plates and as much as I appreciate your kindness, I would prefer to see you not join myself and Sukuna in this state,” he chuckles, tired amusement pulling at the corners of his lips as his eyes crinkle at the corners just a bit.

You relent, smiling at him. “Just know that I’m here.”

“I’m well aware. Likewise for you,” he offers. “Speaking of Sukuna, how’s he handling things?”

“I’ll spare you the details from Uraume’s texts, but it sounds like he had a rough night.” You wince at the mere thought of the context from Uraume’s texts. “He hasn’t really been all that chatty otherwise.”

“Understandable,” Suguru acknowledges. “Give him some time. He’ll come around.”

“I hope so,” you sigh as you follow your friend into the lunch hall. A majority of the group from dinner the other night is there, and you know you’re moments away from being bombarded with questions, which does no favors for your disdain for being at the center of the attention.

Satoru also does you no favors as he practically leaps from his chair to take the empty seat that was once Sukuna’s between you and Uraume. “Hey,” he greets you, genuine sorrow painted across his pale features. He’s not the most genuine person, usually hiding behind comedy to mask his feelings, so the painfully serious look in his striking blue eyes causes you to shrink.

“Hi, Satoru.”

“Listen,” he starts, “I didn’t mean to start shit like that. I didn’t realize he-” he cuts himself off in an effort to keep his voice down to outside groups. The last thing he needs is to also accidentally spread rumors.

“You didn’t know,” you brush him off, keeping your eyes down on your lap as you avoid the curious gazes of onlookers and the rest of your friends. “It’s not your fault.”

“It’s kinda his fault,” Toji adds dryly from across the table, his mouse full of food. “I fuckin’ told ya to shut up, man.”

“We were drunk!” Satoru retorts, throwing his hands up. “I thought you were just fucking around!”

Toji just shrugs. “I told ya you’d get along with him just fine if you just shut y’re damn mouth for two seconds.”

“Toji,” Uraume scolds him from across the table.

Satoru turns towards Uraume, clearly seeking answers although Uraume is the least likely to give them. “What even happened with his kids that I got to him so much?”

The air is silent as glances are exchanged between those who know of the lawsuit, and his loss. No one is quite sure what to say to appease the rest of the table, jaws ajar and eyes wide as anyone searches for an explanation.

“Would this have anything to do with the woman I heard him talking legal shit to outside his place the other day?” Atsuya asks, sounding wholly disinterested in the entire matter for someone who has no clue whether he’s airing out his friend’s issues. He chews on a toothpick, glancing between you and Uraume.

“Why were you at Sukuna’s place?” Uraume questions, incredulous.

“Didn’t know it was his,” Atsuya shrugs. “I was seeing someone who lives in the same building. Was gonna say hi, but he seemed busy.”

Uraume just sighs, making an executive call on behalf of Sukuna, which you’re grateful for as it pulls the attention to them, rather than you. Going back to Atsuya’s question, they nod. “Yes, it does. I’m not answering any more questions, though. It’s not your business,” they point out.

Satoru’s questions end there, though he still seems confused as he turns back towards you. “Can you tell him I’m sorry, at least?”

You nod. “Of course.”

“I appreciate you, short stuff.”

You swat his hand away as he tries to use your head as leverage to push himself up from the seat and head back around to his spot between Toji and Suguru. You shoot him a scowl, but he just grins, unphased.

–

You send Sukuna a text that afternoon letting him know that Satoru wants to apologize, but Sukuna’s replies remain dry.

In fact, he shifts his attitude not just within his texts, but even when you see him at work.

There’s no coffee awaiting you, nor does he ask you to accompany him for any of his four coffee runs on Tuesday alone, not to mention his five runs on Thursday. He also brushes you off for lunch both days, choosing instead to hole up in his office with headphones in. You can tell he’s at least going home since he’s in different outfits both days, but… you can’t help but feel as though it’s not doing him any favors to brush everyone off.

He’s doing it again.

So, you confront him by text on Thursday night after work.

6:49 PM You || Kuna?

It takes him a bit to get back to you, but he does. His replies are still as dry as ever, though.

8:01 PM Kuna || yeah

8:03 PM You || You’re pulling away again

Another break in his texts, it takes a bit to hear back from him.

8:29 PM Kuna || yeah.

8:30 PM You || I know things are hard right now, but you can’t push me away every time something goes wrong

You do what you can to express your frustrations, praying he takes it well.

8:34 PM Kuna || what do you want from me

8:34 PM You || I just wanna talk

8:35 PM Kuna || fine

8:35 PM Kuna || uraumes on my ass anyway about going through my files again

8:36 PM Kuna || come over tomorrow after your lecture

Able to finally breathe a sigh of relief, you send him confirmation that you’ll be there, followed by a thank you.

8:38 PM Kuna || mhm

Your day passes quickly and you’re standing at his door in a cute burgundy sweatshirt and a skirt, along with a pair of tights and some brown boots before you know it. Waiting outside Sukuna’s door, you smile as Uraume answers, raising your hand in a small wave.

“Hey,” you greet them as they move aside to let you in. Kicking off your boots, you shoot them a glance. “How’s he doing?”

They shrug. “I don’t think he’s sleeping much. I got here maybe ten minutes ago and he answered the door shirtless, then headed straight to his room and shut the door. He doesn’t seem all there.” They shake their head, running a hand through their white locks.

“Distant?”

Uraume grimaces. “Somewhere between distant and angry,” they shrug. “I don’t think he really wants to do this.”

“Look through the files?”

They nod.

Steeling yourself, you nod solemnly in agreement as Sukuna emerges from his room in a pair of black sweatpants and a black hoodie with an illegible band name on it. He’s freshly showered, hair hanging over his forehead and dripping down the bridge of his nose. He wipes the water with the back of his hand, pausing when he meets your gaze. His lips part and his shoulders tense as though the air’s been sucked from his lungs while his gaze travels the length of your body, but he finally shakes himself from his stupor and clears his throat.

“Storage closet’s this way,” he mutters, ducking his head and trudging away. Not even so much as a hello, just straight to the point. His movements are as empty as his words as his heels drag on the hardwood.

You suppose you’ll have to talk to him later about his frustrating tendency to push everyone away.

He barely waits for you both to make it to his side when he pushes the storage closet door open. It scrapes against the cardboard boxes painstakingly shoved inside, many of them on the verge of falling apart with frayed corners, while others look ready to burst at the seams. They’re all labeled with names, though you can’t tell what’s in them otherwise.

Sukuna pulls down the first few boxes, passing them along to the both of you, who move them into the living room. You shove the coffee table aside, attempting to set the piles of boxes up based on which brother they belong to. Sukuna brings out all the ones labelled for his little brothers, as well as any with his name on them in case they have something incriminating concerning Kaori. Lastly, he pulls down a couple of unmarked boxes that are mostly junk, setting those aside as well just to be sure.

With your hands on your hips, you survey the piles of boxes. “Where should we start?”

Sukuna shrugs. “Wherever. Doesn’t matter.”

You nod, looking him up and down before you move to a stack of boxes. His chest rises and falls heavily, you assume from lifting the boxes, his gaze settling heavily on the sight of them. He frowns at the stacks, the crimson of his eyes swimming with uncertainty. You find yourself lingering a moment too long on the gaunt skin beneath his eyes that denotes just how little he sleeps these days, as if he wasn’t already sleep-deprived before losing his brothers.

Now, the thought haunts him every time he closes his eyes.

You miss the way he’d attempt to hide his smirk when you made a dumb joke and the way he’d snort in amusement when you teased him.

Now, every reaction you get from him is hollow. A ‘whatever’ thrown around here, a ‘fine’ there. He just doesn’t care. He’s going through the motions, surviving, and that’s it. Alive, but not living. It hurts to see him so pained as he carelessly tosses a cover aside on the first box he grabs, labelled with his youngest brother’s name.

The detachment is likely the only way he knows how to handle going through this paperwork again.

As Uraume settles on the other side of the couch, you take a seat opposite them both on the floor, leaning back against the coffee table, and open a box marked ‘Ryomen’ in writing you assume must be Jin’s. It’s proper, albeit a bit bubbly. Teacher writing, easy to read.

Peeking into the box, you take in the contents. A variety of documents and paperwork all piled messily on one side, while seemingly random bits and bobs all fit along the side. You pull out a bandana, some pencils with various city names engraved into the sides, keychains that say ‘#1 Teacher’, and a stack of sports trading cards in rough condition, tied together with a dried elastic band that’s one tap away from crumbling.

Setting them aside, you purse your lips as you find an inhaler. The liquid within, or what’s left of it, sloshes around inside as you tilt it to read the label. Sukuna, Ryomen. Salbutemol, two to four puffs per day. Huh.

“Do you have asthma?”

Sukuna pauses, raising a brow. “No, why?”

As an explanation, you hold the inhaler up over the stacks of boxes between you for him to see.

He clicks his tongue, returning to sorting through paperwork. “Nah, it was a misdiagnosis,” he mutters with a hint of frustration.

“Is that what they gave you that day I drove you to the hospital?” Uraume queries as they squint at the plastic puffer held between your fingers.

Sighing heavily, Sukuna nods. “Yeah.” His exasperation doesn’t waver as he explains, “it was supposed to help with my breathing. Didn’t do shit, though.” You run your thumb over the label, nodding as you set it aside with the rest of the trinkets from the box you’re tackling.

His breathing. Anxiety, you figure. Yeah, you can only guess that an inhaler wouldn’t do much for shortness of breath induced by stress.

All three of you return to silence as the sound of paper flipping fills the air. You pull out the top portion of the haphazard pile of documents before you, flipping through a stack of old resumes, cover letters, and job applications. Nothing really sticks out, so you flip through the bottom portion of the pile before dumping the rest back into the box, setting it all aside.

Dragging the next box labeled with your friend’s name towards yourself, you pop the lid of the box off. This one is more well-organized, and when you leaf through the documents, it’s primarily school documentation. Grades, report cards, attendance records, and odds and ends of projects.

It’s organized by grade, beginning with first and ending with seventh. Although you do your best not to snoop, it’s tough when you need to double-check documents for anything that could help Sukuna’s case.

Also, you’re nosy.

His grades are stellar from the first grade all the way to the seventh, though the last couple of files are a little bit thicker. Most of the extra weight from the file comes from permission slips for field trips, as well as notices of school events like sports rallies and school plays. Most of them don’t seem to have much to do with Sukuna as far as you can tell, but Jin must have kept them anyway. A couple of notices of unexcused absences signed by Sukuna’s father are also tucked within the last two files, though one with a different signature catches your eye.

Kaori Itadori. The first sign of her involvement in Sukuna’s life seems to be grade six, coincidentally lining up with the start of Sukuna’s unexcused absences. It could just be by chance, but you’d wager a guess that there’s a reason behind the change in Sukuna’s behavior. After all, he’d mentioned that he was eleven when Jin introduced her to him.

Still, this box is a bust, so you place the lid back on top of it and push it aside with the other completed boxes.

As you drag the next box over, Uraume holds something out to Sukuna. Hospital documents, it seems. “Is this from when Yuji got that ear infection?”

He squints at the page, adjusting his view to see it better. “Yeah, it was.”

“That was a nightmare,” Uraume comments, though there’s a certain fond timbre to their words.

“Don’t remind me,” Sukuna grunts.

As you peer curiously over at Uraume, who sets the paperwork aside, they direct their attention to you. “Yuji woke up in the middle of the night and woke Sukuna up complaining that his ear hurt,” they explain, “but by the time Sukuna and I got him to the urgent care clinic, he was in tears.”

“More like having a fuckin’ nuclear meltdown,” Sukuna comments, crumpling and tossing aside something from one of the boxes labelled with Choso’s name.

Uraume chuckles, shaking their head. “Yuji got treated almost immediately because he was causing such a disruption.”

“At least the brat never put slime in his ear again,” Sukuna sighs, shoving aside the box he was looking through.

You wince at the mere thought of what a mess that would have been.

“Because he learned his lesson, or because you never bought slime again for him?” Uraume raises a brow with a hint of a smile.

For a fleeting moment, you think even Sukuna smirks, but the moment is gone when you blink. “Never bought it again.”

“Figured,” Uraume chuckles, shaking their head.

You laugh along with them at the thought, able to picture the poor kid sniffling when Sukuna refuses to buy him any more slime. The poor kid’s clearly been a troublemaker since birth.

Your attention returns to the next box, which you’re expecting to be grades eight to twelve, but it’s a box packed full of old printed photos.

The top few are more recent, mostly made up of photos of little baby Yuji with barely a hair on his little head. You pout at the adorable sight, setting it aside as you quietly sift through photos. The top of the box is made up of baby photos of Yuji, and the deeper you go into the box is where childhood photos of Sukuna begin to pop up, along with many of Choso.

“Oh my god,” you gasp as you pull out a photo of Sukuna all dressed up for his father and Kaori’s wedding with a little scowl. “Look,” you gasp, holding it up for Uraume to see.

They grin at the sight, suppressing their laughter as best as they can. “I see you’ve always been grumpy.”

Unimpressed, Sukuna scowls at you. “Focus,” he grumbles, his expression matching the photo in your hand. Mischievously, you hold it up beside his face, your giggles slipping through as you’re unable to hold it in. Sukuna reaches out to swipe it from you, but you pull it back before he can.

Your smile remains in place as you continue to sift through photos. “Do you think any of these photos would be worth bringing up?” You query as you hold up a tall stack you’d set aside, primarily of Sukuna with his little brothers.

Scratching the stubble along his jaw, Sukuna reaches over the boxes between you to take a look at the stack. Halloween, Christmases, nothing that really screams ‘guardian’ as far as he can tell, aside from the few at the end.

Holding his baby brother’s hand as the infant got his vaccinations. Choso on Sukuna’s shoulders at some sort of outdoor fair show so that the little boy can see. Sukuna helping Choso cut some steak off the bone, followed up by Sukuna flashing the photographer a snarl to stop taking pictures. Sukuna hunched over the table, pointing to something in Choso’s homework. Furious Sukuna covered in whatever baby food Yuji had flung at him.

And lastly, the first time Sukuna held Yuji. He’d held Choso too when he was born, but he was an older teen when he held Yuji, and everything seems so much more daunting at that age. You can see that fear in Sukuna’s expression in the photo, too. Having another little brother to look after felt like a world of responsibility given that Kaori couldn’t seem to be bothered with her own motherly duties.

Even back then, Sukuna knew.

Jin had excused her behavior as a part of the experience of postpartum, but Sukuna wasn’t so sure. His father was blind to Kaori’s quiet mistreatment of her children. Hell, he was blind to her quiet mistreatment of himself.

And so, Yuji always felt like a new responsibility.

He just never expected his father to not be there to handle the brunt of it.

With a sharp inhale, Sukuna passes the stack of photos back. “No.”

Your brow knits together with concern at his obvious dismissal as he buries himself back into whatever he was looking through. You exchange a glance with Uraume, silently sharing their worries. Casting the thoughts aside, you plop the photos back in the box and shove it into the pile of completed boxes.

Surely, you think the next box will be grades eight to twelve, but the inside of the box takes you by surprise. You glance at the label on the outside of the box, but Sukuna’s name is crossed out, with nothing to replace it.

Shuffling through the box’s contents, you pull out a variety of old acrylic paints, little figures of dinosaurs and trees, glue sticks, paint brushes, and toybox sand in a little bag. Setting them all aside, you blink at what sits at the bottom of the box. It’s honestly… hard to decipher exactly what it is.

It’s mostly orange, and whatever it is seems to have somewhat imploded. It… might have been one of those old volcano science fair projects at one point? Jin must have kept it, you can’t envision Sukuna wanting to hold onto it.

Shifting the box towards him, you tilt your head. “Is this a volcano?”

Sukuna swallows hard at the sight. “Yeah. It was a project for our school’s Science Fair Day.”

“Oh! Choso’s?”

“Mine. It was a demo of how eruptions preserve life,” he explains blankly, his scowl deepening as he stares down at his lap.

That was the one box he’d intentionally known to skip the last couple of times he’d gone through files, but it slipped his mind this time around. Seeing that project all these years later doesn’t make the memory any less painful.

“Y’r volcano looks great!”

Sukuna grins at Toji. “Thanks! Dad helped me put it together and I painted it,” Sukuna states. He knows it’s just about the most generic project he could have put together, but it allowed him to show off his history knowledge thanks to his dad by talking about volcanic events throughout the years, and he’d get to show off his art, both of which he prefers over science.

Bonus points that it explodes, and what twelve-year-old doesn’t love that?

“Lucky. I did the lemon and potato battery thing, didn’t know what else to do,” the raven-haired boy shrugs. There’s a hint of jealousy in his eyes, but he moves along. “Is Jin comin’?”

“Yeah, he’s gonna help with the eruption,” Sukuna nods, turning to face the baking soda, water, dish soap and vinegar set up along his table in the corner of the school gymnasium.

Other students wander and look around at different projects around them as Toji shoves his hands into the pocket of his hoodie, his emerald gaze focused on the ground. “I hope he looks at mine, too.”

Sukuna doesn’t really understand why Toji’s parents never show up, too young to grasp his friend’s situation, but he does like that his friend gets to spend a lot of time at his house because of it.

It’s only in the later years of their childhood that Sukuna would grow to realize just what it means to have an absent parental figure. Maybe even neglectful, if he’s more honest with himself.

“I’m sure he will,” Sukuna shrugs. He pulls his flip phone from his pocket to check the time. “He’s supposed to be here in ten minutes.”

“Sounds good. I’ll go back to my project!” Toji calls, racing off towards the middle of the gymnasium.

Watching as he practically barrels over a girl in Sukuna’s math class, the pink-haired boy shakes his head and surveys his project. He adjusts a dinosaur at the base of his volcano and shifts on his feet as he waits for his father to arrive.

Jin’s never late. So, five minutes past the time he said he’d be there, Sukuna pulls out his phone to check for calls or messages.

Nothing. It’s probably an accident.

Picking at his nails, Sukuna glances around the gym. The teachers are a couple of rows away from his project, so he still has time.

Once they’re only a row away, Sukuna finds himself searching the entrances every few seconds. He flips his phone open, but there’s still nothing. Pulling his baseball cap off, he pushes his hair back, settling the black cap back on his head.

The teachers only a few tables away when he pulls his phone out to call his dad.

One ring, two, three.

Five.

He gets the answering machine.

“Hey, Dad. Uh- I’m just waiting for you in the gym. Uh- bye.” He hangs up, staring down at the phone screen as though it’ll light up instantly and his dad will apologize and be running through the door, but that’s not the case. He tucks the phone back in his pocket, shifting from side to side.

As the teachers arrive at his table, he searches the entrances quickly. “Uh- my dad’s just late, can I go last?”

It’s not a problem, and they move on to complete the last few rows circling the outside of the gym. His dad has another thirty minutes or so, plenty of time.

As the minutes go by, the gym begins buzzing as it nears time for the teachers to judge the projects and announce a winner. The students get louder as they converse with friends around them, all while Sukuna silently watches the doors. With each second, he feels his shoulders falling. He wants to believe his father will show up, but…

He’s not sure what the feeling bubbling within him is, really. The emotion that rolls within his stomach and tightens his throat. The one that sends his mind reeling as he wonders if this has something to do with his dad’s girlfriend. He can’t say why his thoughts go there first, but maybe it has to do with that feeling he can’t describe, right?

Maybe he should call her.

He flips his phone open again, scrolling through his few contacts until he finds Kaori, calling her as well.

Voicemail.

He calls his dad.

Voicemail.

Again.

Voicemail.

Scowling down at his phone, his eyes are hot and he wipes any evidence of his disappointment away, turning towards his table.

This can’t be any different from that soda and mint experiment, right? So… the baking soda would be the mints, he supposes.

Sucking in a breath, he pours water into the base of his volcano with a bit of dish soap and food coloring, and finally the vinegar. He picks up the diorama to give it a little shake to mix it all, and stands straight as the teachers make their way to him.

One frowns, concerned when Sukuna is still alone, without his father, but Sukuna begins before they can ask any questions. He explains the process behind the preservation of the dinosaurs due to molten lava rock, the ways it solidifies around its victims and forms shells that allow humanity to cast an approximation of what something may have looked like. He points to a poster board standing behind his volcano with examples of such a thing, and goes over moments in history where it’s been recorded.

He doesn’t falter once.

The teachers can’t even tell that he’s wracked with nerves that his volcano won’t erupt as he dumps the baking soda into the volcano. It erupts without a flaw, leaving a trail of orange across the diorama and demonstrating his point by having bumps where the dinosaurs once were.

The teachers all clap, before heading off to discuss each project.

Sukuna’s hardened expression searches for his friend, threading through the sea of bodies when he finds Toji.

“Hey, where’s your dad?”

Sukuna casts a glance back at the entrance. He pulls out his phone in hopes of a missed call, but the screen is still blank. “Dunno.”

Toji’s head tilts, scratching at his neck. “Sorry, Ryo.”

“It’s fine,” he dismisses, although Toji can see through his friend’s thin-lipped neutrality.

For all his stupid antics and the dumb shit Toji pulls his friend into, Toji was forced into maturity at a young age, even if he doesn’t always come across that way. He recognizes the depths of Sukuna’s disappointment more than he’s willing to admit, so he launches into a discussion about how shitty his favorite basketball player has been this season to distract the pink-haired boy.

It works well enough as Sukuna stops obsessively checking his phone and tapping his foot. Although Toji and Sukuna don’t often talk about their home lives, they’re always there for one another. They’re too young to see all of the pieces of the puzzle when it comes to either of their families, but they do understand the quiet agreement to look out for one another.

Someday in the future, Toji would find himself wondering where exactly he went wrong.

Sukuna would find himself wracked with guilt.

But for now, Toji wraps an arm around his friend’s shoulders with a grin as Sukuna cracks a joke about Toji’s terrible taste in basketball teams.

It’s not long before the teachers return to the gymnasium to congratulate the winners. Third place goes to a girl in Sukuna’s math class who did a demonstration on aerodynamics with paper airplanes.

Second place goes to Sukuna, and though his chest swells with pride at the unexpected victory, something else festers within his chest.

He almost wonders if it’s a pity win. A volcano is nothing special, and to him, the history lesson he threw into it is just another day at the Sukuna household. He doesn’t realize the depths of his research and understanding of history, art, and even science.

He grins as Toji shoves his shoulder in congratulations, but even as he jogs to the front to accept the prize, the eyes of students around him feel…

Do they know, too? Do they feel bad, too? His skin itches with the strange crawling feeling those questions leave behind.

First place goes to a girl in Toji’s science class. She’s beyond smart, everyone knows she’ll go far, and her homemade lava lamp proves it.

When Sukuna’s finally allowed to slip away, he ducks through the dispersing crowd back to his table, where he pulls out an old banker’s box to dump everything into. He doesn’t bother to even wipe down the diorama, just tosses it inside along with all the materials and tucks the box and his display under his arm.

He pushes out of the gymnasium, beelining straight for the outdoors.

Rain downpours, hitting the cardboard lid of the box in his hands with a subtle plap! as droplets accelerate around him until it’s pouring. He blinks, his lips parting as he realizes there’s no car waiting to take him home, and the bus route is still a good twenty minute walk from his house.

“Hey, come back to mine.”

The pink-haired boy spins around to find Toji grinning. There’s no sign of pity in his eyes, to Sukuna’s relief.

He fumbles with his project box to pull his phone out one more time before nodding when he finds the screen blank. “Sure,” he relents, pulling the hood of his sweater over his ball cap to prevent it from getting completely drenched and soaking his hair.

It would be two hours later, just after dinner, when Jin would call Sukuna in a panic.

He’ll apologize- eyes red and cheeks puffy- to his child as he explains what happened. An emergency at work, something completely out of his hands. Sukuna still won’t really get it, but he’s old enough to recognize the signs of tears on his father’s face. He’s at that age where things begin to click, and just as they had clicked earlier than usual for Toji, things are beginning to make sense to Sukuna, as well.

He would learn later that there was no emergency at his father’s work, but rather that his girlfriend had chosen Sukuna’s science fair time to reveal something to Jin.

The pregnancy was an accident on both parts. An unexpected baby boy.

The timing to tell Jin, however, was no accident. It was an opportunity to erase Jin’s past, to pull all focus and attention to a chance at a new life and leave behind the old one, should Jin allow it. That’s the thing about Jin, however. He would never, not in a million years. And so despite Jin’s joy, they had fought. The first- and maybe even only- time, to Sukuna’s knowledge.

Unfortunately for the little boy drenched right down to his socks in rain with his head down as he walks away from the Zenin household that night, he isn’t aware of the depths of Kaori’s manipulation in his life. It’s because of her that it won’t be the last time Sukuna is disappointed by her, or even by his father at her beck and call.

“Sukuna?”

Uraume’s staring at him with a raised brow, their arm outstretched. He blinks, pulling a document from their hands.

“Would that help with anything?”

Flipping the file to face him, Sukuna frowns at the contents. Detailed medical records for Kaori, and thus far the only record of her existence aside from one signed absence record. After looking through his documents the first time earlier this year, he’d come to the conclusion that Kaori had scrubbed her files and taken them with her before she’d left, as though she might someday get accused of something by Sukuna.

As though she knew.

“Maybe,” he hums, looking the records over. They’re detailed records of a full exam before Yuji’s birth with not a single thing out of the ordinary that he could potentially use to disprove whatever medical records Sukuna is certain that Kaori forged. Still, they’re from a year prior to the supposed sickness, so can he even be sure that would work? “Dunno if it’s enough.”

You narrow your eyes briefly at him, having noticed just how zoned out he’d seemed for a good few minutes, but he seems fine now. Shaking it from your head, you pull the next box towards you.

The following banker’s box that you find is grades eight to twelve, as you had expected of both previous boxes. This one is packed as full as it can possibly get, nearly bursting at the seams. Grade eight is similar to seven, a couple of unexcused absences, a few unsubmitted projects that Sukuna was allowed to make up, but nothing that stands out and no evidence of Kaori.

Grade nine does stand out. Dozens of notices of unexcused absences, and for whatever reason all of the signatures shift to Kaori’s. His report cards all seem to be missing from this year, as well as most of the evidence of his grades at all. Tucked between a novel study and math worksheet is also a photocopy of an apology letter, handwritten by Sukuna, asking for forgiveness for stealing an answer key for an exam.

You can only guess the lack of evidence of what took place this year means this is the year that Kaori bailed him out, and consequently the year that changed Sukuna’s entire perception of her.

Following the ninth grade, he seemed to pull his grades together with nothing that really stands out or points to Kaori.

Grade twelve tells a story that has your heart sinking.

Excused absences start here. Each one is signed by Jin, but as they progress, the signatures get sloppier- weaker. There’s a document denoting Sukuna becoming a part-time student in order to take care of ‘familial obligations’, and his signature to sign off on dropping an art class in order to have two spare time slots in his schedule.

You cast a glance up at Sukuna, who yawns and rubs the corner of his eye as he squints at something Choso wrote when he was in second grade, the little boy’s writing nearly illegible. Shaking his head, he continues to sift through files with the same devoid expression on his face.

You can’t help but wonder if this really isn’t affecting him, to go back through his siblings’ files like this, or if he’s just bottling up whatever emotions arise from the documents.

Frowning, you turn your attention back to the box. The last thing tucked at the very end of the box is Sukuna’s graduation cap. You pull it out, unflattening it and untangling the golden tassels with a minute smile. It’s clear that Sukuna meant the world to Jin, keeping every last detail from each year.

Sukuna catches sight of his graduation cap out of the corner of his eye, averting his gaze before you can ask any questions about the day. Talking about the time Yuji shoved slime in his ear is one thing, but he can feel his ability to search through documents waning as the day stretches on.

He’d thought he had no tears left to shed and no anger left to yell, but it would seem that isn’t quite the case as each one of Choso’s little worksheets and duotangs with sweet drawings of him and his brothers claws the wounds open once again. It seems as though Sukuna can still bleed.

Sukuna had never really cared for graduation, he’d always reasoned that high school was just that- high school. Grades hardly mattered to anyone but Jin, attendance was a joke, and he’d been adamant that math was a waste of time when instead of understanding the equations properly, he memorized how to program formulas into his calculator and still got high marks.

But Jin cared.

And Sukuna’s not sure he’ll ever forget the proud look on Jin’s face, alone in the crowd, as Sukuna crossed the stage.

“Right here’s great, Ryomen.”

Sukuna leans down to Jin’s eye level, squinting up at the stage. “You can’t see anything from here, Dad.”

“I can figure it out, you go to your seat,” his father insists, but Sukuna just rolls his eyes. Taking a hold of the handles of his father’s wheelchair, he stands up straight and takes a look around, making the executive decision to find a better spot. The venue choice for the ceremony is just about the least wheelchair-accessible option that the school could have chosen, but Sukuna’s positive they just went with the cheapest choice.

“It’s fine, it’s fine, go to your seat,” Jin attempts to shoo his son away, insistent that he can find a spot, but Sukuna knows damn well from the tremble in his fingers and telltale wheezing that today isn’t a good day for his father’s health and he’s just pushing through. Some days are better than others for Jin, and while today isn’t a good one, Sukuna deems that he’ll make it one, if that’s what his father wants. If he wants to watch his son graduate, then he will.

Slowly wheeling his father down an aisle of chairs, he moves him off to the side, out of the way but with a narrow view between the seats that allows Jin to actually see the ceremony. “Better?”

Jin sighs and nods, grateful to his oldest son. He reaches up to adjust his glasses before affixing the camera in his lap to a stabilizer that Sukuna had saved up for to help with the tremor in his hands. His father always loved photos, and Sukuna wouldn’t let his frailty take that from him.

Jin’s beyond proud of the man his son has become. He once worried Sukuna wouldn’t make it through high school when his grades began plummeting as he and Toji often disappeared the moment they were dropped off at school. As soon as no one was looking, they were gone with the wind.

Jin never blamed Toji, though. They were just kids, out doing what kids do best. Having fun and getting in trouble.

“Got it working?” Sukuna asks, leaning down to check the camera’s screen himself.

“All set!” He smiles, his eyes gleaming from behind his glasses. “Go sit,” he shoos his son away.

Sukuna’s gaze evaluates his father’s wellbeing a moment longer, looking over the way his fingers tremble, his slightly labored breathing, and his pale complexion, paired with obvious weight loss. His illness is undeniable, but he looks happy right now, so Sukuna finally nods and takes his assigned seat between a couple of people he scarcely knows who just happen to share last names close to his in the alphabet.

The ceremony is painfully long and Sukuna pays little attention throughout the majority of it. He probably would have stayed home and had his diploma mailed if this wasn’t the single most important event for his father. All month, it was the only thing Sukuna had heard about.

Could be worse, he supposes. At least he isn’t sitting between four sterile white walls with the sickening smell of some sort of pungent cleaner. There’s no rhythmic beeping, no distant sounds of the chatter of nurses. Just a low buzz of excited students and parents. It’s almost comforting knowing that he’s here with his father, rather than where he could be.

Row by row, students rise and cross the stage until it’s Sukuna’s turn. With a quiet sigh, he steps across the stage under bright lights and shakes the principal’s hand, taking the diploma in his opposite hand as he turns to pose for a photo.

His eyes scan the crowd, settling on his father, who has the biggest grin Sukuna’s seen on his face in months. The pink-haired man’s lips quirk at the corner, his shoulders relaxing at the sight as his father’s contagious smile somehow crosses the whole crowd to Sukuna.

For all his complaining, that one sight might have even made this whole ceremony worth it.

Stepping down off the stage, Sukuna returns to his seat, waiting for the ceremony to end with the traditional cap toss.

Sending his cap flying through the air, the graduate slips out of his seat as the ceremony comes to a close. He makes his way to the back of the conference hall where his dad is still seated, eagerly awaiting his oldest son.

“I’m so proud of you, Ryomen,” Jin beams, tears in his eyes as his son returns to his side.

A puff of air leaves Sukuna’s nose, something between a laugh and embarrassment as the tips of his ears warm. “Thanks, Dad.” He rounds the wheelchair to grab its handles, waiting patiently for the room to clear.

“We should find your cap, I want to make one of those graduation frames with the photo and cap.”

“School’s cheap, they rented the caps and gowns. We don’t get to keep ‘em,” Sukuna explains stoically.

Jin contemplates this for a moment as he places his camera within the bag he’d brought along. He pulls his phone out, fiddling with it as he speaks up again. “You know, they probably won’t notice if one is missing.”

Sukuna’s brow raises, a faint smirk on his lips. “You wanna steal something?”

Jin chuckles, a faint cough rocking his frame that causes Sukuna’s smirk to falter. “Let your old man have this.”

With a quiet sigh, Sukuna stares out at the hats littering the area in front of him. “How am I even supposed to tell which one’s mine?” He mutters, staring across the expanse of unmarked hats.

“My son’s got a big head. You’ll know,” Jin teases in such a way that it’s easy to forget anything is wrong in the first place.

Sukuna snorts. “Thanks, Dad.”

Wheeling his father to the edge of the seats where most of the caps litter the floor, he attempts to look for the biggest hat, but they’re all the same size. Jin knows it, too.

As Sukuna steps over the caps, he moves towards his seat, looking in the general direction that he thinks he tossed it. There’s literally no way of knowing, so he picks up a cap and holds it up for his father’s evaluation.

“Too small,” he calls from the edge of the caps.

Sukuna shoots him a look, but there’s amusement swimming in his eyes. With a little huff, he carelessly tosses the cap back into the pile, sifting through the remainder. After a moment, he picks up another one, flipping it only to see the tassels are somewhat mangled. He makes the executive decision to not even show his father that one, instead finding one that seems to have avoided being stepped on while the students all made their way out. He holds it up, satisfied when his father grins.

“That’s the one.”

“Great,” Sukuna chuckles, setting the cap on his dad’s lap as he steps over the remainder of them. Jin tucks it into his bag, his expression morphing to a more pained one as he pulls up his texts afterwards.

It’s not often that the pink-haired young man snoops, especially on his father, but one look at the contact has him immediately reading over his father’s shoulder. It’s not easy with the tremor in JIn’s hands causing the screen to shake, but that won’t stop Sukuna.

From what Sukuna can tell, Jin and Kaori seem to be in an argument about the graduation ceremony. Jin had told Sukuna that Kaori wouldn’t be able to make it due to her work schedule overseas (which is for the better, if you ask the brutish man), but his heart sinks as he sees the truth of what they’re fighting over.

It was never work at all. Kaori just didn’t want to miss an outing with her friends and colleagues.

It’s not like Sukuna cares, but Jin does. In the eight or so months since she left, she hasn’t once returned. Not for birthdays or anniversaries, not for Christmas, and least of all for graduations.

Yuji isn’t even a year old. 

As he reads over Jin’s shoulder, he wonders if the lie about her being unable to make it due to work was something she said to Jin in an effort to cover up the fact that she doesn’t give a flying fuck, or if Jin always knew all along and came up with the lie himself to protect Sukuna. It’s not like he needs the protection, but his father’s always been a kind soul like that.

With a final ‘talk later’ text, Jin sets his phone inside his bag and glances up at Sukuna, who coolly wheels him out to the parking lot, where he proceeds to help him into the small family car.

“How does lunch sound, kiddo?”

“Don’t call me that,” Sukuna mutters as he lifts his father into the passenger seat before rounding to the driver’s side. “And that’s alright. I know we’re short on cash, we can skip the-”

Jin frowns. “You don’t need to worry about that. As soon as my surgery date’s here, I’ll be back to it in no time and your step-mother can help until then.”

From the driver’s seat, Sukuna’s grip on the gear shift tightens. He knows damn well that Kaori has sent the bare minimum as far as money goes, just enough to pretend she cares. Being as kind-hearted as ever, Jin always sees the best in people and of course he believes her.

“Sure, Dad. Where do you wanna go for lunch?”

Sukuna swallows hard, grateful that when he glances back up at you, that the godforsaken cap is out of sight.

He stares down at the slight tremble in his own fingers, as though his own body is mocking him. His jaw clenches at the mere thought as he shoves aside the box he’d almost finished, deeming whatever sits at the bottom to be a waste of his time as he carelessly shoves more documents into the box.

He pulls the next box from the stack with a hardened expression as nothing continues to jump out at him, given that he’s already seen all of this shit.

Time passes in relative silence until Uraume needs to excuse themself to head to their evening plans. Sukuna follows them to the door to chat, though you hear their quiet exchange as Sukuna claims he doesn’t need them to check on him. Still, his friend insists they don’t mind and want to spend time with him.

You honestly expect him to put up a fight to defend his pride, but whether he’s too dejected or too tired, he doesn’t bother, back to sorting boxes before you know it.

Finishing up with the last box with Sukuna’s name on it, you take a look around. “Which one should I take next?” You ask, unsure what’s already been checked.

With a long inhale, Sukuna scans the remaining boxes. “Uh- just take this one,” he nudges a box near his foot. “It’s another one of Choso’s shit.”

You pull it towards yourself, popping the lid off. You pull out a stack of drawings from the top, unable to hold back a bittersweet smile at the drawings made by a very young Choso of what you can only assume is himself, Sukuna, Jin, and Kaori doing a number of fun activities. As you flip through them, your smile falters when Yuji appears, but Kaori disappears from the art altogether.

Sukuna’s expression in the art changes, too. From a neutral one to a frown.

There are no more drawings following one of the four of them around a Christmas tree. You’re grateful, honestly, because you’re not sure you could stomach seeing the way the drawings would shift after Jin disappears, too. Would Choso’s smile turn into a frown?

You don’t want to know.

You set the drawings atop the last box you sorted, alongside a hospital bracelet with any information completely smudged from its surface.

Sukuna glances up as you set a stack aside, the bracelet catching his attention. He blinks, rubbing his eyes. Why had he agreed to look through everything again? He already knew you would all come up short. A few medical records with Kaori’s name on them won’t do much to help his case. What’s he supposed to say? ‘Well, Your Honor, she was fine a year ago’?

Things change in a year. Hell, they can change in an instant. Sukuna knows that all-too-well.

The door shuts behind him as Sukuna turns to hang his keys off of the hook on the wall. Choso’s at a friend’s house, though his father should be around somewhere with Yuji. Sukuna skips every second step on his way up the stairs, heading past the chairlift they’d had installed to allow Jin to remain independent. He peers into his dad’s room, before finding him in Yuji’s nursery.

The kid had almost outgrown it at this point, but his father insisted on waiting until the last moment to swap everything out.

Jin’s not slick with his lies either, unable to hide anything from his keen eldest son. Sukuna knows the real reason is that they aren’t just short on cash, they’re completely and utterly broke. Jin’s relying on the medical leave payments from his work to cover their living expenses, and whatever pitiful amount of money Kaori claims she can spare. It’s not enough to care for the four of them, but he won’t allow Sukuna to drop out of college in order to get a job.

It’s his one and only request from his tattooed son.

Jin doesn’t ask Sukuna to drive him to appointments, or to help him around the house. In fact, if anything, he insists that Sukuna doesn’t help. He continues to take care of Yuji on his own, doing what he can to eliminate work for his oldest, but it doesn’t stop Sukuna from stepping in.

On shaky legs, Jin leans heavily on Yuji’s crib, pulling the child into his arms. It pains Sukuna to watch his father play a balancing game, all the while the baby in his arms is crying.

“I got him,” Sukuna mutters, pulling Yuji from his father’s grip.

“It’s fine, Ryomen, I-” Jin cuts himself off with a sigh, shaking his head as he takes a seat back in his wheelchair.

“Lemme take you guys down to the kitchen.”

Although Jin struggles with his loss of strength and therefore his loss of mobility and overall independence, the kind man struggles the most seeing Sukuna handle so much of the responsibility. He never allows his son to change a diaper or cook, he handles the bulk of the responsibility of having children, but for all of his denial, he’s grateful that his oldest has grown into a smart and capable young man.

It’s easy to see where Sukuna got his prideful independence from when you consider the way he misread his father’s intentions at the time. The young man always assumed that Jin tried to refuse Sukuna’s help out of pride, but that was never the case. From the moment Jin began to need an extra hand, he tried to spare his son of the responsibility not out of pride, but out of love. He always wanted his son to have the opportunity to enjoy the freedom of being a young adult in college.

Still, Sukuna just brings Yuji downstairs without a word, setting him down in a high chair and coming up next for his father.

The process is easy enough when you’re built like Sukuna is. He wheels his father to the stairs and doesn’t bother with the chair lift, opting to carry his dad down to the awaiting second wheelchair to transfer into. From there, he leaves his dad to do his thing, ducking away to his room without another word.

Shutting the door, he runs a hand through his hair with a sigh, falling face-first onto his bed.

It’s been a long day. College is a different experience from high school and he needs to put in a lot more effort to apply himself properly and he’s not looking forward to studying for his exam tomorrow. Why did he take geology anyway? There had to be easier credits elsewhere.

Pushing himself back up after taking a breather, he unloads the contents of his backpack onto his desk and settles down with his laptop.

With headphones on over his ears, he stares blankly at his geology textbook as he considers the life choices that led him to learn about sedimentary rocks. He thinks a part of him had expected more of a focus on mountains, or fossils, or… something. Either way, he doesn’t think he likes rocks enough for this.

His brow furrows as he swears he hears something loud and piercing over the sound of his music, which is loud enough as it stands. Pulling his headphones down, he hears Yuji crying, but shrugs it off under the assumption that Jin will handle it.

As a minute goes by and he hears more wails, he pulls his headphones down once more. He hears no movements, no shushing. What the hell?

Huffing, he tosses his headphones down on his desk and makes his way back down the stairs to the kitchen. He stops dead in his tracks when he reaches the edge of the tile, blood running cold at the sight of his father on the floor, slumped against the kitchen cabinets. He’s still conscious, clutching his chest, but has no energy to even attempt to soothe Yuji’s cries. His mouth is parted as he focuses on breathing.

“Shit,” Sukuna reaches into his pocket urgently, pulling his phone out and dialing the emergency number. He sets it on the floor on speaker as his wide eyes take in his father’s shallow breaths. His skin is pale with a sickening blue hue, and as Sukuna attempts to adjust him, he groans. “Shit,” Sukuna mutters again as the phone clicks to connect him to an emergency operator.

He runs on autopilot as the emergency operator begins questioning him. The nature of the emergency, his address, his father’s medical history. It comes naturally to him now, but it didn’t always. No matter how many times he’s gone through this cycle, however, it doesn’t get any less terrifying. Even now, the fourth time in five months that he’s called the emergency number, his hands tremble as he attempts to keep his father present and awake while replying to the operator on the other line, all while doing what he can to shush his little brother so that they can hear Sukuna on the phone.

When the ambulance arrives, Sukuna races to the door to let them in, pulling his hungry little brother into his arms as he surveys what his father was doing before he collapsed. There’s some sort of food in the blender, maybe he can just feed that to Yuji and take the kid with him to the hospital.

It’ll have to do.

He races to strap Yuji into his car seat, taking the family car and following closely behind the ambulance. The little boy’s wails only intensify as he grows hungrier, unaware of the goings on around him.

“I know Yu, fuck, gimme a moment, okay?”

Sukuna’s words don’t appease the little boy, who continues to sob. Reaching the hospital parking lot, the brutish man sighs as he parks, the screams of his little brother pounding in his head already. He turns in his seat, grabbing the baby food- or whatever it is- and spoon that he’d shoved into a little bag on his way to the car.

“C’mon, it’s alright,” he grumbles in his best attempt at soothing the toddler when he leans over the center console of the car to attempt to spoon some food into Yuji’s mouth. 

Yuji throws his hands around, knocking the spoon from Sukuna’s hand. The man pulls back, raking his hand aggressively through his hair in frustration.

“It’s fine,” he mumbles to himself, picking it back up and wiping it on his shirt. He can clean it later, it doesn’t matter right now. With a sharp inhale, he scoops up another spoonful of what he can only guess is carrots and pauses before Yuji’s arms can reach out again. “Don’t be a brat,” he mutters, holding it barely out of arms’ reach.

Yuji calms down for a split second, just enough time for Sukuna to propel the spoon through the air towards him. Just before it can reach his mouth, the toddler wails and turns his head, sending the spoon to the floor again.

Sighing heavily, Sukuna twists back into the driver’s seat, head in his hands as he levels himself so as not to take out his frustrations on his baby brother. He isn’t even one year old, Sukuna can’t be upset with him for acting his age. He knows that, but it doesn’t make it any easier to deal with his current reality.

Sukuna’s head pounds with each sob that tears from the boy’s lips, and after a shaky breath, Sukuna flips again in his seat, composing himself with a frown as he picks the plastic spoon back up, wiping it on his shirt once more with a slight curl of his lip, and tries again. He recalls what his dad likes to do to get Yuji’s attention, raising the tone of his voice as best as he can to mimic his father’s gentle tone.

“Look, Yu,” he holds the spoon out, waiting for the baby to react. Yuji’s cries die down as he curiously stares at his oldest brother, kicking his feet. Sukuna takes the miraculous opportunity to spoon food into the little boy’s mouth, relieved as he eats in spite of his face being drenched in his own tears.

Breathing out a sigh, Sukuna feeds the kid until he begins to rub his eyes and refuse any more, yawning as his eyelids grow heavy. Able to easily get him into a blanket in his arms, Sukuna scoops him out of his seat and finally is able to make it inside, where he’s informed to sit in the waiting area.

He’s been here a handful of times for the same reason once or twice, though he’s sat in this waiting room for other issues more times than he can count. He knows the harsh overhead lights serve a purpose, but he despises the sterile glow they provide. He’d rather sit in the dark if it means he doesn’t need to see the equally terrified and sickly faces plastered across the waiting room around him.

A man with a towel held tightly over his hand, a woman with two crying children hugged tightly to her although she’s barely holding it together herself, a kid around Sukuna’s age, maybe just barely eighteen, asleep under his coat by himself. Different people, all in different stages of their lives, all here with the same shared experience under harsh lighting.

At least the walls are a pale blue, rather than white or eggshell. He wants to think it’s the hospital designer’s way of acknowledging what’s really going on here, like the blue is meant to let everyone down easy. It’s less harsh, more solemn.

He can only pray he isn’t about to be let down as a familiar face makes their way out of the double doors at the front of the room. The attending physician who’s been here the last couple of times this has happened spots Sukuna and makes his way over.

“Hey,” Sukuna greets him, rising from the chair carefully in an effort not to wake Yuji, who’s finally resting quietly in the blanket Sukuna had wrapped him in.

“Hi, Ryomen. Your father’s stable,” the man explains, looking over the records on the clipboard in his hands.

“Thank god,” Sukuna sighs, letting out a breath.

“We do need to discuss something important, though,” the doctor adds, his gaze settling on the page before him.

Sukuna’s chest tightens as he prepares himself.

“Your father’s not responding to his medication anymore. With that being the case, we need to look at surgery now. The original procedure is off the table, we’re looking potentially at a transplant.”

Sukuna’s jaw slacks in disbelief, his back straightening as unease slithers up his spine. His lungs feel as though they’re physically shaking within his chest, squeezing the air straight from him.

“We’ll need to find an urgent donor, so we’ll keep monitoring him here until then, but you need to make the call now whether to proceed, in case he doesn’t wake up before then.”

Sukuna’s eyes shift wildly around the room, searching for something to anchor the way his skin crawls and his heart races. He adjusts his hold on Yuji, hugging the little boy tightly to his chest, though he’s careful not to disturb the baby. “Uh-” his voice breaks before he can begin. He clears his throat, starting again. “I thought the meds were working?”

“They were,” the man affirms. “The human body can change in an instant,” he explains with a shake of his head, offering a thin-lipped smile in understanding. “There’s still a lot we don’t know about it.”

Sukuna lets out a shaky breath, staring down at Yuji. “Right.”

The little boy deserves to know his father, and if this is their only change at that, then-

“Do it.”

The physician evaluates Sukuna’s expression as he nods. “I’m glad you’re open to it, though I’d like to go over the risks with you first, transplants aren’t easy on patients or surgeons. In the meantime, you’re welcome to visit him. I’ll meet you in there to discuss potential complications.”

“Thanks,” Sukuna mutters.

“Room three-one-four.”

With a grunt of acknowledgement, Sukuna passes through the double doors. He hates that he knows his way around like second nature. His dad shouldn’t be going through this to begin with, he’s too young for this shit.

Sukuna, Choso, Yuji, they all are. They’re all too young to sit by their own dad in this state.

He stands at the door to the room, feeling it hit his back and knock him past the frame before he approaches his father. Using his foot, he drags a chair closer to the hospital bed, eyes scanning the man’s pale features, unconscious on the bed. Sukuna keeps Yuji clutched tightly to his chest as he lets out a shaky breath.

Risks, huh?

He knows what that means. He supposes he should see if Choso can get dropped off at the hospital. He should be here.

Just in case.

Sukuna blinks a number of times, moving a hand up to rub his eyes and accidentally sending the paperwork on his lap across the floor. He frowns, reaching down to gather the papers and dump them back into the box he’d pulled them from.

He glances up at you as you sift through a box of mostly Choso’s baby possessions. His first onesie, his first plush, a blanket knitted by one of Kaori’s parents, a baby tooth that you visibly grimace at as it clicks what’s in the little bag you’re holding.

The next sealed bag you grasp is filled with powder that faintly glimmers with pink sparkles. “What’s this?” You query as you notice Sukuna openly staring at the bag as well.

“Tooth Fairy dust.”

Your brow raises as you hold it up to get a better look at it. “Salt and sparkles?”

“Probably,” Sukuna shrugs. “Cho stopped believing pretty quick,” he adds, choosing to omit the fact that it’s because he forgot to replace a tooth with cash.

You frown, tossing it- along with the other contents of the box- back inside and pushing it into the pile of finished boxes. Dusting your hands off with a couple of claps, you peer around, eyes landing on the last box that you think is unfinished. “Can I take that one?”

Sukuna nods, uncaring one way or the other. He just wants to be done with this, at this point. He thought since he’d already been through these files twice that he could steel himself and make it through it, but it hasn’t proven to be that easy. He’d been so sure he’d spilled enough oh his own blood that there was nothing left to bleed, a husk of his former self, but every reopened wound pulls out more from him than he ever thought possible.

You hear him sigh as the silence returns while you both read through your boxes.

The last box is labeled with the youngest Itadori’s name, though when you open it, there’s no drawings, or plushies to be found. It’s filled with paperwork from back to front and side to side. Nothing jumps out at you immediately, so you pull out the stack stuck to the leftmost side and begin sorting through it.

It’s almost all hospital records and paperwork, the whole pile. You quickly flip through what else is in the box, your brow drawn together in confusion. Had Yuji spent a long time in the hospital as a baby? Settling down to get a better look at the documents, you flip the first one open. It seems to be a document printed off the internet with general information on a disease you aren’t familiar with.

Homozygous Familial Hypocholesterolemia. HoFH, for short. Inherited genetically from both parents, and a very rare form of the disease that affects patients from a young age. It influences how the body processes cholesterol and puts those affected at a high risk of heart disease at a young age.

You skim the remainder of the document, lips pursed in confusion as you flip to the next page. Does Yuji have HoFH? You know the document details that it affects kids at a young age, but you would think it would have come up by now.

The next document seems to be the second or third page from some sort of hospital discharge planner with a detailed recovery plan listing a number of prescribed drugs and when to take them in order to prevent heart failure, along with an extremely detailed health and diet plan in order to help the body accept a heart transplant.

Your chest tightens and you check the name on the outside of the box again. It does say Yuji’s name, but you get the feeling these files have nothing to do with him.

Frowning, you quickly flip through paperwork until you find exactly what you’re looking for.

Jin Itadori. HoFH. Heart Disease. Acute Heart Failure. Acute Cellular Rejection.

Your fingers pause on the page as the weight of the loss buried within the box settles in and you frown, sparing a glance up at Sukuna. You delicately and neatly put the paperwork back into a pile, setting it atop the box, and slide it across to him.

“I don’t think I should look through this one,” you tell him softly, your voice low with sympathy.

Attempting to rub the pounding in his head away, Sukuna presses circles into his forehead with the pad of his thumb before looking up at you with a pained sigh. It’s clear that he wants nothing more than for this to be over and it’s getting increasingly difficult to flip through the pages without losing himself in one memory after another, each one tearing away the scabs of old scars.

Dragging his hand down his face, he pulls the box towards himself in exasperation, his eyes skimming the paper you’d placed in a pile atop the box. This is the only box he deems not to check each time, because he knows the contents like the back of his hand. It’s one of the few he’d packed rather than Uraume, over the course of the year that his father had grown ill. The front is shoved full of dumbass brochures on how to handle Heart Disease and transplants, and one of the last things at the very back of the box, poking its corner out, is the obituary he’d been forced to write.

Sukuna’s fingers tapped along the top of the page, his eyes drawn to the photo he’d chosen for the column. Is that what you call an obituary? A column? Makes it sound like some sort of drama piece. He supposes that maybe that’s fitting, given the drama his life had become.

From appointments to unanswered phone calls to lawyers and social workers, followed by funeral arrangements, the most daunting task isn’t even the obituary that he’s struggling with. It’s the baby sound asleep in his little cradle… thing. That, and the kid clinging to his writing arm, watching as Sukuna struggles to figure out how to write an obituary.

Choso’s sitting on his knees in a chair he’s pulled up next to his older brother. Each time he shuffles, he tugs Sukuna’s hoodie, choking him and grating further and further on his nerves.

“Cut it out!” He hisses finally, shooting his little brother a sharp glare.

The little boy looks up at him, his expression entirely unreadable. Sukuna had expected him to be upset at the very least, but he’s just… nothing.

That’s been the case since Jin died.

Pure, unwavering silence.

Sukuna hears the older of his two brothers crying alone at night sometimes, but he doesn’t have it in him to face the kid. He blames himself for a portion of it as it stands, and that only weighs heavier on his conscience. It’s not like lashing out is helping, but his anger towards the world clouds his judgement.

It shouldn’t have happened like this. Sukuna followed every guideline to a T, and made sure his father did too.

So why the hell did his body reject the transplant? It had to be some sort of cruel joke that Sukuna swears he should wake up from any moment now, because this is too much. It’s all too much.

He wrenches his arm out of his little brother’s grip, leaning back in his seat and pushing his hand through his hair. His chest is painfully tight as he captures another glance at his father’s photo. Maybe it’s just the angle, but it feels as though he’s judging Sukuna’s behavior. He’d be disappointed, if he could see what had become of his family, and what had become of Sukuna.

Before Jin had passed, Sukuna had long grown out of his anger towards the world. Jin had labeled it as a ‘rebellious phase’, although Sukuna knows the cause of that ‘phase’ was Kaori. The anger he feels now, it’s not like back then. Sure, he’s always been on the quieter side and not an overly enthusiastic or emotive person, but he wouldn’t have called himself an angry guy. Now, he thinks the label might make sense.

Jin had been so proud of him, even just a couple of months ago when he’d awoken from his heart surgery.

He’d thanked Sukuna for being there for him, and for taking care of the kids. Then, without so much as a break to rest, he’d immediately taken over in caring for them all, again. After the first few weeks, he’d even been able to take some steps on his own. There’d been so much progress, and the whole family’s spirits lifted.

Then, out of nowhere, acute cellular rejection. He’d gotten a fever, and that was it. Sukuna had let Choso say his goodbyes before sending him out of the room. The two Itadori brothers had sat alone on the other side of the wall with the seven-year-old watching his baby brother, while Sukuna held his father’s hand as the light behind his eyes faded.

He turns his gaze back towards Choso, examining the way the little boy quietly sits and stares at the page in front of Sukuna, blank aside from a few scribbled out phrases.

The oldest clenches his jaw.

Choso’s mother should be here. Kaori should fucking be here now. How many more missed calls before Sukuna needs to accept the reality that he’s a guardian to two kids while trying to make his way through college?

It’s not a life he wants, nor one he ever prepared for, and he’ll hold it against his step-mother until the day he croaks. Not just for himself, but for Jin. For his brothers.

With anger festering in his chest, he doesn’t realize how hard he’s pressing the pencil he’d picked back up at some point into the paper until the lead snaps from the pressure. The sound brings him back and he stares at the blank page.

He should just try this again later. Maybe it’ll be easier when Choso’s asleep.

He drops the pencil with a heavy sigh, pushing away from the kitchen table with the heavy scrape of a chair. The sun is setting anyway, he should just make dinner.

He turns to his brother, one hand on the open freezer door. “Chicken fingers?”

No reaction.

“Uh-” he swaps to the pantry. “Veggie soup?”

Nothing.

He rubs the bridge of his nose, staring at what’s left of the food from their last shopping trip. “Do you just want cereal, or somethin’?” He shrugs, turning back to the little boy.

No reply, but there’s a shift in his expression.

“Fine,” Sukuna relents, too tired to worry about the fact that his little brother is having cereal for the third dinner in a row.

The little boy slides off the chair, making his way over to Sukuna to be handed a box of Froot Loops and a bowl. His older brother helps to pour the milk before turning on the oven to throw in some spicy chicken pockets for himself. He supposes he can’t judge his little brother when he’s been living off of these for the better part of a week.

He leans back against the counter, watching his little brother silently stare at the multi-colored cheerios in his bowl as they soak up milk.

They’re both shadows of what they once were. Him, and Choso. He knows it’s not fair of him to pull away from the boy, but he’s never been great at managing his emotions, now it’s simply amplified by the situation they’re caught in.

How is he ever meant to take a step in Jin’s shoes when his own barely seemed to fit?

He’s failing his brothers, and he’s failing his father. Hell, he can’t even write an obituary. He’s never been good with words and nothing seems to do his father justice.

His thoughts gnaw at him, even as the oven beeps to let him know it’s preheated, he doesn’t move a muscle, not until Choso has dumped his bowl into the sink and quietly slunk off to his room. It’s then that Sukuna feels everything pressing in on him.

“What am I supposed to do?” He mutters to himself, his eyes hot and watery, as though somewhere his dad might hear him and give him a sign. But this isn’t some sort of fairy tale and he’s hit with the harsh reality that he doesn’t get a happy ending like that.

Sukuna shakes his head as you call his name, bringing him out of his thoughts like a damn life preserver saving him from drowning.

He’s sick of it. Sick and fucking tired of reliving all of these moments, of being forced to recall the way his father deteriorated. Most of all though, he feels shame. Shame, and rage towards himself for how he’d handled everything. His brother only ever seeked comfort from him and what the hell did he do? Shove him off.

For fuck’s sake, he was seven. He didn’t know any better. Probably didn’t even understand what was going on, and Sukuna pushed him away. The guilt eats away at him still, and he wants so badly to go back in time and fix things. The struggle to take care of two kids is one thing, but fuck, he wishes he could go back, erase some of the things he said.

He never meant a word of it. He never meant half of his actions. He was just a kid too, angry at the world with no way to express it.

Yet somehow, they still chose him, didn’t they? Both Yuji and Choso clung to him like their life depended on it, like he’d somehow made their lives better and now more than ever he struggles to see how he could have ever earned that trust, that love from them. Somewhere along the line, they became his world. His family. His anchors.

He wishes he could grab his younger self by the collar and shake some sense into him in order to get him to step up and be the brother those two kids deserve.

He supposes that’s why they’re not with him now, though. He’s never been what they deserve. And as he sees the contents of the final box which have no information regarding Kaori, with very little to work with as new evidence, he thinks that maybe this is just the way things should be.

His jaw tightens, and he scowls as he quickly picks the pile up, opting to shove it forcefully back where it had come from, only for it to get caught on something.

“Fuck’s sake,” he mutters, attempting to shove them in with more force.

Sensing his distress, you shuffle forward on the floor until you’re in front of the box, one hand over his as you gently take the stack from his hands, pulling it back out to adjust it and see what was preventing it from being replaced.

At the bottom of the box is a paper folded neatly into three like a letter ready to be slid into an envelope. You pull it out, setting it aside on one of the boxes you’ve already searched as you neatly tuck the stack of paper back into place.

Catching a glimpse of handwriting on the paper you’ve set aside as the tri-folded paper pops open, Sukuna’s scowl remains in place as he reaches forward to grab it. He slides his thumb along the side of the page, letting the contents of the paper breathe for the first time in four years, unbeknownst to him.

The paper itself is torn from a staff hospital notebook with the facility logo in the corner. It’s lined, with shaky and smudged blue ink spanning the top three quarters of the page. The writing is somewhere between the bubbly and easy-to-read print of a teacher and cursive, though the shakiness of the writer’s hand means it’s no longer as easy to read as it clearly once was.

His eyes scale the length of the page without reading a word for longer than he’d care to admit as he takes in the state of his father’s writing. It’s not hard to deduce when this was written without even reading a word, and that pains him so much that he finds his own hands trembling, afraid to read the text written out before him. He’s not certain that he’s ready to face whatever Jin likely wanted his last words to his eldest son to be.

When he collapsed a month after his operation, when his body rejected his heart, there had been a moment in the hospital that burned itself into Sukuna’s mind. With Yuji in Sukuna’s arms and Choso curled into Jin’s side on the bed, the eldest son had exchanged a look with his father, one that said what they were both thinking.

Jin’s time had become limited. The dour exchange made Sukuna want to get down on his knees and beg for another chance, but it wouldn’t have done any good. Jin looked tired. More tired than Sukuna feels now, and he thinks it was that weariness that told them both that it was time.

Shuffling his hands over the paper, he snaps himself out of his trance. He holds the page taut as his eyes finally settle at the top when he finds some courage.

Ryomen.

I hope by now that you know this, otherwise maybe I haven’t done my job well enough (haha!) but I’m so proud of you. I know how tough the last year has been, but I’m so grateful I got to see you graduate and be there for your first day at college. Thanks for looking after your old man, too. Obviously I made it look easy, but taking care of the three of you is no joke.

Sukuna stiffens, his jaw clenching as he feels pressure build within his chest. A lump forms at the back of his throat as his lip minutely trembles.

You’re a good kid, and I know you’ll nail whatever you put your mind to. If I’m being honest, I was surprised you chose the same major as me, even if I’m proud to see you follow in my footsteps. I think I always expected you to go into art. Maybe I didn’t do a very good job of telling you that I’ll support you no matter what you chose, I just want you to be happy. Or maybe you like history more than I realized! I did make it pretty fun to learn, hey? Maybe I’m a better professor than I thought, haha!

Sukuna’s eyes burn and he blinks, rubbing them with a thumb and forefinger. He stares for a moment down at his hand, wet with warm tears that he can’t feel running down his cheeks, his face otherwise numb from the tension of his grinding teeth.

I wish I could continue to watch the three of you grow. You’re so good with your brothers, it’s always made me happy to see Choso follow you and Toji around. I know I’m supposed to scold you for spray painting around him, but I was just happy to see you including him. Someday, maybe that’ll be Yuji that Choso is including with his friends. Keep an eye on them for me, yeah?

I know you and your step-mom had your fair share of issues, but she told me she’d look out for you. She’s coming back, and she said she’ll make sure there’s space for all three of you until

Sukuna blinks. He flips the page, but the text simply… ends. He inhales shakily as he scans the front of the paper again as though he somehow missed the rest of the letter, but there’s nothing more. Sure, he was nearly at the bottom, but he couldn’t have meant to end it there, right?

You sit with your hands in your lap as you quietly watch Sukuna read the folded paper you’d set aside. You watch as he flips it once, twice, his jaw set with tension and eyes reddened with the streaks of the tears that have run down his cheeks as he searches for something. When he doesn’t find what he’s looking for, he sets the paper aside and drops down to his knees on the floor across from you, beginning to pull documents out of the box, scrutinizing each one.

Your lips purse as his movements grow increasingly urgent, no longer setting the paperwork aside but rather tossing it. Sitting up on your knees, you shuffle towards him, frowning as you gather the paperwork back together into a pile where he’s tossed it aside.

“Is everything okay?” You ask softly, but he’s so caught up in whatever it is that he’s searching for that your words barely register in his mind.

Hospital discharge papers, prescription information, insurance claims, legal documents, that damn obituary that he’s still ashamed of.

It didn’t matter how many times he rewrote it, Sukuna had always been bad with words. There was nothing overtly personal about it, about as generic as an obituary gets, and fuck Jin deserved better than that. His hand trembles as he stares at the paper, unaware of his own strangled gasps as his grip tightens and the paper crinkles.

Attempting to prevent what feels inevitable, you sit up on your knees and attempt to take his hand and grab his attention. Before you can, the obituary slips from between his fingers and he continues digging through the box. His movements grow erratic, tossing paper anywhere in the hopes of finding something that answers the question of what remained to be said.

“Sukuna, stop,” you softly attempt to urge him as you reach for his hands, but he pulls away, intentionally dodging you. His breathing, the tears, his movements, it all grows increasingly manic by the minute, so you try again to reach out. This time, you’re faster. Your hands grip his wrists, gentle but firm as you momentarily halt his movements. “Stop,” you whisper.

“It has to be here, I-” he pauses, but you can tell even he isn’t really sure what he’s saying. “There has to be more.” With that, he pulls himself from your grasp and tosses the remaining neatly stacked paperwork from the box, searching whatever has fallen to the bottom as though there might be another tri-folded paper hidden as well as the first one was.

He sifts through long-dried sticky notes and half-crumpled hospital documentation, continuing to mutter to himself that there has to be more as he ignores every attempt you make to slow his movements and bring him back down to earth. When nothing seems to work and you find your own anxiety bubbling up into your throat at the sight of your friend- hell, the man you love- so broken, you do the only thing you can think of.

“Sukuna, please,” you beg, your voice barely above a whisper as your hands settle on his cheeks. They’re warm with his tears in contrast to your cold fingers, and you feel him stiffen under your touch, his movements coming to a halt. His chest rises and falls heavily as his fingers slow and the sticky note he was holding falls from the tips of his fingers. “Please,” you repeat quietly.

With labored breaths, his gaze rises to meet yours, flickering between your eyes as he searches for answers that he won’t find. Not with you, and not within the box. When he doesn’t find what he’s looking for, it’s then that he breaks. He grits his teeth harder, if that’s even possible, leaning on the edges of the box. He grips the cardboard so hard that one edge nearly collapses under the force of his hand as finally the tears in his eyes fall freely.

He’s deathly quiet, hot tears streaming down his cheeks and gathering along your palms as he blinks and averts his gaze. His face is warm with his frustration, confusion, and unadulterated melancholy, but the worst feeling of it all is chagrin.

If Jin only knew all the way Sukuna would let him down in the future, the brute’s not so sure his father would have written something of the sort.

You give Sukuna time to let everything he’d bottled up out in the open air and catch his breath, swiping away any stray tears with your thumbs as you keep your grip steady, fighting your own shakiness in order to do so. As his breathing evens, you slowly and carefully nudge the box between you off to the side and out of his grasp and shuffle forward. You let your fingers slide back through his hair and pull his face into your shoulder, letting him relax into you as you rake your fingers soothingly through pink strands.

His hands find purchase on your waist for a moment, before his arms slide around you. He pulls you closer, your body slotting against his like you belong, and he feels the slight vibration of your voice as you speak quietly.

“What was on the paper?”

You feel him swallow, his adam’s apple bobbing against your collarbone. “A letter,” he mumbles hoarsely. “From my dad.”

You nod slightly. “What else were you looking for?”

His grip on you tightens. “The letter-” he pauses, sighing against you, “- it’s not done.”

You shift slightly, looking over his head tucked into your shoulder to the letter folded on the couch. “Like, he didn’t finish writing it?”

He shakes his head against you. “It just ends.”

Nodding slowly, you turn your attention back down to Sukuna, who’s hunched forward in such a way that it can’t be comfortable given how much taller he is than you. “Can I read it?”

His chest rises and falls slowly. “Yeah.”

You pull back from him, sliding your hands back through his hair and down his cheeks with a solemn expression as you separate yourself from him to pick up the letter. Taking a seat on the couch, Sukuna plops down beside you, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

The feeling you would describe upon reading the letter is wistful. A musing sadness, mixed with a yearning desire for Sukuna to find peace. Ever since he told you of his father’s passing, you’ve sensed that he never really got the opportunity to grieve, to understand, and to forgive himself for the blame he’s clearly taken when no one is at fault.

Jin’s writing dissipates three quarters of the way down the page. There’s more than enough space for him to have continued, but time clearly wasn’t on Jin’s side, and he’d run out of it before he could finish. You can understand why Sukuna so desperately searched for an end to the letter, but seeing it for yourself, you know he won’t find it. You can see in his eyes that he knows that, too.

The letter may not offer any real parting words given that it’s unfinished, but you can only hope that it’ll offer your friend the closure he desperately seeks.

“Your dad seems really nice.”

His head tilts back to look at you as he nods.

“Was he the kind of dad that made a lot of jokes?”

“Constantly,” he mumbles. “Y’know what one of the last things he said to me was?”

You tilt your head at him.

He lets out a short breath through his nose, shaking his head at the mere thought. “He told me he was glad he made it through his book about anti-gravity.”

Your brow furrows momentarily, but when it comes to you, you find yourself with a small, wry, smile. “Because he couldn’t put it down?”

The faintest hint of a quirk pulls at the edge of his lips as he stares at the pile of paper scattered around your feet. “Guess that’s a common one,” he mutters.

You shrug with one shoulder. “My dad’s a connoisseur too.”

Sukuna’s gaze slides to the side as he eyes you through his peripherals. His hair falls forward over his forehead, blocking most of his view of you, but sharp crimson irises peek through the curtain of pink as he examines the gentle and caring look on your face. Raising a hand, he pushes his hair back, tilting his head more towards you as he catches a glimpse of the tired look you seem to be trying hard to hide, probably for his sake.

A pang of guilt tugs at his chest at the realization that everything has been so focused on him that he’s failed to ask about you.

Fuck, he thinks he may even have never asked about you. Surely he must have, but… he can’t think of a particular moment. The shame makes his skin crawl and he damn near wishes he could crawl right out of it in an effort to rid himself of the feeling.

Maybe he can at least right his wrongs now.

So, he tests the water. “What’s…” he pauses, still leaning forward on his knees. “What’s he like? Your dad.”

You blink a couple of times, glancing off to the side in thought. “He works hard. My parents both do. They work hard to make sure I can be here, in school. It’s why my scholarship is so important,” you begin, considering Sukuna’s question. “I guess… he’s a little bit strict, but he’s always been really supportive. Money is really tight, you know? But…” you pause, smiling, “him and my mom work extra hours to make sure I get to go to school. They help with everything the scholarship doesn’t cover.” You smile at the thought, staring down at the letter held within your hands. It’s clear that Sukuna’s dad felt the same way. “Your dad seemed really proud, too.”

You twist the conversation so naturally back to Sukuna, and he blinks as his opportunity to check in on you seems to dwindle, and he isn’t quite sure how to turn things back. Still, he replies. “Yeah. Back then, maybe.”

You frown, eyeing Sukuna’s contemplative scowl. “He’d still be proud, Kuna. I know it.”

Doing his best to brush past the nickname that he’s still struggling to handle, he sighs. “I don’t think he’d be thrilled to know I dropped out, or lost the kids.”

“None of that is your fault,” you point out, holding the letter pointedly towards Sukuna. He glances down at the paper, sitting upright and leaning over to look at it as you hold it out. “Kaori made promises she didn’t keep.”

“Maybe she really was sick.” The defeat in his tone is devastating from someone who holds that woman in the lowest possible regard.

“You don’t mean that.” You know he doesn’t. He knows he doesn’t. You turn slightly towards him on the couch, your gaze flickering around his reddened eyes and slightly puffy cheeks. “Why do you blame yourself for all of this?”

He doesn’t move for a moment, his brow twitching as his scowl deepens. You wonder briefly if he’s ever even thought about the answer to that question, if maybe it comes from a place of self-loathing so deep-seated that he’s never once stopped to consider it. Your question is quickly extinguished like a flame underwater when he doesn’t so much as waver when he replies.

“I don’t blame myself for his death, or the shit Kaori pulled,” he explains grimly, his eyes darkening a shade as somewhere within him a wall is broken down as he allows himself to be vulnerable with you. Truly, and utterly vulnerable. “I blame myself for the fact that I’m in this damn position to begin with.”

Unsure of the meaning behind his admission, you set a hand on his shoulder. “What do you mean?”

“I’m sure Kaori lied about a lotta shit,” he shrugs, staring ahead blankly at the wall behind the TV. “But everything she said about me was true. I didn’t…” he trails off, harshly raking his hands through his hair. “I didn’t even know Cho was being bullied.”

Frowning, you run your hand up and down his spine as he leans forward on his knees again. His eyes briefly flicker shut, a sense of calm flooding him as you attempt to soothe his nerves.

Sukuna allows himself a moment to bask in the silence. It’s funny, he thinks, how difficult it seems to let someone in, to air out your stress, and yet this is the first time since he lost the kids that his mind isn’t screaming at him. There’s no flood of self-deprecating thoughts or doubts, no ‘what if’s clawing at his throat and pressing down on his chest. It’s just open air and acceptance, because you never judge or pity him.

His eyes flicker back open, the dark circles beneath them more apparent now than ever. “When Dad died, I was so fuckin’ angry at the world,” he shakes his head, “I never meant to, but I took it out on Choso.” He shuffles to put his head in his hands. “I always wonder if I’m the reason he’s so quiet now,” he admits, muffled from behind his hands. “I know I’m all they had, but-” he shakes his head. “It doesn’t make all the doubts any easier.”

You shuffle closer to him, your thigh brushing his as you drape an arm over him in a makeshift hug. Your warmth and weight seems to lighten the pressure in his chest, even if only for a moment. Resting your cheek on his sculpted back, you run your thumb up and down his side softly. “You’re a good brother, Kuna,” you whisper. His muscles ripple beneath you, something you’ve begun to catch onto. “Your dad said so himself.”

He lifts his head from his hands, letting his eyes adjust for a moment before searching for the letter, settled in your lap. He sits upright, careful to let you slide off of his back without disturbing you too much. Slowly, he flattens the letter within his fingers again, listening only to the distant sounds of cars passing by outside the apartment. His eyes slowly move across the page as he takes in the words once more, settling within him with a sense of finality, rather than the anxiety that had threatened to drown him barely fifteen minutes ago.

You’re so good with your brothers.

With a long, deep inhalation, he grips the paper a bit harder.

Keep an eye on them for me, yeah?

Still, he frowns. He’d dropped out of school and lost his brothers. The two things his dad had asked of him. He can feel your eyes on him, examining the way he stares dejectedly at the scribbled words. He can see a question within those pretty irises of yours, held within the way you purse your lips. He answers before you can ask what he’s thinking.

“He asked me to look out for them, and I-” he shakes his head and shrugs, waving his hands through the air pointlessly.

You nod in understanding. “When do you get to visit them?”

Sukuna scoffs. “Today. She cancelled, shocker.”

Fuck. You had hoped that maybe she would prove both you and Sukuna wrong, but that’s clearly not the case.

“Dunno what the hell I’m supposed to do. There’s nothing here,” he gruffs, hopelessly motioning to the pile of paperwork scattered across the floor and within boxes. You know he has a point, there’s nothing here that won’t get the appeal request denied instantly as far as you can tell, but it’s not in your character to just give up.

It’s not who he is, either. But you hold the pieces of yourself close to your heart, while Sukuna’s are scattered across the floor with the paperwork at your feet. You can see it in the way he doubts himself, how he pauses whenever he gets a glimpse of a mirror, and now he’s flinching at the sound of his own nickname.

He’s lost himself.

“That’s not your fault. He wouldn’t blame you. He would see Kaori for who she really is,” you decide, steeling your own resolve as you attempt to take the blame from him and place it with whom it belongs.

He doesn’t reply, staring at the letter as he contemplates where it ends. He can only assume it was written at the hospital bed where his father passed, but how did Sukuna miss the letter? How did it end up in the box? Had he read it years ago and buried it so deeply within his psyche that it came across as new to him? Hollowly, he shakes his head at the mere thought. He’s not sure he could do such a thing. Not when this is the closest thing to closure that he’ll deem to get.

Silence hangs heavily over your heads, but the shared space held between you is comfortable. Your thighs are still pressed together, his bulky bicep brushing yours each time he shuffles. You help bear the weight of his troubles without so much as a peep.

It’s just who you are, and makes you far more fitting of the nickname he has for you, that he’s always thought was a little too sweet coming from him. Maybe it’s been more fitting than he thought all along, though.

“Are you okay, princess?” He asks out of the blue, finally finding the opportunity to ask the question that had been plaguing him for the better part of the last twenty minutes.

You straighten, eyes wide with confusion. “Yeah, why?”

Sitting upright, he tilts his head to get a better look at you. “You’re startin’ to look like me.”

Your brow furrows slightly as you try to make heads or tails of what he means. “Buff?” You ask lightheartedly.

“No, smartass,” he scoffs. “You wish.” He lets the teasing quip hang in the air for a moment before continuing. “Tired.”

“Oh!” You nod slightly, considering where he’s coming from. “Yeah, I guess. I’m fine though, really.”

Sukuna’s no fool, he can tell you’re hiding your emotions. He’s spent the better part of the last four years with a little brother who hides behind silence when he’s upset and in comparison to Choso, you’re easy to read. “C’mon, princess. Your turn,” he offers you the floor, waving his hand through the air as he leans back against the couch.

With pursed lips, you fiddle with your fingers uncertainly. Of course, he is right. You’ve been struggling a lot recently, and Kento’s told you time and time again that your emotions and stress are just as valid as Sukuna’s, even if his issues feel greater, but…

It doesn’t make it easier to admit to someone who you can’t even really say has seemed like himself in months.

“You don’t need to worry about it, Sukuna,” you brush him off, careful to use his full name. He doesn’t seem as bothered by it. His eye does twitch, but that might just be because you’re attempting to deflect.

You do so much for him, you push him to talk, and yet you won’t.

How frustrating.

Okay, so maybe he gets it, now. It is annoying.

“Princess,” he deadpans with an unimpressed curl to his lip. “What’s goin’ on?”

Sighing, you shake your head. “It’s not a big deal, really,” you attempt to brush off his concerns, but he’s staring at you pointedly now. “I just- um- I’m worried about my scholarship,” you admit. “But I’ll figure it out! It’s really not a big deal,” you quickly add before he can chime in.

He scowls in confusion. “What’s happening with your scholarship?” He queries.

“I- um-” you search for an explanation that doesn’t place the blame on him given that you’ve been helping him so much that your study time went to the wayside. “I missed a paper,” you sigh, deciding on something that might spare him a bit of stress. “It’s stupid, I thought it was due Wednesday but it was due Monday and the prof won’t let me make it up,” you shrug. “And now I’m kinda just behind.”

He nods slowly, staring down again at the letter in his lap. He sets it aside on one of the boxes, wrapping a bulky arm around your shoulders and giving you a squeeze. “If you’ve got a history class to study for, let me know.”

You chuckle. “Not this semester, but thanks, Kuna.”

He inhales sharply, nodding. His arm doesn’t move from its place as the both of you sit there, silently comforted by one another within your shared stress. Within the warmth of his arm, tucked into his side with your head resting on his pec, things don’t feel quite so bad.

That is, until the realization of just how close you really are sets in, and your poor heart begins to race and a pang of pain overtakes the comfort. You do what you can not to make a big deal of it, sighing as you sit back up and pull yourself from his grasp. You tell yourself it’ll be easier this way. It’s better you let yourself down than have him do it again. You’ll heal in due time, but you need to allow yourself the opportunity to do so. You need to separate the comfort you offer him from the confusing signals he sends you.

“I’ll handle this,” you offer in a mutter, looking for anything to create some space between the both of you as you slip down onto the floor and carefully gather the paperwork at your knees.

Sukuna examines you carefully, trying to make sense of where you stand as friends. It’s strange the way the lines seem blurred and one moment he’s certain you share his feelings, but the next moment… He watches the way you push away from him to gather the paper at your knees.

“I’ll help, just… gimme a moment,” he grumbles behind you, making his way to the washroom.

You breathe out a sigh when the door clicks behind him and the sink turns on. You shouldn’t even be thinking about a romantic relationship between all of the issues you’ve already got to deal with.

How are you even meant to think like that when Sukuna can’t bear the sound of the name that you and the kids call him? You scarcely catch a glimpse of the man you’ve grown so fond of over the last few months, the last thing he needs to add to his plate is romance.

Your eyes scan the contents of each of the pages before you as you sweep them up into a pile, heart sinking with the words strewn across each page, and the knowledge that Sukuna would have just barely been an adult as this was all happening. To need to list your own child as an emergency contact when they’re barely an adult is a terrifying thought.

Casting the thoughts aside, you finish gathering the last of the paperwork and shove it as neatly as possible into the box, taking the lid and shutting it before pushing it aside. Only a couple of documents aside from the letter were taken from the boxes, but Sukuna’s right to say they don’t consist of enough evidence to sway a court that’s clearly already under Kaori’s influence to Sukuna’s side.

Frowning, you take a seat on the couch once more, awaiting Sukuna’s return. You can still hear the sink running, so you find your eyes running along the familiar TV stand and shelves before you find your old GameCube tucked aside.

With Sukuna taking as long as he is, you take the opportunity to move the GameCube back to its original spot (conveniently in the center of the floor, of course) and flip open the disc reader, pulling out a Sonic game and popping in your old Animal Crossing game. Taking a seat back on the couch with an indigo controller in-hand, you wait for all the logos to finish crossing the screen before starting your old save file.

You occupy yourself with trying to figure out how to find bugs and catch neat fish once again when you finally hear Sukuna shut the water off and the handle of the door slightly jiggle. When he re-emerges, his hair is slightly damp near his forehead and a single drop of water drips from his chin to the hardwood below.

He takes in the somewhat cleaner living space and nods to you as thanks, taking a seat beside you and draping his arms across the back of the couch. His forearm brushes the back of your head as he blankly stares at the screen, watching as you run up to a little pink bear villager. An exclamation forms over her head as she notices you, before dropping what might be the funniest line Sukuna’s ever seen from a very family friendly game as the little bear proceeds to say ‘woah! You look so weird! And not weird in a hip way, either. More like, “weird” as in “makes me wanna barf.”’

He snorts. “Isn’t this game for kids?”

Giggling, you nod. “It is. They used to be really mean in the old games, though.”

Sukuna hums.

“Here, hold on.” You leave the dialogue with the bear villager, wandering around until you find the character that was your biggest hater when you were, like, seven. You spot the white cat with purple makeup and run over to her. “I spent so many hours as a kid trying to figure out how to get her to leave my town,” you explain.

“They can leave?”

“Mhmm,” you nod, doing little circles around her as you chat. “She made me cry as a kid, so I sent her hate mail-”

“Hold on,” Sukuna’s chest rumbles at the sheer amount of childhood information that one sentence just unloaded onto him. “You and your lil’ Flower character sent hate mail? You cried?”

You laugh harder, subconsciously leaning into him as he slides somewhat towards you. “Yeah, to both. She was really mean and my friend told me that’s how you get them to move away, so I wrote to her every day to tell her I hate her,” you speak through laughter, throwing your head back.

Even Sukuna seems himself for a moment with a tired smile as he chuckles alongside you, comfortably reclining his feet onto the coffee table. “Christ, princess.”

“The hate mail obviously didn’t work,” you add, finally approaching the cat and speaking with her. You can’t say you’re shocked when she says ‘what’s with you!! Get away from me! You smell!!’

Sukuna snorts again, his chest continuing to rumble with laughter. “Dunno. Maybe she’s right.”

Pouting, you shove Sukuna’s chest, but he hardly budges as he snickers at your side. You roll your eyes as you settle back into place, falling into easy conversation about the goal of the game and why you stopped playing as a kid.

For a moment, Sukuna doesn’t feel quite so hollow. As though maybe the piece of him that crumbled when his father passed can be mended with the revelation of the letter, and the piece of him that you keep within your heart is being held in place, just for a brief moment in time.

He finds himself staring at you more intently than usual, a calm, albeit weary look in his eyes. He settles comfortably into the couch, leaning back into the cushions and eyeing the way the green and blue tint of light from the TV illuminates your features and shines within your irises.

When it comes to you, Sukuna knows he’s a fool. He’s messed up so many times that the look of hurt on your face that he caused is something he knows he’ll be living with for a long time, but he feels like a fool now more than ever. He wants to think that maybe you still have feelings for him, he wants to think that maybe it isn’t just him that finds peace with you subtly tucked into his side, and yet…

You always pull away. And he can’t tell if you’re scared, or if you don’t feel the same way at all.

He frowns, staring down at his lap. Is he that much of a coward that he can’t just ask?

He contemplates it, examining the little content smile on your face.

Yeah, he thinks he is.

Yawning, you catch a glimpse of the time on your phone. “I should probably get going,” you say softly, saving the game and quitting. Sukuna grunts quietly, yawning himself. His eyes don’t leave you as you begin gathering your belongings, shrugging a jacket over your shoulders. “What do you think you’re gonna do next?” You query as you pull your keys from your bag.

He shrugs. “Dunno,” he admits quietly. “Guess I’ll talk to my lawyer again,” he sighs, shrugging hopelessly. “I think my only option is to sue her for not lettin’ me see the kids for visitation.”

You frown. It’s not ideal in the slightest, nor is it what any of you want, but at least he isn’t completely giving up. In fact, he seems okay right now. His breathing is deep and even and his jaw isn’t set with tension. There’s even a sliver of the Sukuna you’ve grown to care very deeply for peeking out at you.

“I’ll let you know what the lawyer says. Maybe there’s another way,” he mumbles from where he sits on the couch.

In comparison to the complete and utter defeat he’d been struggling with, this is a positive change. He’s more present than you’ve seen him in ages, and the drive to do right by his brothers has a flame lit beneath it once more, even if it’s not the brightest.

You smile softly. “Sounds good. See you at work Tuesday?”

“Mm. See ya, princess.”

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

❦ a/n ; i got a little carried away again with this chapter again LOL i hope everyone enjoyed the long chap!! this was such a challenging chapter to write when it came to keeping sukuna in character, while exploring different parts of his life, times when he wasn't quite so angry. the way he's grumbly and tired but still kinda happy at his grad might be one of my fave scenes tbh

i also really enjoyed writing for jin, even if it was just a bit. adding the little pieces of his personality to the letter was such a bittersweet moment as a writer to kinda wrap up a character i've teased so often :') i love these characters sm

anyway, thank you all for sticking with me for my very long and very slow burn LOL, ily guys and i hope you all enjoyed <33

❦ taglist ; OPEN. please comment here or on the masterlist if you would like to be tagged. age MUST be easily visible on your blog.

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

[thef1diary]

Fill Me Up | C. Sainz

Kinktober 5/11 - Breeding Kink

Summary: Your husband, Carlos, realizes how much he wants to see you pregnant with his baby.

warnings: 18+ smut, mentions of pregnancy obvs, unprotected sex, husband!carlos, lil bit of body worship

wc: 3.2k

kinktober masterlist

© thef1diary 2024. all rights reserved. Do not copy, steal, translate, or repost any of my work

The Mediterranean air was cool as it drifted through the open balcony doors, carrying the scent of the sea into the bedroom. The soft sound of waves crashing against the cliffs below your villa was the only noise breaking the peaceful silence. 

You lay nestled against your husband’s chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat lulling you into a serene haze. His arm rested lazily over your waist, fingertips grazing your skin underneath your blouse in absentminded circles. The room was awash in the amber glow of the setting sun, casting shadows that danced lazily across the walls, making everything feel soft and intimate. 

Carlos murmured your name softly, the rich, deep timbre of his voice stirring something in you as it always did. His accent, thick and sultry, curled around each syllable like a caress. You tilted your head up, meeting his gaze, a small smile tugging at your lips. 

“Have you ever thought about what’s next for us?” He asked, his voice gentle but laced with an unmistakable undercurrent of anticipation. 

You raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued as you propped yourself up on one elbow, searching his face. “What’s on your mind, love?” you teased, your lips curving into a grin. “I mean, I already have a ridiculously handsome husband who spoils me to no end… what more could there be?”

Carlos let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head while a smile graced his lips. “I love spoiling you, cariño.”

You leaned in, pressing a playful kiss to the tip of his nose. “Mhm, I know,” you murmured against his skin, feeling the warmth of his smile as he grasped your left hand, his thumb brushing over the diamond that glistened in the fading sunlight. 

His gaze dropped to your ring finger, lingering there as his expression softened. He brought your hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to the base of the ring, where it met your skin. 

“I love spoiling you,” he repeated, his voice lower now, more serious. “But there’s something else I’ve been thinking about.”

The shift in his tone made your heart skip a beat. You tilted your head, searching his eyes, feeling the sudden intensity of the moment. “What is it, Carlos?”

“I’ve been thinking…” he began, his words deliberate, measured. “About spoiling someone else, too.” His eyes flickered with meaning, the weight of his words hanging between you.

You felt a sudden rush of warmth flood your chest, your breath catching in your throat as the implication of what he was saying began to sink in. “Someone else?” you echoed, your voice barely above a whisper, already sensing where this conversation was leading.

Carlos nodded, his thumb still tracing circles on the back of your hand. “I want to spoil our child, cariño,” he admitted, his voice dropping to a husky murmur. “I want to start a family with you.” 

The words hung in the air, charged with the same magnetic energy that always seemed to exist between you and him. You blinked, a thousand emotions swirling inside you all at once—surprise, excitement, desire, and that unmistakable longing that had been quietly growing within you, even if you hadn’t fully acknowledged it until now.

Carlos shifted underneath you, his hand sliding from your palm to rest on your stomach, his touch warm and possessive. “I want to see you carrying our baby,” he whispered, leaning forward just enough for his lips to graze your temple. “Want to give you everything… including the family we’ve always dreamt of.” 

You took a deep breath, your hand coming to rest over his where it splayed across your stomach. “I’ve thought about it too,” you confessed, your voice low and thick with emotion. “Maybe a couple of kids… hopefully with your fluffy hair and those big brown eyes. Getting to see you become a father… that’s always been the plan.”

Carlos’ grip tightened slightly as you spoke, his gaze locked on yours with a fire that made your heart race. But even as you spoke, you couldn’t help the question bubbling up inside you, the slight confusion that tinged the edges of your joy. “But… where did this suddenly come from?”

His hand slid lower on your waist as he gently maneuvered you onto his lap, his back resting against the headboard. His strong arms wrapped around you, pulling you flush against his chest. The new position made your heart pound faster, the intimacy of it filling you with warmth.

He didn’t respond, which caused you to lean back a bit, narrowing your eyes as you pressed the back of your hand against his forehead, pretending to check for a fever.  

“Are you feeling okay?” you teased, your voice light and full of mock concern. “You’re not running a temperature, are you? Because this doesn’t sound like my Carlos. Last I checked, we were on the ‘wait and see’ plan.”

He let out a low chuckle, his lips curving into that devilishly handsome smile that always made your heart skip a beat. Carlos gently grabbed your wrist, pulling your hand away from his forehead, but not before pressing a kiss to your palm.

“I’m perfectly fine, cariño,” he murmured, his eyes glinting with mischief. “But you can check me all you want if it means you’ll be this close.”

You rolled your eyes with a laugh, playfully pushing against his chest, but he was having none of it. His hands slid up your sides, holding you firmly as he leaned forward, gently turning you on your back. The cool sheets beneath you contrasted with the heat of his body hovering above, and your pulse quickened, the intensity between you crackling like electricity in the air.

He looked down at you, his gaze locking onto yours while his hands, firm and sure, settled on either side of your head, caging you in as he lowered himself just enough for his breath to ghost over your lips.

“Do you want this too?” Carlos’ voice was low, a husky murmur that sent a shiver down your spine. 

Without hesitation, you reached up, threading your fingers through his thick, dark hair, pulling him down until your lips met in a searing kiss. The hunger in it was undeniable, your body arching up into him as you deepened the kiss, tasting the desire and the promise in his every move. 

When you finally pulled back, breathless and flushed, you stared up into his eyes, your voice barely above a whisper but filled with every ounce of need you felt.

“Put a baby in me,” you murmured, your words bold and breathless as your hand trailed down his back, fingers grazing over the toned muscles that tensed under your touch. “Right here… right now. I want it, Carlos. I want everything with you.”

Carlos let out a low, guttural moan at your words, his hips pressing hard against yours, his control slipping as you felt the full weight of his desire through his pants. 

“Dios, cariño… you’re going to look so perfect, carrying our baby,” he mumbled, his voice rough and dripping with lust.

His hands moved with purpose, sliding down your sides to tug at your clothes, pulling them away from your body as fast as he could. The cool air hit your skin, but you barely felt it—your body burning for him, for the promise he’d whispered into your ear.

Carlos’ gaze lingered as his hands roamed over your bare skin, rough fingers tracing a path from your collarbone to the soft curve of your breasts. His breath hitched, eyes darkening with desire as he cupped you gently, thumbs brushing over your sensitive nipples. The sensation sent a shiver down your spine, making you arch into his touch.

“Look at you…” he murmured, his voice low and filled with reverence as he massaged your breasts, his touch both tender and possessive. “You’re already so perfect… but when you’re pregnant, cariño…” His eyes flicked up to meet yours, and the hunger there made your pulse race. “Your tits will be even fuller, and I won’t be able to keep my hands off you.”

His words sent a jolt of heat straight to your core, your body responding instantly to the way he worshipped you. Carlos leaned down, his lips grazing your skin as he kissed the tops of your breasts, his breath warm and ragged against you.

“They’ll be sensitive… aching for me to relieve the pain,” he continued, his voice rough as he squeezed you gently, his thumbs teasing your nipples until you gasped. “And I’ll be there to make sure you feel good… every single day.”

A low moan escaped your lips, your hands gripping his biceps as he continued his slow, deliberate worship of your body, each word from his mouth stoking the fire building inside you.

Carlos lifted his head, his lips brushing yours in a soft, fleeting kiss before he pulled back, his eyes locking onto yours once more. “You want that, don’t you?” he whispered, his voice thick with lust. “You want to feel me inside you, filling you up until you’re carrying my baby… until your body is mine in every way.”

Your fingers dug into his shoulders as you arched up, pressing your chest against his, needing more of him—needing all of him.

“Yes,” you breathed, your voice low and filled with need. “I want it… I want all of it, Carlos. I want you.”

Carlos groaned at your words, his control slipping further as his hands moved lower, gripping your hips as he settled between your legs.

“I’m going to give it to you,” he whispered, his voice dark and full of promise. “You’re going to feel me, every inch of me, until I’m deep inside you… filling you up.”

You moaned at the raw intensity of his words, your hands sliding down his back, pulling him closer, needing to feel him, to be consumed by him.

Your hands moved with urgency, sliding down his back before pushing at his shirt, needing to feel more of his skin beneath your fingertips. Carlos helped you, sitting back for just a moment to pull the fabric over his head, revealing the hard planes of his chest and the toned muscles of his arms. The sight of him, all broad shoulders and strength, made your mouth go dry.

He leaned back down, pressing his lips to your neck as you fumbled with the waistband of his pants. Your fingers trembled slightly, driven by the heat building between you, and Carlos smirked against your skin, his breath hot and teasing.

“Eager, cariño?” he teased, his voice a low rumble against your throat.

You let out a soft laugh, though it was shaky, your fingers finally succeeding in pushing his pants down his hips. “You have no idea,” you murmured back, biting your lip as you felt him, hard and ready, pressing against you through the thin fabric of his boxers.

Carlos groaned as you reached down, palming him through the material, his hips jerking into your hand in response. “Fuck…” he breathed, his voice rough with need. “You keep doing that, and I won’t be able to take my time with you.”

You smiled, leaning up to nip at his jaw as you slid your hand into his boxers, your fingers wrapping around him, feeling just how much he wanted you. “Who said I wanted you to take your time?” you whispered against his skin.

His hips bucked into your hand at your words, and you could feel him, hard and throbbing against your palm.

Carlos pulled your hand away, pinning it above your head as he lowered himself back down over you, his free hand sliding along your thigh, spreading you open beneath him. “You’re such a tease, but I’ve waited long enough,” he murmured, his voice thick with need as he positioned himself between your legs. “I want you now.”

Your heart raced, your breath catching in your throat as he leaned down, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that was more intense, more urgent than before. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the tension in his body as he hovered just above you, holding back for only a moment.

And then, with one slow, deliberate thrust, he was inside you.

A gasp tore from your lips, your body arching up to meet him as he filled you completely, the feeling of him deep inside making your mind go blank for a second. Carlos groaned low in his throat, his hips grinding against yours as he buried himself to the hilt, his breath hot and ragged in your ear.

“Fuck… you feel so good, so wet” he mumbled, his voice strained with pleasure. He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, the intensity of his gaze making your pulse race. “You’re perfect, cariño. So fucking perfect.”

You moaned softly, your fingers gripping his shoulders as you moved with him, your bodies falling into a slow, steady rhythm that built with each thrust. Every movement sent a new wave of pleasure crashing over you, your body responding to him in ways that left you dizzy and breathless.

His hand slid down to your lower stomach, pressing lightly as he groaned against your skin.

“You feel that?” he rasped, his voice dark and full of desire. “Feel how deep I am inside you… I’m going to fill you up, just like you asked.”

Your breath hitched as Carlos’s hand pressed against your lower stomach, the weight of his touch amplifying the sensation of him buried deep inside you. His words sent a shiver racing down your spine, every syllable dripping with raw desire. You could barely think, your mind clouded with the overwhelming feeling of him—how he filled you completely, pushing you closer to the edge with every movement.

“Yes,” you whispered, voice trembling with need, your fingers clawing at his back as you arched into him. “I feel it… I want it, Carlos. I want you to fill me.”

A low groan escaped him, his hips grinding harder against yours in response to your plea. His lips found the sensitive spot on your neck, trailing slow, heated kisses as he began to thrust deeper, each movement purposeful and powerful. The friction, the pressure, sent shockwaves of pleasure through your body, leaving you breathless.

His lips grazed your earlobe, sending a shiver straight down your spine, making you clench around him. He hummed, pressing a kiss behind your ear, “squeezing me so tight, cariño, I could stay inside you forever.”

Just as you thought the pleasure couldn’t get more intense, Carlos’s hand slipped lower, his fingers finding your clit. He teased you, drawing gentle circles that made you gasp, every touch sending electricity through you. As his fingers worked their magic, he leaned down, his mouth finding your nipple. He licked and nipped at the sensitive peak, his tongue swirling with a heated urgency that drove you wild.

The tension inside you coiled tighter, your body responding to him with every touch, every word. You could feel your release building, the pleasure tightening in your core as Carlos pushed you closer and closer to the edge.

“I’m so close,” you gasped, your voice barely above a whisper. Your nails dug into his back, desperate to hold on as you lost yourself in him. “Don’t stop, please… I need it.”

“Then cum for me, cariño,” he urged, his fingers never relenting on your clit while his mouth continued to suck and tease your nipple. “I want to feel you break apart around me.”

With the combination of his thrusts, his fingers, and the heat of his mouth, you felt yourself spiraling toward ecstasy, every sensation amplifying until you couldn’t hold back any longer.

“Carlos!” you cried out, your body quaking as pleasure washed over you in waves, your orgasm crashing down with an intensity that took your breath away. You felt him groan in response, the sensation of him filling you with his cum driving you even higher as your body clamped around him, squeezing tightly as he rode out your release.

He buried himself deep inside you, his fingers still working on your clit until you were completely spent, trembling beneath him as he kissed you softly, his lips lingering over your skin. “You’re amazing,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “Absolutely perfect.”

For a moment, you both lingered in that afterglow, bodies entwined, breaths mingling as you basked in the warmth of each other. Your fingers drifted over the planes of his back, feeling the steady rhythm of his breath beneath your palm, while his gaze remained fixed on yours, a small, tender smile playing on his lips. He reached up to brush a strand of hair away from your face, his touch featherlight and intimate.

Carlos’ presence enveloped you like a cozy blanket, and the sensation of him deep inside you sent soft waves of pleasure through your body. 

With a slow, deliberate movement, he pulled back, his cock slipping free from your body. The emptiness that followed made you whimper softly in protest, a sound that drew a low chuckle from him as he glanced down at the evidence of your shared pleasure pooling between your thighs.

“We can’t let any of this go to waste,” he murmured, his voice a deep rumble that resonated through the quiet room. His smirk widened as his fingers traced a path down to the mess between your legs, gathering the remnants of his release. The touch of his warm skin against your sensitive folds sent a shiver coursing through you, and when he pushed the slick mixture back into your clenching heat, you gasped, the intimacy of the act making your pulse quicken.

As he withdrew his fingers, you caught his wrist, guiding his hand to your lips. Your gaze locked with his as you wrapped your mouth around his cum-coated fingers, licking them clean with deliberate slowness. 

A playful smile tugged at your lips as you released his hand, your fingers tracing a gentle line along his jaw. “You know,” you murmured, voice low and teasing, “it might take a couple of tries for you to get me pregnant.”

Carlos’ eyes darkened with a mixture of amusement and desire, his hand still resting on your hip as he leaned closer, his breath brushing warmly over your lips. “That’s alright,” he replied, his voice a rich, gravelly whisper. “In fact…” His fingers dipped lower, tracing lazy, suggestive circles over your still-sensitive skin, “I’d say the practice is half the fun.” 

Your breath caught as he dipped his head down, capturing your lips in a slow, heated kiss that spoke of lingering hunger. His other hand moved to rest on your lower stomach, and you could still feel the phantom sensation of him filling you, of being stretched and claimed. When he pulled back, his mouth barely an inch from yours, he whispered, “Besides, I plan on savoring every single attempt until we get it just right.”

The promise in his tone sent a thrill racing through you, the implication that this wouldn’t be the last time he would fill you, over and over again, until you were heavy with the proof of his desire.

“Then why don’t we put in a little extra practice tonight?” you murmured, your voice carrying a teasing edge as your fingers traced the line of his jaw. “I want to make sure we get it just right too.”

Taglist: @cheer-bear-go-vroom @ggaslyp1 @nominsgirl @moll1701 @mrs-saturday @teamnovalak @sassy-chan @ruti26-11 @kennysimp101 @falling-feels-like-flying @laeblue @tremendousstarlighttragedy @bountychanti @savewaterdrinkvodka @cloud-55 @aarchiives @holylovercopsludge @black-fireproofs @lazydragonpeach @biancathecool @myownwritings @rebelatbay @ethereal0810 @leclercsluvs @01rrdbull @fallingforfalll2 @lilorose25 @jaeger-chan

[azaleassence]

Party 4 u

part 2

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

summary: ever since you joined The Avengers, you always found Bucky attractive and interesting. call it love at first sight maybe. during your time in The Avengers, you'd always go over your limit when he's around-- wishing to just impress him. but despite everything, every show-off, every flirtatious comment you throw at him, every mention of your name-- he never gave you at least a bit of his attention. it wasn't until your birthday when you decided you were done. the last string pulled? him not coming to your birthday. you lived your life knowing that he never got the hint but... a part of him knew.

warnings: yearning!reader x actingoblivious!character, slight angst if you squint, mentions of alcohol and getting drunk, no use of y/n, desperate and longing reader

a/n: this is my first song-oneshot, I've gotten a sudden liking to avengers, bucky specifically :p

length: 1.3k

Watching as the place you rented out slowly filled up with people you've invited; greetings and hugs seemed never-ending.

Your eyes scanned the room as you looked for the people you've invited first, the Avengers. Your eyes landed on the corner party booth as a smile perked up on your lips. Moving through the crowd, you gradually made it to the booth.

"I'm so glad you guys came." You expressed as Natasha stood up from the booth and engulfed you in a hug.

"Of course we'd come, can't miss this day for the world." She responded as she pulled away from the hug and patted you on your lower middle back.

[I only threw this party for you]

You looked at the booth, confused as two people were missing from the team.

"Where's Cap and Bucky?" You asked, trying hard not to seem so concerned for the two.

[I was hoping you'd come through]

"Steve messaged me and told me that they'd get here late, dealing with Bucky's problems." Sam responded as he turned his phone off.

"Problems? Did something happen?" You ask as you took a seat beside Natasha and grabbed one of the shot glasses. 

"Don't know, Steve didn't say." Sam shrugged as he took another swig of his beer from the glass he was holding.

"Why, concerned?" Natasha piped in as you turned to look at her with a face giving a silent warning to not continue what she was implying.

[I'm about to party on you]

"No, just wondering." You swiftly covered up as you downed the shot of alcohol you grabbed from the table, wincing as the strong taste hits your throat. "That's god awful. What is this?" 

"That was a shot of Everclear, Natasha was making a drink." Clint looked at you with a half-disgusted face that you downed a shot of one of the most strongest alcohol and half-concerned face.

"Well, shit." You chuckled at yourself before grabbing one of the alcohol bottles present on the table and poured yourself a shot.

The night progressed, shots were drank, and bottles were downed to the last drop. 

[One thousand pink balloons]

You were leaning back on the booth as they continued to talk about a story you couldn't care less about. The alcohol may have burned your throat but they can't burn up all the pain in your chest. The dress you wore, the makeup that took you 2 hours to do, the place you waited months to get a reservation for-- they all went to waste.

[DJ with your favorite tunes]

It was already some time after 11 and yet the seat in front of you remained empty. The DJ had played music you had requested him to play multiple times during the night only for the sole purpose that Bucky would hear it. Why? Maybe because you overheard him talking about it to Sam.

[Birthday cake in August, but you were born nineteenth of July]

[Champagne pourin' in your mouth]

You drowned yourself shot after shot all while Natasha and the rest of The Avengers trying to stop you but unfortunately for them, your stubbornness is enhanced more when you're drunk.

[Called your friends from out of town]

The booth where The Avengers was sitting was nowhere close to stopping drinking just like how Bucky was nowhere to be found. An hour ago, Steve had already made it to the bar but alone, no sign of Bucky. An unfamiliar ache pierced through your heart as you covered it up with drinking more alcohol. You were already used to this so why did it hurt now? 

[Got the party bag with the purple pills]

With another raise of your hand, you ordered more beer, more shots, and more alcohol to be placed on your table. Better to drown your sorrows now, right?

[And I'm waiting for you by the window]

[Called your digits but the phone kept ringing]

You hastily grabbed your phone from your pocket, almost dropping it as you pulled it out. You blinked multiple times, trying to focus as you inputted your password. As if out of habit, your thumb immediately clicked on the icon of the messages app and instinctively at Bucky's contact.

[Wish I knew what you were thinking]

You stared at your phone for a good 5 minutes before typing a poorly written message for him. Satisfied at what you wrote, you sent the message before turning your phone off.

[Hope you walk in the party]

You pushed your phone back to your pocket, or so you thought. You divert your attention to the entrance door as it remains untouched without a trace of Bucky. Your heart pounded in your chest as you tried to calm yourself down.

You only threw this party to get noticed by him, but he didn't even pop in for a minute. 

[Cause I threw the party just for you.]

Feeling sick to your stomach, you excused yourself as you made your way to the door that leads to the rooftop to get fresh air. Wasted, you stumbled your way to the door and pushed it open as you were greeted with a cold breeze.

Your eyes were basically closing as you walked to the railings and enjoyed the little peace up there all while the muffled songs from the DJ Stand continued playing behind you. You held yourself with both your hands holding the railing.

All the city lights were blurry in your eyes and before you knew it, tears started to roll down your eyes. The unfamiliar feeling of the tears made you confused as you held up one of your hands to touch your wet cheek.

A short laugh escaped your mouth out of disbelief as you inhaled a sharp breath. You hated this unfamiliar feeling, loathed it even.  You were confused as to why everything was happening, confused why you're so affected, confused why out of everyone-- it just had to be him.

It wasn't long until you leaned against the railing, your eyes drying up as the tears that left them slowly dry up due to the cold air of the night sky. Despite the continuous shots you've taken, you found yourself slowly sobering up yet still a bit tipsy.

You took notice of the sound of the rooftop door opening then closing. You wished it was a random staff who'd ignore you because if it was anyone else you knew, your peace would be interrupted. The unknown figure stopped a few inches far from your right as they too gazed at the city lights under them.

You didn't take your eyes off of the view and ignored the presence of the individual beside you, thinking that they also wanted peace. Yet that peace was interrupted when you looked at your peripheral and saw a familiar metal arm leaning against the metal railings of the rooftop.

"Bucky?" You breathed out as you raised your head to look at the unknown-known individual beside you.

[Party on you...]

part 2

[gorgeys]

purple tongues ★ mari ibarra x fem!reader

some couples measure their love in pictures, or flowers, or kisses.  you and mari measure yours in slurpees.

word count: 2700 warnings: maybe mari a little ooc?

a/n: this is barely edited so it's a little rough around the edges

also this is supposed to be the first part of that big mari fic i was teasing here. i started writing a part 2 with more snapshots of mari and reader's relationship in the future but it might never get done who knows.

missing my shayla sm 💔💔

it started the night before everything began.  the night before you left for nationals.

you and mari had ditched the bonfire party early on, mari claiming "this looks like a scene out of can't hardly wait, minus anyone fuckable."  instead, the two of you walked down the lonely, dark neighborhood roads, music fading out of earshot and hands brushing with each step.

mari filled the silence by making fun of everyone's outfits that night just to hear you laugh.  you filled the space by leaning into her side and finally grabbing her hand, which left mari's heart thumping against her rib cage.  until you both stumbled across wiskayok's only 7/11.

sure it was cramped and old and smelled like weed, but the way mari opened the door for you and drawled "after you, milady," made it seem like the fanciest place in town.  you laughed all the way to the slurpee machine, mari guiding you with a hand on the small of your back, where you both reached for big gulp cups.

"half cherry, half coke," you say, filling your cup to the brim.  "just like god intended."

mari scrunches up her nose in disgust, but it's more cute than anything.

"no, no, no.  see, you gotta get blue raspberry like a real adult," mari says as if she's enlightening you.

"yeah, right."  you roll your eyes, but your smile speaks volumes.

she grabs a few crumpled dollar bills from the back pocket of her jeans and throws them down on the counter like it's not even a question that she's paying for you.  then she tugs you by the hand out the door and finds a nice spot on the curb illuminated by the overhead streetlight.

she outstretches her legs and lazily leans back on one hand, the other bringing the straw to her lips.  she moans dramatically after taking her first sip.

"enjoying that?" you ask, glancing over at her with a raised eyebrow.

"oh yeah," she says, grinning back.  "a thousand calories and enough artificial sweetener to kill a horse.  nationals here we come!"

you laugh, the sound mari's come to love so much, before taking a sip of your own.

there's a beat of silence.  it's something mari used to hate, but has come to understand since meeting you.  she actually finds herself enjoying the quiet when it's shared with you.  still she's always one to break it.

"isn't this so much better than getting puked on by randy walsh?" 

you look over at her and grin.  because yeah, that had actually happened last year and she would spend the rest of her years teasing you about it.  but you also smiled because there was no one else you'd rather be with.

"yeah, it really is," you say, breathlessly and genuinely.

when mari turns and sees the way you're looking at her, full of love and everything she doesn't think she deserves, she feels like her heart might as well jump out of her chest and into your hands. because mari, whose first language is sarcasm and shit talking, somehow harbors a soft spot in the shape of you.

"don't look at me like that," she says, but her words lack the bite they usually have.  her eyes flicker down to the asphalt, a similar smile spreading across her face.

you lean in closer, lowering your face so she's forced to meet your eyes.  mari's the opposite of shy, so you can't help but take advantage of moments like this, when she's nervous to show how much she really cares.

"like what?" you ask, a teasing edge to your voice.  like you already know what she's going to say.

"like you love me or something," she says, trying and failing to sound casual.  she looks back up at you, leaning back on her hand with that easy smirk.

"but i do," you say, resting your cheek against your knee, still smiling up at her.

"obviously, you dork."

a breathy chuckle pushes past your lips before you cup her face in your free hand.  your lips meet hers halfway in a strong, sure kiss.  it's not perfect by normal standards --both of your lips are freezing and taste like artificial sweetener and you can hear boys shouting on the other side of the parking lot.  but in that moment, it feels perfect to the both of you.

when mari pulls back she grins like she's just won the lottery.

"i love you too," she says, the words rolling off her tongue more naturally than her own name.

you smile, reaching down and interlacing your fingers with hers on the pavement.  you don't have the guts to say it, but a part of you is thinking it: maybe this could be forever.

if you had known that was going to be your last taste of normal, you would have stayed there even longer, would've bought mari another slurpee, would've kissed her one more time under the neon sign of the store.  instead, you walked her home an hour or two later, kissing her cheek at the door and whispering how beautiful of a night it had been with her.

the next time you think about slurpees, you're a thousand miles deep in the canadian wilderness.  you're starving, borderline freezing to death, and you've just watched your closest friends die.

you're tucked under as many blankets as you could find, legs tangled with mari's beneath them as you try to keep out the cold of the approaching winter.  your faces are so close that you can feel her warm breath fanning against your nose, a welcome reminder that she's still there.  she can feel your hand trembling as it holds onto her arm and the way you stiffen each time a strong gust of wind enters the hut, as if you're waiting for something bad to happen.

you think she might be asleep until you feel her fingers start to trace your cheekbone.  her touch is so gentle you have to question if it's really there or if you're just imagining it.

"do you remember our last night?" she whispers.

you open your eyes, and from the way the moonlight reflects off of them, mari knows you do.

"i think about it all the time," she confesses.  "when i can't sleep, i just try to remember you that night.  how pretty you looked under the streetlight and how stupid i was for not telling you then."

your lips curl into a weak, sad smile.

"and how you threw your head back and laughed at everything i said, even when it wasn't funny.  and-and how everything felt perfect when you held my hand."

"mari..." you whisper, leaning forward so your forehead rests against hers.

"and how happy you were to just be there with me.  i'm scared i'll never see you like that again."

you squeeze your eyes shut, feeling the tears start to swell.  you haven't cried in a while, but as every sight, sound, and taste from that night comes rushing back to you, you suddenly realize how much you've lost.

"i'm scared too, mar," you say, hand moving from her arm to her cheek.  "and i don't know what to say to make it better."

mari exhales, shaky and slow, like she's trying to keep it together for you.

"you don't have to say anything.  it's just...my favorite memory.  you're my favorite memory.  even if you do get that disgusting cherry coke mix that tastes like battery acid."

"shut up," you laugh quietly, pushing her shoulder.  it's a small, broken laugh that catches on the edge of a sob.  "it's so good and you know it."

"yeah, whatever," she says, smiling wider than you've seen in a while.

"i think i'd cut off my left arm just to have another one of those," you sigh.

"what?  slurpee?"

"yeah, that.  but also just...another night with you."  your hand's cradling her neck now, holding her like she's the only thing you've got left.

"tell you what," she starts, voice nearly breaking.  her fingers brush your hair out of your face.  "first thing i do if we get rescued, i'm taking you back to that place.  i'm getting you your battery acid slurpee.  we'll sit on the curb and you'll hold my hand and i'll kiss you so hard our tongues turn purple.  we'll rewrite the memory.  i promise."

a loose tear trickles down your cheek as you nod your head. 

"deal," you whisper.  then mari leans forward and kisses the tear away.

"i love you."

"i love you more," you say, wrapping your arm around her as she buries her face in your neck.

you close your eyes and you see that image of mari: laughing, carefree, straw between her lips.  and for the first time, you let yourself imagine what it will be like after you're rescued, when you get to see that version of mari again.  and it's the first time you have a semblance of good night's sleep since the plane crash.

and then it finally happens.  rescue comes even though a part of you had given up on it entirely.  and mari's there, holding your hand through it all.  from the hospital, to the anxious plane ride home, to seeing wiskayok for the first time in almost two years.

and then, just like she promised, you're sitting the passenger seat of mari's car as she drives you back to that 7/11.  it's a quiet drive, one where you're staring out the window and taking in the sights and sounds of the town that hasn't changed a bit since you last saw it.  and mari's fingers are tapping anxiously against the steering wheel while her other hand rests in yours over the center console like a lifeline, grounding you when everything feels like too much.

when she finally pulls into the parking lot and puts the car in park, you both just sit there.  it looks exactly the same way it did on that night: neon sign outside, too-bright fluorescent lights inside, and the kids with their bikes loitering around the entrance.  it was as if time had frozen that night, and the store had been awaiting your return all these months later.

mari exhales a heavy breath from beside you.

"you good?" you murmur, eyes never leaving the store.  this feels like a dream.  one you thought you'd never get to fulfill.

"yeah, it's just...a lot," mari says.

it shouldn't be a lot.  it should just be a random 7/11 in some random boring town.  but to you and mari, it's everything.

"i know," you say, squeezing her hand.  "we don't have to if-"

"no, i want to.  i've been waiting to.  it's all i've been thinking about for two years and now it's here."  she looks over at you and smiles.  "come on, let's go."

she gets to the door first and holds it open for you.

"after you, milady," she says, just like last time, except her voice is softer and more careful now.  it's a small but sharp reminder that you'll never get back the innocence you once had.

you don't throw your head back in laughter this time, you just smile, hand still in hers, tugging her inside after you.  the smell of weed hits you like a freight train, but for once, you don't mind.  you lead mari to the slurpee machine that's still in the same spot and you sigh when you see the flavors are exactly the same: cherry, blue raspberry, coke, and that weird sugar free green one that nobody gets.

"god, mar, i might cry," you say.  you expect her to tease you like usual, something about how much of a sap you are, but instead she releases your hand and holds your waist instead.

"me too," she says, resting her chin on your shoulder.  you spare her a smile over your shoulder before reaching for two of the largest cups.

"coke and cherry?" she asks.

"just like god intended," you say, pulling on the cherry lever.  mari watches you, no longer bothering to hide the fondness in her eyes.

she eventually heads for blue raspberry, telling you, "somethings never change."

"and i never want them to," you say.

"me neither," she says, looping an arm through yours and guiding you toward the unbothered cashier.

mari tries to pay but you're quicker this time.

"nope, i've had this debt for two years.  time to repay it," you say, sliding a couple crumpled bills of your own onto the counter.  you had been sure to grab them before you left the house just for this very occasion, so that, for once, you could be the one to take care of mari.

"it's two dollars, you idiot," mari teases before dragging you outside to the same spot on the curb under the same flickering streetlight.

the two of you wordlessly sit, knees brushing.  for once, the night air is warm and the sounds of wiskayok hum in the background and there's no weight on either of your shoulders, no fear.

"we're really here," mari says, leaning back on her hand like muscle memory.

"just like you promised."

"i didn't even know if we were going to make it out when i told you that," mari admits.

"i know," you say, elbows resting on your knees.  "but that didn't matter.  just thinking about it made everything a little less bad.  and now, being here, with you, it's better than i could've ever imagined."

she recognizes the way you're looking at her, like she hung the stars in your sky.  it's the same look you gave her that night, the one that made her heart jump and scared her a little.  except now she doesn't shy away. she melts right into it.

she lifts her cup in the air like it's something sacred.

"to making new memories," she says. 

you tap the rim of your cup against hers, making a plastic clinking sound.

"to us," you add. 

because that's what it's been all along, the two of you. and after everything, you know that's how it's going to stay: the two of you tethered, two halves of a whole.

you hold eye contact as you both take your first sips, until the slush hits her tongue and mari's eyes roll back in her head.

"oh my god, that's the best thing i've ever tasted," mari groans, dramatically throwing her head back in true mari fashion.

you can't even respond, you're chugging it so fast.  but then reality hits

"fuck!" you curse, squeezing your eyes shut and pressing your palm against your forehead.

mari turns to you, smirking as if watching you suffer is her favorite comedy.

"brain freeze?"

"yep," you wince.  "battery acid's never tasted so good."

mari laughs, setting her cup down on the pavement.  then she turns her body fully toward yours, like she's about to say something immensely serious.  but there's still that mischievous glint in her eye that tells you she's got something up her sleeve.

"now, time to fulfill the prophecy."

you blink at her and the sudden tone shift.

"what?" you ask, giving her a concerned look.  "are you going all lottie on me?"

"no, dummy, purple tongues," she says like it's the most obvious thing ever.  "i gotta keep my promise, don't i?"

a breathless, free laugh escapes your lips.  it's been so long since mari's heard it, she thinks she might cry.

"you're so stupid," you say, though you're already leaning in.

she grabs your face with both hands, still cold from holding the cup, and pulls you into a kiss.  it's not stolen like it was before.  now it's slow and timeless, but still certain.  she kisses you like she wants to steal back every moment she thought she'd never get with you.  and you're more than willing to let her.

"love you," you whisper against her lips, her hands holding you firmly and not letting you escape her.

"love you too," she whispers back before kissing you so hard you get dizzy.

and that's how your favorite tradition is formed: you, mari, slurpees, and a whole lot of love.

[norrisradio]

SOME KIND OF FAITH

LINE BY LINE ᝰ.ᐟ "I'm not a religious person but I do sometimes thing God made you for me." - sally rooney, normal people

ᝰ PAIRING: oscar piastri x reader | ᝰ WC: 1.6K ᝰ GENRE: fluff, angst, some religious themes, oscar yearns, mentions of australia 2025 ᝰ INCOMING RADIO: welcome to the first installment of line by line! super excited to bring all of your favorite quotes to life ꨄ︎ requested by anon!

send me an ask for my line by line event!

Oscar’s never been a religious man.

Not when his mum made him sit through Sunday mass as a boy in Melbourne, his little legs kicking the pew out of boredom. Not when the chaplain at boarding school passed around wafers that stuck to the roof of his mouth like paper. He was never moved by sermons or scripture.

But something shifted the first time he met you.

It was raining sideways the day you arrived—one of those rare cold weeks where the wind curled under the doors and the air smelled like damp textbooks and wet leaves. You’d transferred mid-term, shoes still caked with mud from wherever you were before. The hallway buzzed with whispers as you trailed the headmaster to your new dorm, expression unreadable and hair sticking to your cheeks.

Oscar was fifteen and mostly quiet. He liked things with order—lap times, smooth apexes, knowing exactly when to downshift. But you were chaos in sneakers. You rolled your eyes at the dress code and laughed too loud in the library. You asked him what he was always scribbling in the back of his notebook, and he lied, said it was maths. You caught a glimpse of a gear diagram and raised a brow. “That’s not maths. That’s obsession.”

He didn’t argue. You didn’t press. And that was the beginning.

Friendship came slow and steady, like watching frost melt in sunlight. One day he was ignoring you in Chemistry, the next you were shoulder to shoulder on the floor of the common room, arguing about whether Interstellar was overrated. You slipped into his life so easily he didn’t realize you were already a part of it until months had passed and your shampoo lived in his shower caddy. Until you were stealing his hoodies and he wasn’t asking for them back.

Now, years later, you’re still here. Not next to him, but close enough. Close enough to send voice notes that ramble and laugh and drift off like you're thinking aloud just for him. Close enough that his hands still remember the weight of your wrist during three-legged races at school carnivals, the smell of bonfire smoke in your hair when you fell asleep on his shoulder on that one frigid field trip.

He thinks about those things more often than he admits.

Oscar’s never been a religious man.

But he finds himself praying in traffic. To red lights that hold long enough for your voice to stretch across the Bluetooth. To quiet corners of hotel rooms, where the only thing he wants is to hear you laugh like the world hasn't chewed at your edges. To whatever force keeps you picking up his calls, even when you're half-asleep or halfway through dinner with someone who isn’t him.

He never says what he really means. Not directly.

And lately, he’s started to feel it again—that creeping, silent thing lodged in his ribs. That ache that doesn't quite have a name. Especially when you call him at 11:47 p.m., voice groggy and slow.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you say.

Oscar is thousands of miles away, in a hotel bed that smells faintly of bleach and stale air. He stares at the ceiling and closes his eyes like maybe, just maybe, you’ll appear there.

He doesn’t ask why you called him of all people. He just listens.

Sometimes you talk about your day. Sometimes about nothing at all. Tonight, it’s a story about some guy who tried to get your number at a conference—a guy who ordered for you without asking and called your job “cute.” You laugh about it, but Oscar hears the edge in your voice.

“Sounds... promising,” he says, but it comes out stiff. Like swallowing a stone.

You don’t notice. Or maybe you do and let him get away with it. You’ve always been kind like that.

There’s a pause. Not awkward. Just quiet.

You breathe into the receiver.

And not for the first time, he wonders if God is cruel — to make someone like you for him, and then keep you just out of reach.

He thinks it when you hum without realizing. When you say his name like it's a safe place. When your silences are the only kind that don't make him restless.

He never says it. Of course not. He just tells you to get some sleep, soft and low.

And when you do—when your breathing evens out and your side of the line goes still—he doesn’t hang up.

Just lies there in the dark. Listening.

As if you might stir. As if you'll whisper his name in your sleep. As if prayers ever worked for people like him.

Oscar’s never been a religious man.

But he starts bargaining with the sky the moment the rain begins to fall Sunday morning.

The plan had been simple. Seamless. Like the clean arc of a lap executed perfectly: maiden pole, win, you in the paddock. His home crowd thundering in his ears, champagne dripping from his suit, and you waiting for him at the barrier with that look that always melted him down to the screws.

It was supposed to mean something. He’d visualized it all week—crossing the line, holding your gaze as the national anthem played, telling you what he’s been holding in his chest for years, letting it spill finally, finally, now that he had something to give.

But the rain – the rain. 

It’s light at first, mist curling along the halo, soft enough to ignore. But it thickens during lap 40, silver threading through the clouds like a warning. He feels it in his chest before it even begins—the wrongness of it. The crack in the air.

Still, he clings to the plan.

You’d said yes to the race two months ago. Your first in person since uni. You’d booked flights around conference dates, rerouted your thesis schedule. You’d smiled when you said it, too—"Wouldn’t miss your home GP for anything, Oz."

And he had smiled back, because the timing felt divine. Like something had shifted in the universe just enough to make room for both of you again. He’d even practiced what he would say in the driver room after.

But then the rain came.

One corner. That’s all it took.

The rears locked just enough. The front twitched. The car was gone. Onto the grass, the gravel biting like teeth. Cheers turned to gasps. Gasps turned to the hiss of radio static and his own voice, low and stunned: “I’m off.”

He clawed it back. Ninth. Eight places from where he’d started. Every lap was a punishment he bore alone, helmet fogging, tyres screaming, the track never quite drying, never giving him what he needed.

And then there was media. Cameras, microphones, a parade of tight smiles and repeated questions—Walk us through the mistake. What were you feeling in that moment? Do you think you let the fans down?

He repeated the same phrases like rosary beads: "The rain caught us out." "It was my fault." "I should’ve handled it better."

Every word was a cut. Every smile, a lie.

He doesn’t know what he’ll do when he sees you. For a moment, he considers disappearing. Ducking the debrief. Flying straight back to Monaco. Avoiding the sting of it, the shame. He rehearsed a podium speech. Not this.

By the time he makes it to his driver room, his race suit feels like a wet second skin. His shoulders ache. He wants to disappear into the floor. He wants the world to stop spinning long enough for him to catch his breath.

He doesn’t expect you to be there.

But you are. Sitting quietly, back against the wall, a bottle of water balanced on your knee. You look up as he enters, eyes catching his like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like the universe hadn’t just tried to drag him under and failed.

You don’t say anything at first. Just look at him like he matters. Like he didn’t just choke in front of his whole country. Like he isn’t unraveling by the seams.

And then you whisper it.

Soft. Gentle. “Oscar.”

And it breaks him. That’s all it takes.

And the way you say his name—

It feels like absolution.

He crosses the room in three steps, falls into you like gravity was always leading him here. You catch him like you knew how. Like you’d been waiting.

He doesn’t mean to say it. Not like this. Not in a rain-soaked race suit, with his hands still shaking and his throat dry from lies. But it slips out anyway, cracked and quiet into the fabric of your jacket.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes. “I love you.”

You freeze.

Oscar’s never been a religious man. But he knows faith when he sees it. And he sees it now, in the way you hold him tighter, in the way your lips brush the shell of his ear like gospel.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. And he’s not sure what you’ll say. But you just touch his cheek, thumb running over the smear of dried rain and sweat.

“I thought you knew,” you say softly. “I’ve loved you since boarding school.”

He exhales, shaky. Half-laugh, half-relief.

The fluorescent lights above buzz. Somewhere outside, the sound of an engine roars as the next session begins. But here, in this small driver room filled with silence and sweat and grace, time feels suspended.

Oscar presses his forehead to yours.

And maybe Oscar’s never been a religious man.

But if this is what absolution feels like— Your arms around him, his name said like it means something, your heartbeat steady under his cheek— Then maybe he’s starting to believe.

[diz-eaze]

cw: yandere, obsessive scara, modern au, cyberstalking, first we silly but then we also serious.

modern au yandere! scara who would rig the youtube algorithm so that your homepage will always contain videos of him. he cyberstalks your watch activity to determine what type of videos you like the most so that he can mold himself based off of it. reaction channels, video essays, youtube streamers, shorts content, hours-long videos - it doesn't matter. as long as your eyes are on him, he can't bring himself to care about the means. it's a bit silly in retrospect but terrifying in execution. he absolutely can't stand the thought of you finding anyone other than himself interesting, it makes him want to throw up the breakfast he had earlier that day. but you ignore his videos without a second glance because, who even is this guy, isn't he from one of your lectures?

modern au yandere! scara will always inevitably throw his phone across the room whenever he comes across a compatibility slideshow post on tiktok. he's fighting his deepest darkest demons to not view the next slide because he doesn't need validation from random attention-hungry strangers from the internet. or at least, that's what he tells himself when he's already on slide 3 out of 11. the results end up telling him he's not compatible with you and it unironically ruins his day, so he goes to the comments to send actual death threats. his account is banned and now he's even more pissed because he has to go through the trouble of creating a new one so that he can continue stalking your reposts and delude himself into thinking it's him on your mind when said reposts are anything inherently romantic. in reality, you barely even know his name.

modern au yandere! scara who has a facebook dump account where he screams into the void about how badly he wants you. it's a private account with no friends, just a place for him to let out his deepest feelings. he also has a normal facebook account where he's mutuals with his blockmates in college, biological mom, adoptive mom, etc. but he can never gather the courage to add you on facebook. you've talked to him through dms before (he screenshotted the conversation, printed it out, hung it on the walls of his room) but never added him, so now he longingly stares at the "add friend" button on your profile all while feeling deep envy for the mutual friends listed. he'll be mutual friends with you one day, he promises to himself.

modern au yandere! scara who creates a linkedin account just so he can view your profile. as nepo baby, he has no need for LinkedIn but heavens be damned if he doesn't put in the minuscule effort of creating an account in exchange of learning even more about you. by extension, he learns the name of the company you're interning at, the name of your boss, your co-workers, your classmates from your college classes, and your dream company - all of which he meticulously files away for future uses.

modern au yandere! scara combs through thousands of online reviews on an online shopping app (amazon, aliexpress, etsy, shopee, ebay, etc.) just so he can find your personal review of the product, (he knows you left behind a review because he overheard you talking to your seatmate about it 30 minutes ago) and subsequently your account in which he can view your wishlists and past reviews. he then proceeds to buy every item on your wishlist which leads to a confused (and terrified) you when a large package arrives at your dorm a week later. of course, he knows where your dorm is located.

modern au yandere! scara who doesn't seek out the online services of tarot readers on tiktok lives or the love spells of etsy witches. rather, he goes out of his way to do his research and locate secluded spots around the city for those who provide irl readings and/or spells (it's more authentic this way! he reasons). he doesn't even avail the compatibility tarot reading nor does he bat an eyelash at the love potions stewed on the ground around him. no, what he's here for are curses. he's been begging any higher being for months now that your roommate will finally move out, but to no avail. which leads him to desperate measures of placing a bad luck curse on your leech of a roommate. he goes home that night with a skip in his step, just waiting for the curse to kick in.

modern au yandere! scara obsessively refreshes the private facebook group page (specifically made for finding roommates in your large university campus!) just waiting for you to post that you're in need of a new roommate. it's a nightly ritual for him at this point. he screams and jumps out of his gaming chair like he scored a national goal when you finally, finally post a roommate listing. he painstakingly waits a minute or two (it's actual torture, but he doesn't want to look too desperate!) before hitting you up in the comments and tries so hard to be nonchalant (he's literally gooning to the thought of breathing the same air as you soon) with a comment of, "hit me up."

modern au yandere! scara who wakes up at the ass crack of dawn, obsessively triple checks his luggage and moving boxes (making sure to carefully, gently pack his shrine of your items and anything related to you) before pacing around his room in repeated loops. he's on fire with nerves, he's so jittery but he's also soooo happy! this is literally what he's been dreaming of since he first laid eyes on you during freshman year (a slight lie, his actual dream is to marry you and keep you locked in a mansion - but baby steps!) and now it's becoming a reality! what's next!? will you two be mutuals on twitter?? oomfs? or... a croomf (crush oomf)?

modern au yandere! scara who is so grateful to live in the era of technology.

[skvrpion]

Familiar [M] Prologue

tw: references to porn & masturbation (f), swearing, drug paraphernalia

Saturday 1:00AM

Kendall blacked out as her body convulsed over her freshly washed comforter, acrylic toes curling and thighs clamping around the pink rose toy tucked in her palm. Her phone? Probably somewhere across the bed as she lost her grip on it to mewl and pant into the cold air of her room. Every other night for the past two weeks and counting, the twenty eight year old found herself in the same position: restless and horny out of her mind with no one there to put her to sleep. Her friends were right she needed a new man - more specifically - some new dick in her life, but she was too damn busy with work and kicking her stupid ass ex to the curb to get it.

So, it led to this - spending nights alone in her apartment masturbating to porn on Twitter

At least the guy she got off to was hot, well from below the neck he was anyway - his username was scvrlord and he never showed his face full online. As much as she frequented his page Kendall knew his half naked body from a mile away: a painfully thick frame accented with toasty skin, the aforementioned surgical scar running the length of his torso, and a delicately done black and grey sleeve trailing the exterior of left arm.

When it came to size, he wasn’t monsterish like his costars, but thick enough to make anyone squirm - simply put with the way he moved, he would leave even the most experienced performers seeing stars, shaking and bottomed out. Besides the physical, his voice was a deep baritone that softly rose every now and then when the sex he was having was amazing.

Something Kendall personally adored about him was his rarely seen and rather deadly set of eyes rimmed in thick lashes; his iris’s never quite settling on a color they bounced from a warm hazel to deep shade of blue, complimenting whatever color balaclava mask he donned for the evening.

Kendall knew it was entirely stupid to have a crush on someone she'd never met, especially a porn star with hundreds of thousands of followers, but something about him - even his tweets in between the back to back smut - reeled her in.

Whether he posted cellphone videos of him getting head or angled flicks of him dicking down a girl in his living room, Kendall found herself enamored by him and the spontaneous sex life he had. Maybe if she had someone like him in her life she wouldn't be as stressed about half the shit she was now.

A girl could only dream.

Right?

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Monday 11:40PM

"Yes I turned those files in yesterday, they should all be in the OneDrive link I sent you. No you don't need a password... yes - I double checked this time, so it should open up fine." Kendall uttered as she clicked down the foyer. If it wasn't her boss driving her up the wall at work, it was her fellow co-worker Jackson. He never stayed out of her hair and insisted on contacting her over the most minuscule things. It was mainly because he wanted to fuck and his advances in the office weren't getting him anywhere but back to his cubicle - alone.

On this lovely night it was nearing 12 in the morning and his pestering had yet to cease from the time Kendall had clocked in that morning.

"Jackson I'm about to get in the elevator and my signal is gonna go out, I'll call you when I get in okay?"

"Ah forreal? Aight, bet."

"It's not like that," she sneered, "this is corporate business remember?"

"Yeah yeah ye-"

She hit end and pretended that her signal had gone out when in reality she had four full bars. The elevator door pinged open and to her surprise someone else was inside. Inhaling deeply she slid in across from the stranger, keeping her eyes glued to a new text message from an unblocked number that slid across her screen. It was like all the annoying ass niggas wanted to get on her nerves tonight.

I know you up right now. When you gone let me get the rest of my stuff??

"What fucking stuff?" she thought out loud, pressing number 15 on the lift and watching the doors close back. Devin had gotten kicked out of her crib over a month ago, and for whatever reason he insisted accusing her of having his stuff hidden away. A loud hiss escaped her lips as she rapidly clicked out a reply.

Idk wtf you on about but I can promise you ain’t shit of yours here. Whatever I didn’t put on the curb prolly somewhere in Alabama rn, check Craigslist and block this number💯

Before she could end her text with a hearty ‘fuck off’, her screen cut to calling and Devins new number flooded the screen. Kendall softly thudded her head off the elevator wall and audibly deep sighed for the millionth time that day.

"Can a bitch catch a break? Goddamn." she said aloud, prompting the stranger next to her to let out a deep chuckle. It made her ears perk up and her body freeze a little. The laugh was familiar, one she'd heard way too many times before to not know.

'There's no way in hell...No. You just bugging out right now.' Thought Kendall.

To her relief the lift promptly stopped on 15, and she made no hesitation to get out and beeline to her apartment. As she stepped out, however, her keys hit the elevator floor and landed by the strangers foot. Before she could fully whip around and snatch them up, he’d already beat her to it, her eyes making a deathly slow trail from the floor to the hand holding her hot pink key ring.

Kendall’s heart went straight to her ass as she caught a full view of who she'd been standing next to.

He had the same tatts, the same voice, the same eyes.

"Here you go."

"Oh shit - thank you. Have a nice night."

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When Kendall got inside her apartment, she let out a loud expletive-filled exhale and contemplated running straight for her room. Either she was losing her mind or fate was one hell of a thing. She knew she couldn't do it - whatever it was – sober, so she grabbed a bottle of Patron off of her kitchen counter and mixed the strongest margarita she could muster. After half an hour of contemplation and small sips of tequila Kendall finally caved in and headed to her room. Her heart was thumping out of her chest as she logged in and clicked on the profile she'd often visit. In a blind rush she navigated her way to his DM's and felt her heart skip a beat as the small dot next to his picture was green - he was awake and online, probably uploading a new video given the time.

"Don't be a pussy Ken, you already here." She mumbled

Before she could fully chicken out the liquor kicked in and forced her fingers to type.

k3nlaflair: you live in Av. 76?

…

…

k3nlaflair: I think I just ran into you.

k3nlaflair: on the elevator

…

scvrlord: oh shit, that was you?

Bingo. She held back a scream and composed herself as she thought of a decent reply back.

k3nlaflair: this is mad weird lol sorry

scvrlord: nah baby you good, you beautiful btw.

…

k3nlaflair: 🫠 thank you

k3nlaflair: and sorry for bothering you so late, this is crazyyyy lol thanks for the save

scvrlord: nah you good I promise

scvrlord: rs you the first person my age I’ve seen since I moved 😂

k3nlaflair: yeahh Av. is a nursing home if you squint hard enough lol they don’t really tell they yuppies about it either.

scvrlord: I def see now. since ion really know anybody around here you down to grab lunch this weekend? on me.

Kendall couldn't believe her eyes. Not only was this man living in the same building as her, he was now casually asking her out for a chat. If she fumbled this her friend group would never let her live this down. Heart fluttering, she quickly tapped away at her keyboard and blindly hit send.

k3nlaflair: I know a chill spot in K-town that’s real lowkey. foods to die for and the drinks are stiff as you can get lol!

scvrlord: bet. meet at mine Friday night. that cool?

k3nlaflair: bet.

Kendall was every bit of speechless. This was the clutch of the year - no the century - all thanks to her shitty roster and butter fingers. As she reread her final three letter text for the hundredth time in those fleeting minutes, a sheepish grin curled across her face.

‘Kendall: 1, Devin: 0’

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first and foremost big thank you to the gang for inspiring (and gently bullying me) to get back in the writing field again, love y’all downnn 😭🫡

pls don’t be shy to leave a comment, suggestions for part one, whatever you like my friends 🫶🏽 see you in the next one

TAGS: @kimuzostar @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @yassbishimvintage @melaninpov @planetblaque @jenlovey @ranikyani