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aliteralsemicolon · 3 months ago

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Crawling back to you

Masterlist

GIF by undertheniall

Prison changed a lot of things in your relationship with Spencer. The one thing that remains the same is the mutual desire to hold on to the person you love.

Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader

DISCLAIMER I do not consent to my work being used to feed/train AI and/or re-posted anywhere by anybody else You are responsible for the content you consume. Make sure to read all necessary warnings. Minors do not interact at all. Please remember this is a work of fiction; if you don’t like it, don’t read.

WARNING: Drunk! Spencer. I think that’s it. I hope. Idk it’s been a minute I’m sorry. Proceed at your own risk.

Word count: 3.4K See notes at end for author's note & spoilers.

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There’s instant comfort in the sound of laughter coming from somebody you love. It's the kind of laughter that bubbles from deep inside the lungs, depriving them of air and pushing their voice up an octave or two. It envelopes you; you can feel the laughter vibrating between your torsos.

“Spencer, come on!” There’s a failed sternness in your tone, you have to physically fight the giggles away by nuzzling your head in his neck. You’re sure the neighbours below you won’t appreciate the loud thud omitted from the sound of their drunken neighbours toppling over, barely a few steps into the apartment. More precisely, the tall, lanky one drunkenly toppled over and took his girlfriend down with him.

“I’m sorry! I’m s—so,” He’s not even trying to muffle the sounds, he’s practically hysterical. “Baby—I can’t breathe.”

“Oh my god.” You push yourself off his chest, grabbing his arms as you stand. It takes all your physical strength to pull him up. Even then, you only manage to get him to sit. “Help me out over here!”

Your plea falls on deaf ears as Spencer bursts into another, slightly more muted, fit of giggles. He places an arm around his ribs and uses the other to hug your leg, leaning his head against your thigh. The muscles in your cheeks begin to ache from how wide your grin is. You have to brace yourself using his shoulder. Your other hand lands in his hair, gently scratching his scalp.

What even is comfort?

Spencer would tell you that its origins can be traced back to the Latin word ‘fortis’—meaning strong—combined with the late Latin word ‘com’ to produce’ confortare’. The word ‘comfort’ as we currently know it, was derived from the later French translation of ‘confort.’ The Oxford Dictionary defines it as ‘the easing or alleviation of a person’s feelings of grief or distress.’

What possible grief or distress could there be when his lips press on your thigh, followed by a satisfied hum from the feeling of your skin? And when he looks up at you with those big brown eyes the sun's warmth seeps into your skin, despite it being the moon's hour. You look relaxed. Happy. His lips part and his mouth runs dry. Behind adoration is curiosity painted on his face.

“What?” It makes you nervous. He doesn’t reply instantly, words escape him.

“There are…hundreds of quotes I could pull apart—th—thousands of scientific comparisons I could make, but all I’m able to say right now…is that you’re…perfect. Eve—even your flaws. They’re perfect.” His brows are concentrated and you scoff half-heartedly. It’s not the sun's warmth. It’s him. He is the sun. “Which doesn’t really make sense. But—you. You make sense.”

His eyes wander frantically as he tries to keep track of his thoughts. “Does that make sense?”

Comfort.

You would equate it to the phrase ‘welcome home’. Home. Sanctuary. Retreat from the brutal realities of the cruel world. The lack of response tells him your attention is not entirely on him. He pouts.

“You’re too far away. C’mere.” He whines, his arm moving from his ribcage to tug on your hand. He leans back to make room for you on his lap.

“No, you c’mere.” You resist, trying to pull him up to his feet instead. “We need to get you to bed.”

“Just two minutes.”

The tug of war is short-lived; he carries more body strength. Not that he uses much, all it takes is the sweet lull of his voice for him to command you down. His hands glide up your thighs, stopping at your waist once you’re fully straddling him. Your arms wrap around his shoulders, noses nudging and gaze fixed on each other. Spencer brushes his lips against yours, gradually locking them. The kiss is slow, there’s no urgency. The kind that makes you feel like this is forever. As sure as flowers blooming every spring and leaves falling every autumn.

“Impossibly perfect.” He mumbles with a sigh, reaffirming his previous train of thought. The statement travels off his tongue so naturally. Your ears heat up and you fail to respond once again. What response can you give? More sweet affirmations are whispered, and although you don’t hear them, you feel his lips graze your cheek.

“I love you.” He mumbles against your skin before planting a kiss. You hum in return and diffidently nestle your face in his neck. Spencer shrieks and rolls both of you on the ground. “That tickles!”

He attempts to separate his body from yours, but your arms tighten around his neck. “Let go!”

“Mm-mm.” You shake your head and nuzzle your nose further in. Laughter engulfs you again.

“You have three—ah—three seconds to let go before I start tickling you back.”

An empty threat, he knows how much you hate it. It works, though. You push off him begrudgingly.

“Fine.”

His drunken state confuses your playful pout for a sad one and his victorious smirk is short-lived. Spencer ejects upright, hooking his fingers under your chin with a pout of his own. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing. Just my boyfriend hates me.” You dramatically sigh and lower your sight, toying with the buttons on his shirt.

Meanwhile, your boyfriend is aghast that he has you feeling so. If only you could see the genuine furrow in his raised brows. The subtle pout of his lips and his head tilting to the side. His eyes always look like they’re pleading for something, but that’s just the cost of having big, round, beautiful eyes.

“No. What? N-no!” He’s almost too offended to articulate an appropriate response. “Do you—no!”

Entirely baffled and unable to verbally reject your claim, he opts for physical expression to show you just how wrong you are. He cups your cheeks in both hands and lunges at you with a flurry of kisses, each landing blindly on any accessible part of your face. You anchor an arm behind you to stabilise yourself. The whole scene is chaotic.

“Spence—mmph—”

With every kiss he inches closer until he’s practically on top of you, leaning his weight forward on one arm. His free hand cradles the back of your head and focuses entirely on your lips. Kissing you soft, slow, deep. Any worries lingering in the back of your mind can wait. Nothing exists outside the bubble you’ve created. That is, until Spencer loses his balance for the umpteenth time and, as usual, you go down with him. At least his inebriated brain had the foresight to shield your head from the hardwood floor. He falls flat on you, free hand defeatedly next to his ear.

The two of you freeze momentarily, processing the drop. You throw your head back with a loud ‘pfft’ and both of you break out into laughter. You can hear him cackling with his forehead pressing against your jaw. It goes on for at least a minute or two. That’s when you feel it again. The sun’s warmth. It enters your system with every grappling inhale, passing from your lungs, vibrating through your ribs and taking over every limb as it travels through your bloodstream. Your legs trap his waist and you bury your hands in his hair. His other hand shifts from under your head to your collarbone.

“You’re so silly.” He wheezes.

“I’m silly?!” You tuck your chin in, looking down at him as you push through your giggles. “You’re silly. And drunk. And clumsy.”

It only spurs him on, nearly to the point of tears. Spencer's drinking is not a common occurrence. Up until recently, he’d been very committed to staying away from alcohol; always choosing a glass of water or some other alternative. At the start, you assumed it was a health-related preference until he sat you down and explained his history with addiction. You can count on one hand the number of outings Spencer has taken so much as a sip of alcohol throughout your relationship. The count only began after his return from Millburn.

You’d never previously wondered if and how alcohol changes his behaviour, but now you know anyway. It’s unusual, not because he’s different, but because it’s everything you know him to be when it’s just the two of you. There's an air of freedom alongside his gentleness, attentiveness and sass. His own mind doesn’t torment him. He exists—presently, unapologetically. Or at least it was everything you knew him to be.

Comfort.

Noun. ‘The easing or alleviation of a person’s feelings of grief or distress.’

It comes in different forms for different people. For you? You’ve never known a comfort more powerful than Spencer Reid. Not the one that lays next to you every night, but the one lying on top of you right now. In all honesty, you don’t know the man you share a bed with anymore. Physically, you could describe every freckle and mole from memory. Emotionally, he’s practically a stranger. Robotic is an adjective that’s been used to describe him his whole life. It’s a literal manifestation these days.

Your laughter starts to fade and his follows after. He doesn’t need to ask where your mind is at. Deep down he knows. It’s why he’s too afraid to meet your eyes. He can’t bear the reminiscence he’ll find.

“Too far away...” He repeats, his mumble fading as he reaches your head space.

From dawn, when he first opens his eyes, til dusk, when he finally shuts them; everything he does is part of his ritual.

Wake up. Work. Home. Sleep.

Somewhere along the way he’ll eat. Socialise. Read. He can’t recall doing any of it, but he knows it happened because you were there. That’s the only memorable part of it. There’s a faint image of you sitting across from him, nervously watching him nibble the meals you cook for him. He’ll force it down his throat so he doesn’t have to see the worried look on your face. The sound of your voice is slightly more vivid. Speaking at him—for him, making full sentences out of his one-word answers. Because words escape him. Visually, verbally. They’ll run from him on every page he turns; dancing around, mocking him.

He can feel you staring. You probably don’t even know you are.

Strange, missing somebody that’s right here. Most people know the feeling all too well, but no one can ever explain it. You can still see fragments of the man Spencer used to be under the rubble of the walls he once lowered for you. Buried too deep inside a cold, dark, liminal pit for you to rescue. A ghost trapped in purgatory. Sometimes he manifests physically. The light in his eyes returns as a culmination of the intent and curiosity he was filled with before. Every look brighter, every touch warmer.

Comfort.

He’s just as much the source as he is the reason you go weeks without it. Your own, personal double-edged sword, threatening to slice your skin. And you’ll let him, because any ounce of heartache will melt away under the tender feel of his lips. Like slapping a bandaid over the gash and pretending it’s enough to contain the bleeding. You snap back to reality when the weight of his body lifts off you. Spencer’s on his knees cupping your thighs on either side of him, looking down at you. His irises are slightly duller than they were a moment ago. You thrust to sit up too, hands racing to cradle his face.

“Spence?” Your meekness almost breaks him.

His vision centres on you. You’re smiling. You have such a beautiful smile. But this one isn’t genuine. It’s a desperate attempt at keeping the pieces together. You’re so afraid of saying or doing the wrong thing, he hates it. His brows furrow and he blinks rapidly. The guilt of knowing he’s the reason you’ve been walking on eggshells is overwhelming. You can visibly see his heart sink and his breathing growing shallow. Panic sets in; he pushes away from you, shaking his head and backing himself against the console table.

“Spence?” You repeat worriedly, crawling after him. “Spence, what’s wrong?”

“No. No, stop. Don’t. Please.” His voice cracks and holds his arm out to keep you from moving closer.

You don’t understand what you did to cause the rapid change in emotions. You pause, hesitantly and kneeling a little too far from him for your liking. You look to the ground and then back at him. It hurts to swallow the lump in your throat.

“Baby—”

The frustration in his tone is evident as he whispers your name with the most strained, painful pronunciation you’ve ever heard of it. It’s not as if he wants this. To be distant or keep you at arm's length, no, on the contrary, he wants to wrap you closely against his chest and never let you go. Your proximity is the only tangible testimonial of the man he once was, the one you fell in love with—the one you deserve.

“Don’t do that…” He pleads with almost no voice to accompany his words.

Your arms drop in your lap in defeat. All you're capable of giving him is a hopeless expression, begging him to help you understand. He looks at you accusatorily, as if to say you know exactly what’s wrong. You inadvertently confirm it by averting your eyes.

“How long are you going to pretend?”

“What?” You pretend to mishear him, your eyes snapping back, wide and watering.

“That everything’s okay?”

“Why…where is this coming from?” You scoff nervously.

“Nothing’s okay.”

His direct demeanour should feel icier than it does. Instead, you find familiarity within it. You’ve seen it before. He’s used it when you’ve shown up to his apartment in the later hours of the night, lecturing you about walking alone, and often drunk. It’s been used for many other lectures too, reprimanding any self-destructive or dangerous behaviour. He’s stern, but he’s just as gentle. It’s in his nature—was in his nature. You open your mouth for a rebuttal but he doesn’t give you that chance.

“Me, you, us. Nothing about us is okay. I’m not okay. To you. I’m not…” His tongue swipes the corner of his mouth, retreating quickly as he stares up at the ceiling and then back at you. “I’m not good for you. Anymore.”

“Spencer, no.” The response flies out of your mouth immediately. Your chest tightens and you try to inch closer to him again. And again, he extends his hand out as a signal to stop.

“Yes! Don’t you—god—do you think I don’t see how much I hurt you? When I leave the bed before you’re awake, climb in after you’re asleep, when I stay late—”

He doesn’t have it in him to carry on when you whimper out a hum and deflate. It compels him to close the distance by shuffling to you, cupping your face.

“How long are you going to let me get away with hurting you like this?”

At times Spencer feels the skin he inhabits isn’t his own. He doesn’t recognise the face he grew up with and although he can avoid his reflection, he can’t escape reminders of his deteriorated mental performance. There’s no running from the shame he feels every time his team looks to him for answers that he doesn’t have anymore. Solutions take a significantly longer time to reach and oftentimes the realisation of the fact hits him sooner. Being ‘the genius’ is his only value, he doesn’t have anything else to offer.

He also doesn’t have the strength to outright tell you to walk away. Even if logically, he knows you deserve better than him. Somebody who can be there to laugh with you, hold you when you cry, talk to you about anything and everything. The way he once could. You deserve a person who makes you smile out of genuine happiness. Someone who can offer you pure, whole love. It pains him that he can’t be that for you anymore.

“I’m sorry.” He smooths your hair, resting his forehead against yours. “I’m sorry. My sweetheart. I’m so sorry.”

His lips brush against yours and both of you melt. Bandaid over gash.

You sniffle and instantly inhale, breaking out of his grasp. “You’re drunk. It’s late. Let’s just—let’s go to bed. Okay?”

He knows that you can’t avoid the reality for long, but he’ll let you try, for now. So he nods, smiling half-heartedly. You use his shoulders to push yourself to stand, helping pull him up after you. Your hands intertwine, gripping tightly and only letting go when you reach the bedroom. Both of you enter a slight dissociative state to cope with the heaviness of the situation. He sits you down on the bed, falling to his knees before you. At first, you mistake his intentions as lustful. He guides your ankle to his knee and starts to remove your shoes. The bitterness is fleeting and dissipates into disgust with yourself for thinking so lowly of Spencer. Your Spencer.

Comfort.

He motions for you to stand so you do. Naturally, he takes care of you before himself. He works to rid you of your pants, sliding them down your legs. You don’t question him this time. His hands trail up your bare legs, skimming past your clothed hips and stopping at your waist. He buries his face in the soft of your belly, squeezing your sides and exhaling deeply. You card his hair, holding him. To any third party, it’s an entirely romantic scene, but you suppose Romeo and Juliet’s corpses appeared just as romantic tangled together. Star-crossed lovers. A regrettable cliché for sure.

The moment passes and Spencer stands, removing your shirt and leading you towards the bathroom. He opens the door for you, but doesn’t follow you inside, allowing you some space to carry on your night routine. Tonight’s routine consists of you staring in the mirror for god knows how long before splashing cold water on your face. You’re not sure whether to be surprised when you exit the bathroom to see your favourite pajamas laid out for you. Current or old, drunk or sober, you suppose Spencer’s attention to detail is the one constant thing about him. You slip into the pajamas and find your place next to him on the bed, but not before setting some water and pain relief on his side table.

You give him one last glance before turning off your lamp. He’s facing away from you, messy brown curls splayed out against his pillow. Darkness surrounds you temporarily before the dim light from the moon sets in. You’re about to set your head down when he speaks.

“I…I wish I could go back.”

“Hmm?”

He rolls over and you reach to stroke his cheek. It’s cold, wet. He’s been crying.

“To being him.”

“Baby…”

“I can see the way you look at me sometimes. It’s the same look I see in the mirror every morning.” He takes hold of your wrist.

You shuffle closer, placing a chaste kiss on his nose. Maybe if you had any energy left you’d try to deny it, but right now you don’t have a better response to give.

“I wouldn’t blame you if you left, you know.”

“Shhhhh.” You can’t bear the idea. Just him raising it enough to flood tears to your eyes.

Silence takes over and you pull him closer into your arms, resting his head against your chest. A sob racks through him, his hands scrunching the sides of your shirt. It’s jarring to see him cry so openly to you. You’ve never seen this version of him so vulnerable. You can feel the ghost slipping away.

“Please don’t leave me. You’re all I have left of him.”

It’s entirely contradictory. A conflict between morality and desire uttered so breathlessly that you almost miss it. It shatters your soul.

“I won't.” You reply in an even quieter voice, doing your best to hold back your own sob.

Comfort.

You’ll wait for it to come around again. For now, you wrap yourself tighter around him, both your faces drenched in tears, too afraid to let go. In all your grief you failed to notice something hidden in plain sight. If anybody misses Spencer Reid more than you, it’s Spencer Reid himself.

“Don’t go.”

You can’t say who the words come from, but you know that they’re not for you. They’re meant for somebody who’s no longer with you.

Spoilers: Post-prison Spencer, established relationship, fluff, hurt with (kind of) comfort, angst, ambiguous-ish ending. Idk I wasn’t present when I wrote it tbh.

AN - Heyyyy I know it’s been like over 5 months but in my defence. Also this could have been better, but writing literally hates me, so you get what you get. Guys please don’t worry about the grammar, I was in a mood and it’s all very dramatic and correct because I’m right and English is wrong. Also, I was bullied, blackmailed and emotionally coerced into posting this.

Okay, so I will see you soon or like in another 5 or more months maybe who knows?

Thanks for reading!

#scheduled #spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid imagine #criminal minds fanfiction #bau team #ssa spencer reid #dr spencer reid #; fics #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x fem!reader

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samaraxmorgan · 11 months ago

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Spill Your Secrets

Synopsis: Something strange happened during Sukuna’s most recent fight, he was nearly defeated. Completely losing his ability to harness his cursed energy, he had to resort to bludgeoning his enemy to death with his bare hands. Except after this sorcerer’s death, his techniques didn’t return to him. It won’t be that simple, you see, to regain his abilities he will need to reveal his deepest secret, but what on earth could that possibly be?

Pairing: Heian Era Sukuna x Reader

Contains: blood, lots of mentions of blood, very slight angst but everything ends up okay, tooth rotting fluff

Word Count: 2.0k

My Masterlist Here!!

The king of curses is nothing if not blunt, never having any problems being as distastefully confrontational towards anyone who meets his menacing gaze. Anyone and everyone, except for you; it wasn’t always like this, of course, but over the course of your time together he’s become… more reserved you could say. He would absolutely threaten to kill you if you told him he was growing soft, but you’re both more than aware that he would never dare to lay a hand on you, no matter how often you intentionally push his buttons.

Like how you are now, waiting for him to return back home and enter his throne room to find you lounging on his precious throne, your back leaned against one armrest while your legs draped over the other. Uraume can’t help but shake their head, unable to comprehend the amount of absolute nerve you possess, or more importantly, how their lord Sukuna seems almost delighted to keep you around regardless of your constant antics.

The grand doors to the estate open abruptly, slamming into the walls as Sukuna enters, the blood of his foes coating his hands and leaving crimson splatters across his broad figure. This fight must have been messy; you’ve seen him return victorious more times than you could count, droplets of blood scattered on his skin, dripping down his face and torso, but this… It must have been personal. He clearly fought with his bare hands, bruises on his bloodied knuckles and a large open gash spread across his-

Wait.

What?

No, no, that can’t be right. You blink to clear your eyes, they’re surely deceiving you, but as he stumbles into the entryway you realize that the unthinkable- no, the impossible- has happened.

Sukuna is injured.

Within the blink of an eye, Uraume is rushing to his aid as you scramble off of his throne and run towards him. You’ve never seen this look in his eyes before, like a rabbit surrounded by wolves, his hands shaking in what could be perceived as either unrelenting anger or an imperceivable fear.

Your voice wavers, panic clear in your shaky breaths as you speak, “What… Happened…?”

“Uraume, the sorcerer I’ve just fought,” He’s trying to keep his voice steady, but there’s no mistaking the underlying panic in his rushed words, “Research his curse technique and report back to me with your findings.”

With a quick nod of their head Uraume rushes out of the throne room, pulling the doors shut behind them to prevent anyone from seeing Sukuna in this condition. He lets out a shaky breath, his guard immediately dropping with the click of the doors as he presses a large hand into the gash drawn across the side of his torso, gritting his teeth as he attempts to cover the wound to prevent more of his blood from seeping out.

“Why haven’t you healed?” Your voice comes out in a whisper, although you didn’t mean it to.

He whispers right back to you, “I can’t.”

You didn’t know it was possible for your eyes to grow wider, your heart pounding painfully in your chest as you forcefully grab one of his hands into both of your own and lead him to a lounge chair. He stumbles slightly, nearly collapsing into the plush cushions; a sharp breath escapes his throat, his head leaning back against the seat and his eyes squeezing shut.

Sukuna has never had to endure pain, his reverse cursed technique always closing his wounds for him subconsciously. You reach for the foot of your long gown, ripping through the fabric to create a large makeshift bandage. Seating yourself on one of his large thighs, you reach forward to wrap your arms around either side of his waist, pulling the fabric flush against his back and whispering out a quiet apology as you tie each end of the bandage and pull it tight, compressing his wound to suppress the bleeding and causing him to huff out a harsh breath, a low growl leaving his lips as one of his hands reaches to cover his mouth in an attempt to stifle his sounds of pain.

You pull his hand away from his lips, gently placing your shaking palm on his cheek; his eyes crack open and his head tilts subtly to meet your petrified gaze. His long fingers wrap around your trembling ones, an attempt to be reassuring, and he gently pulls your hand to his lips to press a weak kiss to the back of your hand that was now smeared with scarlet blood.

His maroon eyes look hazy as you gaze into them, swiping your thumb in an attempt to clear a drop of blood from his cheek but only smudging it across his features, “Tell me what happened.”

His brows furrow and he clicks his tongue, “That bastard hit me with… something,” He lets out a deep breath, “His attack rendered me incapable of harnessing my cursed energy. I’d assumed that disposing of him would resolve the issue, but,” The tiniest hint of a smirk tugs at the corners of his lips, “I assumed incorrectly, it seems.”

Tears begin to well in your eyes, your voice breaking and causing that small smile of his to dissipate and his grip on your hand to grow tighter, “Will you be okay..?”

“Yes.” He declares sternly, two of his hands reaching to cup your face, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear and catching a falling tear on the tip of his thumb, his voice sounding softer now “Yes, my dear, I will be okay.”

Tears begin to cascade down your face as you nod your head, forcing a wobbly smile onto your lips. His thumbs brush your tears away, but leave smudges of blood in their wake. His grip on your hand never falters as his last free hand wraps around your waist, the hands cupping your face sliding to the back of your neck and gently pulling you towards him, your forehead pressed against his as his eyes bore into your own; you’re unable to read the look he gives you, but his pupils grow wider.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

“He has to what?”

Uraume shifts uncomfortably in the doorway of Sukuna’s chambers, “To share a secret, I don’t know to whom, but presumably he has to inform someone of a matter he is not willing to discuss.”

The tension had settled significantly in the last two days, Sukuna’s wounds slowly but surely healing on their own with no complications; you’ve been keeping a keen eye on his injuries as you cleansed and wrapped them multiple times a day, dark red scabs beginning to form throughout the slice taken from his side. You felt a wave of relief wash over you when you heard that Uraume had discovered the cure to Sukuna’s condition, but now tension has once again began to bubble up inside of you as you peer over at Sukuna sitting on the bed next to you.

What secrets could he possibly have? He’s never held his tongue for anyone.

Except…

“Thank you, Uraume, you are dismissed.”

They nod their head and turn on their heel, pulling the tall wooden door to the chambers shut as they leave. Sukuna leans back against the pillows adorning his grand bed, staring into the flickering flames of the candles hoisted on iron candlesticks surrounding the bed and painting the room in a soft orange glow. You both sit in silence for a moment, consumed in your thoughts as the curtains sway from the gentle breeze making its way in from the open window.

You’re first to interrupt the silence, crawling backwards on his bed and leaning your back onto the plush velvet pillows, gazing up at him next to you with a soft smile, “Well, at least it’s an easy solution.”

His eyes flicker to yours, and you’re greeted with that unreadable expression once again; his pupils growing larger at the sight of you, dim candlelight softly illuminating his darkened eyes that held something behind them. His lips part for a moment, but no words can grace his tongue; his gaze drops to your lips and back to your eyes, his mouth opening again but there is still only silence. He grits his teeth, his eyes squinting and brows furrowing in frustration as he turns his head completely to look away from you.

You lift yourself to sit upright on the bed, looking down at him laying beneath you and pinching his chin between your fingers, turning his head to look back at you, “It’s about me, isn’t it?”

A soft groan escapes his throat as he wraps a hand around your wrist, gently pushing your hand away as he turns his head to look towards the wall. A beat of quiet passes as his eyes fall shut, a soft sigh leaving his lips, “Perhaps that’s the case.”

You scrunch your brows together, giving him a quizzical look as you gently poke underneath his bottom eye, “Well? Spill it.”

He rolls his eyes, “It’s is not so simple.”

You let out a frustrated huff, “Sukuna, we can’t keep you hidden forever. Eventually the people will hear that the king of curses is curseless.”

He grits his teeth, shooting daggers in your direction as his eyes meet yours once again, “I am well aware. Please humor me with your silence, woman.”

“Woman,” You repeat in a mocking tone, your arms crossing across your chest, you mumble under your breath, “I was My Dear two days ago.”

“You-” Two of his hands take hold of your own and pull them away from your chest while his other two rest on either side of your hips, “You’re always-” his words get stuck in his throat, his gaze up at you softening as that look in his eyes returns once again.

One of his hands leaves your hip to prop himself up on the bed, the mattress shifting under his weight as he leans his tall figure down to have his face hover right above your own. His fingers intertwine with yours as he wraps his lower set of arms around your waist and pulls you into his lap, the two of you now eye level.

His breath fans against your lips as he speaks, his voice hardly coming out as a whisper, “You don’t make this easy for me,” He lifts one of your hands to his chest, pressing your palm against his pounding heart, “My dear.”

He looks beautiful, the warm glow of candlelight cascading across his skin as his dark eyes gaze into yours, longing for you, not wanting to ever have you leave his arms.

Your voice escapes in a whisper, “What do you mean?”

He lifts the hand he had placed between your bodies up to your chin, his thumb slowly brushing over your bottom lip, “Every time I have attempted to tell you, my voice has never ceased to failed me,” He leans further towards you, your foreheads pressed against one another’s, whispering against your lips, “It seems that you always manage to tear my breath from my lungs.”

He breaks the distance between you, tilting his head slightly and running his hand to the back of your neck as he softly presses his lips against yours. Your heart races in your chest but your eyes fall shut as you melt into him, sliding your hand from its home on his heart and wrapping it around the back of his head, attempting to pull him impossibly closer. He lets a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding escape him, kissing you deeper, passion flooding from his lips and against your own.

It pains him to pull away from you, but he doesn’t stray far, his lips still brushing against yours as his eyes are back on yours, clarifying to you that his eyes have always been telling you what he has never been able to say in a breath against your lips, “I Love You.”

A/N: So THAT was his secret huh, I have the BIGGEST headcanon that he refuses to ever ever ever say I love you, and a situation like this is the ONLY way to get him to actually admit he could god forbid care for another person. Anyway I wrote this in a more… formal? style than I normally do bc my usual snarky inner dialogues didn’t really fit the vibes here, so I went balls to the walls with the fancy speak lmfao. I hope you enjoyed!!