Sakuna’s Pampered Mutt

“Would you rather beg or bark?” | 23 | they/him/her | genderfluid & queer 🌿🌋

[angelboyliveson]

Sex with a guy who’s pathetically obsessed with you but trying to act nonchalant since it’s just a “casual” hookup. But there’s nothing casual about his hands that are a little too shakey, gripping your flesh with a little too much devotion. There’s nothing casual about the way he says your name like a devout preacher.

He’ll cum too quickly and get all embarrassed about it, I mean after all he just wants to impress you.

[thewindowofthesummerhouse]

Phillip Light

[cruxhing]

John was disturbed; truly.

Never in his entire life of being a captain, would he expect to overhear his team speak the way they were now.

He was heading towards his office when he heard your voice in Simon’s office.

“Whatever needs to be done. My throats feels so tight and needs it,” you had said, voice slightly muffled from the outside.

John should’ve opened the door and question what the fuck was going on in there— but he honestly didn’t want to even know. So you know what he did? Stand there like some cuck.

“Might be sore after, tha’ alrigh’ with you?” Simon asks.

John was stunned.

“Is it sour?” you asked.

A gruff scoff escaped from Simon, “let it go down your throat ‘n y’ won’t taste a thing,” he murmured.

John barely heard that part.

He’s had enough— his team was not about to fraternize right here, nor ever.

John’s hand grabbed the door knob and opened it so quick, he got a gist of wind hitting his face. “What the bloody hell is goin’ on in he—“

Simon looked over at the front door to find the captain staring back at him with wide, worry eyes.

There Simon was, holding up a small cup and a bottle of Mucinex while you stood in front of him, appearing as if you were close to passing out. You had been sick for three days now, John suddenly remembers.

“Can we help you, captain?” Simon asks dryly.

[aagod]

LMFAOOOO

[artifacts-and-arthropods]

Incantation Bowls from Mesopotamia, c.300-700 CE: these bowls are lined with incantations and drawings that show demons being shackled and subdued, and they were often buried beneath houses in an effort to trap harmful spirits

Incantation bowls were created and used as magical amulets, and they were produced throughout Mesopotamia (especially in parts of what is now Iraq and Iran) during the 4th-8th centuries CE.

As this article explains:

Clients used incantation bowls to protect and heal, to frighten off demons and evil spirits, and, in a few cases, to enlist demons to help secure love or money, or to harm adversaries. In addition to the magical texts, scribes sketched drawings of bound and chained demons – pictorial representations of the spells’ desired effect – on the bottom of about a quarter of the bowls.

Above: this incantation bowl was commissioned by someone named Gia Bar Imma nearly 1,700 years ago, and it features a Jewish Babylonian Aramaic inscription along with a drawing of two demons wrapped in chains

These bowls were used by people of many different faiths. They were typically inscribed with Aramaic text, which appeared in one of three different dialects: Jewish Babylonian Aramaic, Mandaic, or Syriac. The incantations written in Jewish Babylonian Aramaic are attributed to Jewish communities, while the ones written in Mandaic are typically associated with Gnostic Mandaeans, and those in Syriac are associated with Christians, Manichaeans, or followers of the ancient Babylonian religion.

There are a few incantation bowls that feature Arabic or Persian inscriptions instead, and those examples tend to have Islamic or Zoroastrian motifs.

Above: this bowl is lined with an Aramaic inscription that invokes "the powers of Enoch, the seven planets, and the twelve signs of the zodiac" to protect the home of a man named Pabak bar Kufithai

Some bowls are simply inscribed with gibberish:

The largest number of known incantation bowls are written not in Syriac, but in Jewish Aramaic by Jewish scribes (though not necessarily for Jewish clients). Mandaean bowls are the second most numerous, only then followed by bowls in Syriac. A handful of bowls in Arabic and Persian are also known, in addition to bowls – perhaps 10 per cent – that can only be called ancient forgeries. These latter are filled with scribbles that mimic cursive writing but are not, in fact, in any language at all; perhaps they were made by illiterate scribes preying on equally illiterate clients.

Above: a bowl with a Mandaic inscription

Incantation bowls provide valuable information about Jewish history, in particular:

The prevalence of Jewish Aramaic bowls are what makes these artefacts so important for Jewish history. They provide the sole piece of epigraphic evidence documenting Jewish language and religion at one of the most important times in Jewish history: the period of the composition of the Babylonian Talmud.

Above: researchers believe that the figure in the center of this bowl is a representation of the demon Lilith, whose likeness and/or name appears on many other incantation bowls

This article also notes:

Generally speaking, the incantations could do a number of things: healing fevers and diseases; guarding from sudden death, injustice, and treachery; and exorcising evil spirits. Similar metal talismans were made around the same time and filled largely the same role. Where they differ is that in many instances the bowls called upon deities or angels to ensnare demons. It is believed from drawings on incantation bowls depicting ensnared creatures that the reason that so many have been found upside-down is that they were intended to be traps for careless or curious demons.

Above: this bowl has a Jewish Babylonian Aramaic inscription that includes the phrase "this cat is bound," and it features a drawing of a demonic cat being restrained

More than 2,000 of these bowls are known to exist, but only a fraction of them have been thoroughly studied.

Above: an illustration from another bowl

Above: two incantation bowls with Jewish Babylonian Aramaic text and drawings that show demons being restrained

Sources & More Info:

Aeon: Magic Bowls of Antiquity

Penn Today: The Stories the Bowls Tell

Bowers Museum: To Catch a Demon: Mesopotamian Incantation Bowls

Jewish Quarterly Review: Magic Formulae and Women's History: Authorship, Agency, and Gender in the Aramaic Incantation Bowls

My Jewish Learning: Magic Bowls

The Librarians: Who Wrote these Ancient Jewish Incantation Bowls?

Penn Museum: Hebrew Bowl

Journal of Late Antiquity: Enslaved People and the Demonic in the Sasanian Empire

[zegalba]

Bronze 'Lilith' Statue Located: Malbork Castle, Poland

[moonbeamwritings]

*sigh* i miss rengoku

[dappermouth]

You feel you’ve been here, once before — a memory that was not quite yours.

[dappermouth]

Star of the morning, collapsed in the weeds.

[dappermouth]

Some other life — detail from 'Thicket'

[cumchiato]

୨୧ — The front door slammed open with enough force to rattle the hinges as Sukuna stepped into your small, warmly lit floral shop. His once clean white shirt was ruined, splattered with arterial spray that had begun to dry to a rusty brown. More blood streaked across his tattooed forearms and dotted his face like war paint.

“Papa! Did you crash your bike?!" His daughter squeaked, voice wobbling between horror and excitement.

For one terrible moment, Sukuna stilled completely, cursing himself for forgetting she'd be home early today. Fucking half days... He'd planned to clean up before- “…Fuck,” he muttered under his breath… This wasn't how he'd planned for her to learn about certain... aspects of his work.

His seven year old daughter sat frozen at the table, spoon suspended halfway to her mouth, pink ice cream melting unnoticed.

“Papa?” Her small voice cut through his mental calculations, vermillion eyes -so much like his own- widening as they tracked the blood spatter, “What happened to you?”

Sukuna's jaw tightened as he assessed the situation. Lying wasn't his style -not to her, not ever- but even he recognized certain truths weren't appropriate for children. Especially his own...

“Work got messy, that’s all.”

She set down her spoon carefully, but never once letting go of her ice cream cup, a furrow appearing between her small brows as she studied him, “Is that blood?”

“…Yes.”

No point sugar coating it. She had his intelligence after all- sharp, analytical, missing nothing… She’d also seen enough cartoons to realize what’s coating his clothing and skin…

“A-Are you hurt?” She tried to sound serious, demanding that he answer her, but her concern was evident- fearful that her father might have gotten hurt.

Something tightened in Sukuna's chest -just slightly- at the question. Of course that would be her first concern... Just like you, her beautiful mother, always worried about him.

“No, brat,” he finally answered with a lazy smirk, one sharp nail brushing aside her bangs before ruffling her hair, “it’s not my blood.”

Her eyes narrowed, processing this information until she pointed a small finger at his forearm where a vivid red pattern stood out against his black tattoos.

“Does that mean it belongs to someone else?”

Sukuna's laugh was dark and low, edged with something dangerous, “Someone who fucked with the wrong pers-…”

“Bad language tax,” she replied automatically, but the reprimand was distracted, secondary to her question.

“Put it on my tab,” he sighed, “but yeah… your old man had to take care of a bad guy.”

Her ice cream cup clinked softly against the table as it nearly slipped from her tiny hands just as she gasped. Her entire little body stiffening, the mug wobbling in her grip. Her eyes went huge, mouth forming a perfect O. She whispers under her breath loud enough for him to hear, “Papa… is a superhero???”

Sukuna laughed at that, “Not even fucking close,” he said, red eyes shimmering with amusement, “but the bastard had it coming.”

She gasped dramatically at the swears, then immediately giggled- as if what he just said didn’t even phase her, “You said more bad words,” she whispered, “Mama's gonna be mad.”

“Your mother has heard worse,” he said, mouth quirking up at one corner.

“If you’re not a super hero, then what are you, papa?”

Sukuna's eyes darkened, “I'm the thing heroes fight against,” he said simply. “the monster that lurkes in the shadows.”

She frowned, “But monsters are bad,” she declared, “and you’re not bad. You protect mama and I.”

The certainty in her voice -the absolute, unwavering faith- made Sukuna's chest tighten again... The very feeling he'd thought long dead until you had somehow revived it, and this small extension of himself had brought fully to life again.

“The world's not that simple, kid,” he said, more gently than anyone who knew him would believe possible.

She nodded, “Like how you tell me stealing is wrong, but then you stole the last cookie yesterday?”

Sukuna’s expression went blank, not expecting that to be her example of how the world isn’t simple, “That's… different. My house, my cookies.”

She gave him a cheesy grin before laughing- this moment where she was confronting the violent reality of who and what her father was. “I think,” she announced, reaching out fearlessly to touch a particularly vivid splash of blood on his shirt, “that you're like the dragon, Sylus, in my book!”

Sukuna raised an eyebrow, genuinely curious, “How's that?”

“He’s scary and breathes fire and everyone's afraid of him,” she explained, tiny hands flying in the air now with pure excitement, “But!! That’s because he is protecting his treasure.”

Her eyes never left his, “We're your treasure. Me and mama! So you have to be scary sometimes to keep us safe! You’re a special kind of hero!”

Something dangerously close to emotion threatened to close Sukuna's throat. This child -this impossibility- making sense of him in ways adults never could. Accepting the violence and the blood as just another aspect of protection…

“Sure, something like that…” he managed, voice wavering ever so slightly.

She nodded once, decision made, “Then it's okay.” She patted his cheek with small, sticky fingers, leaving a smear of pink ice cream among the blood. “But mama is going to be mad about the shirt. It's white… erm, well… was...”

Sukuna snorted, the tension of the moment broken by her practical observation, “Your mother's seen worse.”

“Worse shirts?” she asked innocently.

“Worse everything,” he muttered, straightening to his full towering height, “now finish your ice cream while I clean up.”

As Sukuna discarded his shirt he looked back at his little girl…

A hero. What a fucking joke…

But for her, he'd let her believe whatever version of him helped her sleep at night. If she needed to cast him as some dark protector- like the dragon in her story book rather than what he truly was, so be it.

[downydig]

I’ve been thinking about this image in my mind for a while and decided to draw it to purge it

[beaniesayshi]

Sukuna's mechanic intuition is put to the test when he notices you're trying to ignore a tiny car problem.

The noise started three days ago—a faint, rhythmic click-click-click that only appeared during sharp left turns. You kept the radio volume high, hoping that if you didn’t hear it, it wasn’t real. You’d certainly made sure not to mention it to Sukuna. You knew him well enough to know that if you showed even the tiniest mechanical suspicion, a hesitant, "Hey, does this sound weird to you?" he’d have your car up on the lift before you could even finish your sentence. 

And frankly, you preferred avoiding a lecture on basic car maintenance and the sheer recklessness of ignoring a clear warning sign while you were already drowning in quarterly deadlines. 

This morning, both of you left your apartment at the same time, you for the office and Sukuna for the gym. He tossed his bag into his Jeep, then walked over to your car to kiss you goodbye. You smiled as his lips met yours, the scent of his cologne providing a comforting anchor in the hectic morning. Murmuring, "I love you," you then got into the driver’s seat and started the engine.

Only when you turned the wheel to pull out of the parking spot did the sound happen again. That click-click-click echoed off the low ceiling and the concrete pillars of the underground garage. You barely registered it, your mind already on the morning's first meeting, as you straightened and drove toward the exit ramp.

Behind you, Sukuna had stopped dead in his tracks. He hadn’t even reached for the door handle yet; he just stood there, head tilted, eyes narrowed, tracking and dissecting the sound until your car disappeared outside. His jaw tightened in that specific way when he’d found a problem that needed solving.

—

The glass doors of the office building hiss open a few minutes after five. You’re digging through the chaos of your bag, fingers brushing past pens and receipts as you desperately search for your keys.

Two coworkers walk with you—Hiroshi, an analyst who has been awkwardly trying to find excuses to linger by your desk for the past week, and Miyuki from Accounting, still complaining about the breakroom coffee. Your mind is still half-buried in the spreadsheets you’ve been staring at for the last eight hours, and you’re only half-listening to the conversation.

“I’m just saying, if we don't get a new espresso machine, I’m going to start charging the company for my own sanity,” Miyuki sighs dramatically, fanning herself with a folder.

You offer a nod, your eyes scanning the lot as you head mechanically to the spot where you left your car in the morning. But the spot… is empty.

A surge of cold panic jolts you out of your workspace haze. You stop short, your gaze flicking frantically between the painted lines of the parking space and the surrounding cars. At the same time, Hiroshi stops too, his eyes fixed on the visitor’s lane near the curb.

“Uh, is that your car?” he asks, confused, pointing toward the curb. “And... who’s that guy?”

You follow his gesture, feeling a strange flutter in your heart. There, parked illegally in the visitor’s lane and shining after a fresh wash that definitely wasn’t there this morning, is your car. And leaning against the hood with an unmistakably casual arrogance that should also be illegal is Sukuna.

He’s a stark contrast to the suits and briefcases leaving the building. Wearing an oversized black tee that drapes over his broad shoulders and gray sweats, he seems like he’s from a different world. One hand is tucked into his pocket while the other scrolls lazily through his phone. The golden hour light hits the tattoos on his face and forearms, making the ink look like it’s glowing.

“Oh,” Miyuki says, her eyebrows shooting up. “Did you call a mobile mechanic? Is he the repair guy?”

Hiroshi scoffs, puffing out his chest just a fraction. “He looks a bit... intense for a repair guy. Hey, buddy! You lost?” he calls out, his voice slightly too loud.

Sukuna slowly tilts his head, pockets his phone, and pushes off the hood, his eyes drifting over Hiroshi with bored indifference. Then his gaze finds yours, and a broad, smug smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“That faint clicking you were ignoring was a failing CV joint, brat,” he calls out, his voice rough and low, cutting through Hiroshi's fragile confidence. “If you’d hit a pothole on the way home, the entire front end would’ve snapped. You’d be calling me from a ditch.”

The "repair guy" just called you brat with an unnerving familiarity that makes Miyuki’s jaw drop, and both your coworkers go silent.

“Oh, and I’m the husband,” Sukuna adds before you can even open your mouth.

At this point, Hiroshi looks like he’s trying to figure out how to un-ask the question and disappear from the planet.

You look from your car to Sukuna, your brain finally putting the pieces together. “Wait... you came here and took it? How did you even get here?”

Sukuna lets out a huff of laughter, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out your spare keys, dangling them in front of him.

“Yeah,” he answers, stepping closer until his cologne overwhelms every other scent around. “You were busy in meetings, and I wasn’t letting you drive that death trap another mile. I had Kenji bring me over with the spare set around ten.”

“You spent your whole afternoon off under my car?” You beam at him, feeling a warm ache in your chest, just like every other time he does something absolutely thoughtful and devoted while acting like he’s just annoyed by the inconvenience. “Kuna, you didn’t have to do that. I could’ve brought it in Saturday.”

You offer your shocked coworkers a quick wave before Sukuna’s hand comes up to rest at the back of your neck. His fingers are a comforting weight that instantly melts away the last of your workday stress. He leans down, his thumb softly tracing your jawline.

“Saturday is for the Stardew and for making you scream,” he rasps quietly straight into your ear, his voice dropping into that dangerous tone. “I’m not spending it under a lift because you’re too stubborn to admit your car was crying for help.”

You can’t help the wide grin spreading across your face as your hands reach up to cup his face, pulling him down for a deep, thankful kiss.

“So... you did it because you're a hero? My knight in greasy armor?”

Sukuna’s smirk widens as his eyes flash with that spark of mischief. He wraps his arm around your shoulder, pulling you tightly against his side, then steers you toward the car.

“I did it because I’m not having my wife drive around in a car that sounds like a bag of loose bolts. It’s embarrassing. People see you pull into the garage, and they’re gonna think I don't know how to maintain my own equipment,” he corrects flatly, and you roll your eyes at him.  

Reaching past you, he pulls the passenger’s side door open. 

“Now get in. I’m starving, and you’re buying me dinner for saving your life.”

“I'm buying? You’re the one who committed grand theft auto!”

He winks at you, the smugness practically radiating off him as he ushers you into the seat.

“Consider it a convenience fee. Move it, brat. I want the expensive sushi.”

 

a/n: domestic sukuna masterlist

[rawme-price]

No thoughts just omega!reader getting strong binge urges before a heat.

All those hormones in your body deciding this time, you'll definitely get pupped. Which leads to screaming about putting on weight for the pups you'll surely have.

Pizza, cake, fruits, drinks. It all sounds amazing in your heat-induced hunger. You eat until you're full, then keep eating because your instincts purr at every bite.

Which leads to now. Your stomach uncomfortably full with every move you make, crawling into your nest and clambering atop of gaz. You whine, flop down on top of him with a quiet oof.

"Tummy hurts, baby?" He asks, clearly knowing the answer by the way he smoothes a hand over your bloated stomach. "Not gonna throw up again, are you?"

You groan, cuddle up further for the warmth and partially to spite gaz. He indulgently pushes a soothing scent, something to make you feel safe. Omegas feeling vulnerable after a heat-induced binge could negatively affect health.

Gaz offers you a kiss to the forehead, two large arms wrapped around your torso. He doesn't mention the fact you do this every heat, or that a pup really isn't likely.

Gaz handles you gently, curls into the nest with you and purrs until you're soft and sleeping.

[asteroshearts]

You (jokingly) threaten Sylus with divorce, but he knows your souls are tied, so he's not worried.

"You'd ignore your husband for half a day," a smooth voice called above you, "just because he drank your last yogurt cup?"

Huffing and crossing your arms, you turned away from the figure that stood beside you. "Ex-husband," you said curtly.

"Oh?" Your eyes were closed, you felt his presence beside you anyway, radiating heat and pressure. Cracking your eyelids open a smidge, you saw one muscular arm pressed against the wall in front of you, caging you into the couch where you sat. The other grabbed the hand that were popping out of your crossed arms. He began rubbing your fingers with his thumb, but you had to stay strong.

"Do you think I deserve this punishment, kitten? You want to rip my life apart?" he asked. Silence. "Why don't you serve me with the papers then?" Yanking your hand, you stifled the yelp from your mouth when he pulled you close. "You will take everything in the divorce, and leave me in ruin."

Although he spoke of his demise, he held you as if his arms were iron.

"I'll have nothing except my name, not even half of my soul, is my kitten so cruel?" he'd ask.

"...Would my ex-husband be so stupid as to hand everything to me?" you muttered back. It was true you two didn't sign a prenuptial, but there was never a thought in your mind that you would take everything in a divorce. You made good money on your own and you knew you could live well without his.

"Hand it to you?" he repeated. You tried to yank your hand away, but he held on fast, linking his fingers with yours. "You already have everything. The second we went to the registration office and signed our names on that paper, everything that was mine became yours. I have nothing without you."

You held your breath. You didn't want to comment on how hot your face was becoming or how heated your heart was at his confession.

His empire, everything he had worked for, the riches he had accumulated. What was the point of that without him?

"...Then I should've written in that marriage contract for every snack you eat of mine, you should buy me at least three more."

A chuckle and that stupid smirk appeared on his face again.

"Is that all it takes for you to not throw me away?" Amusement filled his red eyes.

"Give me back my yogurt cup and I'll think about it," you said, cupping his face with both hands.

[leaderincrows]

Me: *kills your bf*

Tw blood, tw death

[veejiez]

ㅤㅤㅤ𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐑 𝐌𝐄 𝐈𝐍 ℒ𝐎𝐕𝐄

NSFW ARTIST ! GOJO ♥︎ SATORU is an artist in New York, and he's smitten with his new muse. It's love at first sight, like straight out of a story he's written. But just how far will this love go? Maybe, to Paris. And then, maybe, to the wedding arch. Or maybe, it'll just stay in the sketchbooks. wc ~ 4.7k

ㅤ ♥︎ MDNI/ADULT CONTENT────love at first sight, lots of fluff, plot twist ending :: eventual smut :: slight slowburn :: friends to lovers :: light crack :: a teaspoon of Suguru jealousy

ㅤ ♥︎ Be on my permanent taglist to get updates.

ㅤ ♥︎ Main masterlist for this fic

Shame this lovesick pervert.

He asked you to be his muse on the same day he met you. And I’ll tell you all his secrets if you promise not to tell him I told you... but he has never asked someone to be his muse before.

Satoru’s a reclusive artist. He doesn’t get out much unless Suguru forces him to, and even then, he only touches grass for 0.2 seconds before running back to his drawing board and continuing storyboarding the next cunnilingus scene.

His latest WIP?

It’s extremely similar to the last one, because he’s trying to sate his hopeless romantic soul through his work; strangers to lovers. Love confession. Kissing. Hand holding. Cunnilingus. Fellatio. Creampie. Cuddling. Aftercare. Happy ending.

He’s garnered a considerable audience online, received plenty letters from people thanking him for depicting realistic, wholesome sex—and even better, for always writing good plots. He’s regarded as a modern-day Michelangelo-Shakespeare... if they were horny.

But he’s dissatisfied with his work. He stresses over scribbled scrapped sketches, studio littered with half-attempted works and lazy over-used tropes. All his characters feel flat, pointless—no soul, no purpose.

If only someone could come along, walk into his life and inspire him. He could draw them all day every day. A muse he could fall in love with.

Ah.

Good idea, Satoru. Write that down.

Fated lovers, artist meets his muse trope—perfect.

♥︎

It’s your close friend Suguru Geto that introduces you to him.

And it’s about damn time, too, because Satoru's been hearing his best friend yapyapyap about you like a little dog for well over six months now. I mean, it’s really honestly just gotten annoying to hear your name mentioned every day—daresay it’s sparked a little jealousy in him from time to time, especially when Suguru praises you like you hung the stars.

As if you were more special than him...

yeah right.

Who could be more special than Satoru?

Hiseyes captivate, stun people into cricket silence—I’m telling you, his mom's womb must have been an art studio to be able to produce a walking masterpiece like him.

My god, just look at that face; sculpted by Michelangelo himself. The enigmatic Mona Lisa smile that keeps one guessing at how he feels. The divine dimples on his cheek that make a girl's knees buckle, and effortlessly perfect lashes to make her envious.

C’mon, god liked Satoru Gojo so much that he gifted him with the prettiest six-inch fingers and enough noggin to use them...

on art...

and other things.

Surely, throughout heaven and earth, he alone dominates, right? Or at the very least, he’s the most divine creature that ever walked these New York streets.

—yeah yeah, then he meets you.

And then his signature arrogant smile is wiped clean off his face.

Then suddenly all that jealousy disappears from him at once. Now his cocky flat ass is in checkmate. Now he’s been properly humbled.

Because you really are exactly as Suguru has made you out to be. A soft and nymphic little creature. Heaven-sent.

And here Satoru thought Suguru was exaggerating; but no, there was no exaggeration.

You were just as beautiful as the portrait Suguru painted in Satoru’s mind of you.

You.

Oh my god, you.

It’s you.

Satoru knows with astrological intuition that it’s you who he’s going to fall in love with. It’s an acute feeling.

You’re it.

This is it.

You’re the love of my life.

This is the meaning of my entire existence.

We’re going to kiss, go on three dates, get engaged, travel, fuck in every city, get married in Paris, and then have five kids in five years.

He’s thought all this when you’ve only exchanged strangerly hellos, by the way.

Then you sit down to talk.

Satoru looked at you, and looked at you, and didn’t stop looking at you; it’s like he was marvelling down the corridors of the Louvre, totally captivated.

For the first twenty minutes, he was so thrown off his game that he couldn’t speak fluidly—kept muddling his mother tongue and English.

But he pulled himself together after a brief pep talk in the bathroom. Then he was his normal self again.

He tufted at his hair—liked to keep it an eccentric mess—returned to the table with a serene smile and politely took his seat. Then he stole all your attention, leaving Suguru to sizzle there with all the jealousy a ‘friend’ is allowed to have.

Never mind the fact Satoru’s a walking art piece, but he’s a talking one, too; a prose like poetry in his speech—the crackle of his voice; it goes straight south for you and makes it nearly impossible for you to sit still, or act entirely normal.

Finally seeing the girl he’s heard talked about for months in the flesh makes something click in his mind; like oh, this is who Suguru’s been talking about.

It makes sense.

Of course; how could anyone shut up about you?

You’ve got this electricity, subdued but all there and nearly palpable in the air around you. The way you take people into your heart with open arms, so warmly and invitingly, is something new to Satoru who has grown up in a home devoid of any semblance of affection. Why do you think he’s glued to Suguru? Why he’s so quickly jealous of anyone who dares to snatch his precious little Sugu away? But now he’ll allow for one exception; the pretty smiling moonbeam sitting right opposite him.

He notices. He smiles.

♥︎

It's a nice cafe; sleek and clean, bright and airy. Potted ferns drooping tendrils nearly into your coffee cup with how low they reach.

It’s this cafe in which Satoru had spent most of his days curled up in the corner with his drawing tablet.

Hiding in the corner was very necessary, considering he was scribbling penises.

Like.

Real-deal dicks.

The main attraction of this place was the wall mural, signed with an infinity symbol and two initials: G.S.

Sensual and erotic, with more soul in it than any pornographic piece you’ve ever consumed. That’s the way people describe the work of art in this shop.

It’s a big piece, must have taken forever to complete, but the result of Satoru’s hard hours of work is a masterpiece which turned this little place into a tourist hotspot.

And you can’t stop staring at it for the first few minutes.

A naked woman laid in wait in the depths of a forest. The composition tells the story of a—

“—nymph in wait of her lover, her body aching for his touch, but he’s dead in the river in which she dips her toes. She’s arched in agony, the agony that’s specific to an unfulfilled lusting desire.”

Satoru beams proudly, explaining the art piece to you. It sounds like he’s reflected on it for a whole lifetime with how lucidly he articulates himself.

“The manager commissioned me to paint it two summers ago.”

Suguru interjects, “The mural in the nightclub we met at?—Satoru did that, too.”

“Meh, that one, sure, but this one is way cooler—I mean, who wouldn’t want to stare at the female form all day? It’s a feast for the eyes. Nothing can move the soul quite like a woman.”

Satoru hooks you right there. You liked him. You liked the way he spoke. You liked what he spoke about. He was everything.

He shines a gleaming smile and reels you right into his soul—he’s practically leaning over the table to talk to you.

It’s certainly not loud enough in this coffee shop to warrant such proximity—he just wants an excuse to be closer to you. The excuse being that he can’t hear you over the grinding and whirring of machinery behind the barista bar.

Oh... any excuse in the book to get a little closer, right?

To squeeze the distance between us into infinitesimally smaller lengths until I—

“—fall into you, Mazzy Star; that’s all I listened to the day I painted this. And I ruined my favorite shirt, too, but it was well worth it. What do you think?”

“Lustful agony, huh?” you begin, looking for your words, “I like that.”

“It’s an acute kind of pain, isn’t it?”

“Very.”

This is the point at which he pops the cap off his chapstick and applies it to his puckered lips while maintaining strict eye contact with you. And you know with blue eyes it’s like a train wreck; hard to look away from no matter how horrifying.

Now worse, you can imagine, is watching a man with such kissable lips make an erotic scene out of reapplying chapstick to his lips.

His lips aren’t even chapped, he just does it out of habit; it reminds you that his lips are right there, it’s the smallest hint that he’s ready to be kissed.

Suguru clears his throat.

“Anyways.”

♥︎

You laugh and it destroys him.

Oh god, it’s agony.

He’s just met you, and yet he’s smitten already.

I mean totally and pathetically smitten to the point it’s got his best friend doing a double take because Suguru really didn’t expect you and his best friend to get along so well—like two stars in the same constellation. Like you were meant to be.

I mean seriously, Suguru’s mouth is agape in dumbfounded awe at the chemistry between you and Satoru. It’s sodium and water. Erupting, violently.

It’s a little bit of a punch to the gut, too, because Suguru thought you and him had something special — platonically, he swears. Totally platonic.

“Fuck, I wish I could have met you sooner.” groans Satoru at some point, “Suguru, shame on you! Ah, but I can't blame you for wanting someone like this all to yourself. I'd also love to have her all to myself.” he smirked.

“Ha-ha... stop flirting with me, you dog.” you smile bashfully, avoiding his blue gaze.

“Not a chance.” he winked, chin cupped in palm.

The waiter comes by your table to take your orders. You don’t know why, but he seems like an evil barista. Nose upturned, eyeliner all nearly melted off, hair a rancid yellow, hip tilt very sassy and voice very exasperated.

Anyways, you place your orders.

“—Americano.” you request,

“—Make it two.” Suguru adds,

“—Make it three.” Satoru chimes in, “Thank you.”

Suguru cocks his head at Satoru and gives him a funny look.

“Look at that; I think we’re meant for each other.”

“Eh? Satoru, what’s going on? You never drink Americanos.”

He shrugs his shoulders, “I’m going through a mid-youth crisis. Anyways—” he redirects his attention to you, “Do you draw?” he asks.

“No, not at all.” you answer, “Maybe a stick figure, but that’s where my abilities end.”

“I like that.” Satoru murmurs softly, almost affectionately. “See, I don’t get along with other artists. They annoy me. Totally crimp my style.”

“I think you mean cramp your style.” Suguru corrects.

Satoru waves a dismissive hand, only looking at you.

“So, what do you do?”

He’s leaning in.

Blue eyes lock on you.

The Americanos arrive to your table.

And Suguru’s quaking quietly, just waiting for Satoru to say something horrifyingly embarrassing in front of this girl he regards so highly.

The thread is about to snap.

You reply. “Nothing fun, I’m working in tourism management and I hate it with every fibre of my being—been trying to quit since I started—but what about you? What do you do for a living? Just murals?”

Oh god, here it comes.

Suguru braces himself for impact, like a grenade of cringe is about to be dropped on the table.

“I draw dicks.”

“Huh?”

“Yeah, I’m a hentai artist.” he shrugs coolly. “I post my stuff online, recently got the second one published... in hard-copy. I have a substantial following, so, all’s been going well. But yeah. Penis. Vagina. Copulation. That’s my thing.”

You stutter. He smirks.

“Oh. Wow? Um.”

Your brows raise so high they nearly become a part of your hairline.

Suguru dives on the grenade before it explodes.

“—in other words, he doesn’t touch grass often.” he jokes to ease the tension.

“Yes I do. And Suguru’s middle name happens to be Grass.”

“Okay now.”

You lean in closer, breasts grazing the surface of the table, curious rather than appalled.

“Hentai? So, you mean—like, sexual intercourse?” you ask to confirm, totally dumbfounded.

“Yes—like, total coitus.” he mimics, leaning in closer. “Inner labia, outer labia, et cetera.”

And ka-boom.

Suguru’s hiding behind his cup—but the cup is transparent, so it’s all a cruel joke. His face has completely reddened.

Meanwhile...

Satoru is serenely calm.

Like, zero shame.

He watches you process what he’s just told you, like it’s a fun game he plays with everyone new he meets. Something like a test to see if you’re on the same wavelength as him.

He’s met every kind of person; the prudes, the freaks, and everything in-between. Right now, he’s trying to figure out where you lay on the spectrum—hoping you’re leaning more towards freak.

“I’m not a weirdo,”

“—lies.” coughs Suguru.

Satoru raises a finger, “I just appreciate sex for what it is; an art form.”

You squirm a little, rub your thighs together—Satoru’s eyes flick down, then up.

Were you appalled? No, not when a feverish smile was twitching subtly at your lips like this.

Excited? More probable, considering you were shifting around in your seat as if the chair suddenly became uncomfortable.

“I... well,” you begin blubbering, heat rising to the top of your cheeks.

The ice shifts in your Americano.

Satoru lowers his voice a whole octave—you feel him deep in your tummy.

“There’s no need to be shy,” he purrs, “we’re all adults, aren’t we? I think we can agree on this.”

“—agree on what, exactly?” Suguru joins, noting how Satoru’s practically leaned over half the table to hear you—and is that really necessary? The coffee bean grinder wasn’t that loud.

“Sex is art; in all its heavenly, nasty, glory. Sex is an artform and prudish people are the killers of that artistic expression. Sex is like a small, holy, inter-dimensional space in which souls talk to each other.”

And then came the contrarian, barging in, trampling all over Satoru’s philosophy.

“Sex means different things to different people.” said Suguru. “I think it’s vulgar to make drawings of it. But that’s just me.”

“The ancient Egyptians liked pornography—Turin Erotic Papyrus. And if you think sex is just some vulgar, nasty thing, think again. It’s a sexual union, baby. Kama Sutra. You should read it.”

“No thanks.” Suguru politely refused, “Not for me.”

Your eyes flit between them, watching the tension rise as they begin to bicker—and you don’t know what else to do but just sit there, stifling your amusement, as they go back on forth; sex is art—not always, it depends on the person—no, sex is art—that’s just what you believe, Satoru—ohhh, Suguru, purring my name like that again? Do you wanna fight?—do you wanna fight?

Eventually Satoru turns to you, “Help me out; he’s being stubborn.”

But you only shrug in response, “I don’t know. I’ve never contemplated it—sex is a bit... boring to me, if I’m being honest.”

Satoru’s eyes appear to gleam—his irises, so vividly blue, scare the shit out of you right then.

He looks mad, like only a poet or artist could be.

Then you feel a warming touch of the softest hands—Satoru grasped your hands very gently, looked you in the eyes, and moved like a swan closer to you.

“No, no... pretty baby.” he spoke like you’d upset him, “Let me enlighten you.”

“Satoru.” comes Suguru’s soft warning, “We’ve just met the sweet girl. Don’t give her The Monologue.”

“But—”

“—shut up and drink your coffee.” Suguru smiles.

“No fun...” mutters Satoru, releasing your hands with reluctance, bringing his Americano to his lips.

The air feels tight and electric. You were waiting for whatever Satoru was about to say, holding your breath—ready to be enlightened by the blue-eyed madman.

Until you were totally cockblocked by a slightly jealous Suguru.

♥︎

Suguru’s praying for something to break the tension—something to grab onto, to stabilize the situation.

Then it comes. A comedic relief.

Satoru takes a sip of his Americano—the ice shuddering loudly in his venti cup—and then his entire face shrinks into itself the moment the bitter drink hits his taste buds. He blinks rapidly as if he was personally offended by the beverage.

“—oh.” Satoru grimaces.

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

“Nothing!”

Suguru’s sobbing behind his interlocked fingers, elbows on the table—trying but failing to contain his weeping bout of laughter.

“He hates bitter things.”

“Go figure! Then why’d you order it, silly?” you laugh—Satoru struggles.

He struggles with his Americano. He struggles with how nice and inviting you’re being to him, despite him just admitting that he likes drawing people having.

“Ngh—thought I’d try something new... at least I’ve got sweet company to make up for this.” he flirts.

“—how charming.” you purr back.

Satoru looks at you. He really looks at you. No, you don’t understand—nobody has ever looked at you like that before. He didn’t look with just the simple animalistic hunger of a man, nor the curiosity of a stranger; he looked at you like an artist pondering his muse, with pure admiration for your features.

In this moment, he’s thinking about how to sketch you. Memorizing. The wrinkles, your smile, the shape of your face, your essence.

His eyes fall to your breasts. He can’t help that it happens—nor can he fight himself from framing the image of your soft cleavage in his mind. It’s for safekeeping later, when he draws your portrait.

If only he could stare for longer, learn every detail of your face, or better yet capture your expression when you reach orgasmic bliss.

Satoru stares you dead in the eye.

I wonder what you look like when you cum.

That’s the thought behind his baby blues. He wanted your O-shaped face in his portfolio.

The moment is disrupted. Bursts like a needled balloon.

“My shift starts soon.” Suguru’s voice breaks the small moment of silence between you and Satoru.

He rose from his seat, black hair falling over his shoulder. Satoru looks away from you.

“—whaaat? Can’t you afford to be a little late?” Satoru instantly pleaded, but it was pretty evident that he was jumping at the idea of getting alone time with you.

“Have you met my boss?” Suguru joked. “She’s probably plotting how to fire me as we speak.”

“N’aw... well, see you tonight?—maybe I’ll bring along some pretty company. What do you say?”

Satoru looks at you.

You’re lighting up at the suggestion.

“Sure. Just tell me where—I’m not one to drink, though.”

“N’aw, don’t worry; I’ll mix you something virgin.” Suguru winks at you. “Text you later. Satoru? Behave.”

“No promises.” Satoru smirks.

Suguru leaves.

And now it’s just the two of us.

Satoru exhales like he’s been holding his breath in the entire time, and flashes a cute lopsided smile your way.

Finally. We can be alone together.

♥︎

Satoru’s been sat cross-legged and shrimped over on the cafe chair — and you’ve spent an hour marvelling curiously at the strangeness of a man sitting so wrongly on a chair, spent this hour listening to his unending yap about sex is art.

He’s still going; on and on, surreptitiously inching closer to you until suddenly he couples with you on the boothside. Oh yes, he’s smooth about it—just showing you his sketchbook. No funny business.

“Be not afraid,” he warns, hesitating for dramatic effect as he opens the first page, “—you will see a lot of dicks.”

“A little phallus never hurt nobody.” you shrug, admittedly unprepared for what he’s about to show you.

“Well, they’re not little, per se.”

He opens his sketchbook.

And you can’t believe it.

You’re quaking.

Shaking.

Oh my god.

Peacocks.

So, so many peacocks. Dicks. Penises. Erections all over the place. Cockheads. Balls. Shafts—veiny ones, thick ones, thinner ones. All angles. Many positions. Some in the midst of orgasm, cumming in very graphic, very graphite detail. Cum dribbling down the shaft. Bursting out like ribbons. Penises in motion. This page right here could give a nun a nervous breakdown.

Satoru yaps next to you—calmly, like it’s totally normal and not weird to view dick drawings together.

His shoulder brushes yours. Your breath catches. He’s so goofy, so unserious; you haven’t met someone so eccentric in a long, long time, that’s why you’re falling so hard, that’s why you’re so invested in the penises.

His hands skim the paper’s edge as he tells you about how long it took for him to learn to draw anatomically correct genitalia, and why it’s beautiful to him.

“This is the natural human form, which unfortunately we have to cover up,” he sweeps a gaze over your shoulders and tries hard not to linger on the shape of your breasts, “there’s few better moments in life than than the first time two people strip for each other.”

“Haha, is it supposed to feel good? My naked moments have never been very comfortable. They’re usually... awkward.”

“It’s supposed to be awkward. Awkward is intimate, no?”

“I—well, if you put it that way, I guess so. But nakedness is just sort of embarrassing, really.”

Satoru pauses, lingering on what you’ve said. For a second or two, it’s like he’s completely stationary; just staring at you when suddenly he speaks again.

“Well, if you’d let me, I can show you the beauty of nakedness.”

“—huh?”

“Nothing.”

Warmth rips across the tops of your cheeks.

He watches your eyes widen and quickly backtracks.

“Ah—um—sorry—anyways, next page.”

You’re laughing, still processing what he just said but he’s already shifting shyly away from the topic. It’s like he put his foot in his mouth. But little did he know, he had you twitching behind your panties.

Satoru continues flipping through his drawings.

But all you can think about, as he explains some ‘mushroom technique’ to drawing penises, is his hands.

He’s got very, very pretty hands. They’re in-between dainty and masculine. Slim, long fingers that could show you six inches of heaven. Delicate blue veins popping on the back of his hand, creeping down his wrist—it makes you wonder what else is veiny—then you slap yourself out of it.

He turns the page.

And boom.

Pussy.

Everywhere—like, more than the Dicks. Looks like he definitely has a favorite thing to draw.

It’s crude and raw and—

“Pussy is beautiful.”

You choke on your Americano.

—he said whatnow?

Satoru grins unapologetically. He loves tripping you up like this.

“Sorry to be so crude—but I got a comment the other day about how I draw too many cunnilingus scenes—yeah! Crazy, right?!—so, naturally, I’m going to make those scenes even longer. Gonna put the pussy right in their face.”

“So spiteful, Satoru.” you purr.

Mm. He likes how you say his name. It makes him fluttery all over.

“I take my vagina business seriously, okay?”

“I can see that...”

“Anyways,” he turns the page, “these are my studies of the clitoris.” he asks cheekily.

“Oh wow. It’s a clit.”

“Indeed. ’Tis a clit.”

Behold: the clitoris.

Two whole spreads in his sketchbook dedicated to this little nub that most men in your life can’t find.

You squirm in your seat next to him—don’t think he doesn’t notice it. He’s noticing everything about you. Nothing escapes those eyes. He’s observing you so closely that you would feel uncomfortable if it weren’t for the sugar-sweetness of his aura. You’re convinced this boy couldn’t hurt a fly.

“And this is my upcoming comic—you get the first peek, because I like you.”

—well that rolled off his tongue a little too easily, didn’t it?

Never mind that. You don’t have time to linger on this stranger’s subtle confession, because now he’s showing you panels of pure hentai.

Mating press.

Kissing with tongue.

Praise, lots of praise. Your eyes follow the speech bubbles from the character saying ‘such a good girl’ to ‘I know you can take it, so take it’ to ‘feels like you missed me’ to the end where it’s a—

“Cliffhanger?! You’re edging me now.” you whine.

“Ha-ha, I wish—ah, er, um—kidding.” he clears his throat nervously.

The last panel is the two characters nearly getting caught and a thick, wettened cock withdrawing hastily from a puckered pussy, the last dialogue being ‘shall we continue this later?’.

“I haven’t been very inspired lately.” Satoru shrugs, mood ever so slightly deflating. “Haven’t worked on this in, like, months...”

“Hard to keep it up?”

“Not at all.”

You blink at each other.

Satoru gasps, “Oh, you mean art?—yeah, totally.”

“Maybe you need a new muse.”

You said it as a joke, but his face lit up like eureka just struck him.

“Satoru?”

“Yes?”

He damn nearly called you baby.

“I’ve gotta go.”

He wilts. He visibly wilts—leaving? Now? Why? No. You can’t be. He needs more of you.

“Oh! Y-yeah, of course. Um. Can I walk you to the bus stop?” he asked, bearing a puppy-faced look up at you. How could you turn him down?

“Of course.”

His heart begins to race.

♥︎

Heels clip-clopping, polished black shoes clicking, as people scuttle on by past you and Satoru. He was so kind to offer to walk you to the bus stop—anything to be with you a little longer, even if for just a few meagre minutes.

It was terrible.

He couldn’t even walk slowly alongside you, because the bus was leaving soon—so the both of you speed-walked together, quick-yapped, squeezed in as much as you could even though it was quite a futile attempt to learn everything about each other in the span of ten minutes or less.

The sinking sun watched the two of you as you came to a standstill. People and traffic were flowing non-stop, but in the little world you shared with this stranger, everything stilled.

He sunk his hands deep into his pockets and looked at you contemplatively.

You turned to face him.

“Shall we continue this later?”

Satoru’s cheeks redden. He blinks at you once, then twice, and tries not to break into a smile but fails miserably.

“Ha-ha... so you’ll come tonight?”

“Absolutely.”

He lingered at the door of the bus for far too long—a passer-by would think he’s your boyfriend, not a love-struck stranger. Knee-deep; he was knee-deep in it and this was just the beginning.

“Later.” you chirp your flirty goodbye.

“Later.” he comfirms in a dreamy murmur—like he’s keeping this inside joke close to him.

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

Don’t go.

Please don’t go.

Just a little longer.

He watches you walk down the aisle to find a seat, has eyes for nobody but you. One hand in his pocket, the other released from its confines just to wave you another goodbye.

His heart throbs when you smile and wave back at him.

The bus starts rattling and grunting as it moves away.

His heart throbs—

Don’t go just yet.

—and then you’re gone. Vanished. Like all this was just a figment of his imagination, or a movie set with fake props and background actors.

He’s not quite the same Satoru after you’ve left him on the sidewalk like this; he’s a changed man. You’ve colored him three shades of lovesick pink.

He’s blinking at the place where the bus with his lover disappeared around the corner, face straightening into an expression only a yearner could bear.

Now there’s no you here, just ordinary people as far as his eyes can see; businessmen in suits, women giving Satoru second and third glances, all the oblivious strangers scattered down a sidewalk in New York; always a rush of urgency, always with places to go—and Satoru amongst them sticks out like a sore thumb because he staggers a little, like he hasn’t got any plans on where to go because he only really wants to go where you go.

It’s not over; he’s just being dramatic.

He’ll see you again.

Later.

ㅤ ♥︎ AN──── @cupidstrace you know what's up *winkwink*

I've held onto this for little over half a year now, and finally have revised it and decided to put it into the world. It will be a short series, about three chapters long.

My ongoing fics list is growing, yay! I like working sporadically between different stories, it keeps me feeling crazy which is exactly the inertia I spin creativity off of.

Anyways. Thanks for reading ;) see you in the next chapter. I'm working on a lot of stories at once and I'm a slow writer, so updates for all my ongoing stories takes some time, but in the meantime while you wait why not browse my masterlist ?

[redcurrantpuff]

Jason bust 🥶