𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐱𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐚𝐚 💜

18//she/her//anime

[al3xandraareads]

Rainy Days and Record Stores

noah sebastian x reader

a/n: haii guys i know this is different i usually write for jjba or jjk characters but i’ve recently been obsessed w noah sebastian

The rain had been falling since morning, the kind of soft, grey drizzle that made the whole city feel like it was wrapped in a blanket. Noah pulled his hood up and jogged down the sidewalk, not really heading anywhere in particular. Days off were rare enough that he never quite knew what to do with them, his hands always itching for a guitar, his mind always half-running through lyrics or melodies or things that needed fixing in the mix.

He almost walked past the record store. It was the kind of place that was easy to miss, no big signage, just a small painted window and a sandwich board on the sidewalk that read OPEN, COME IN, WE'RE FRIENDLY. Something about that made him smile. He pushed open the door.

The little bell above it chimed, and the warmth of the place hit him immediately. It smelled like old vinyl and cedar and just faintly of coffee, and some low, unhurried song was playing through the speakers, something he couldn't quite name but felt like he'd always known. He shook the rain from his hair and let the door swing shut behind him, exhaling slowly.

He hadn't planned to stop anywhere today. But some places just pulled you in.

——————

The store was narrow and long, every wall lined floor to ceiling with records organized in a system that looked chaotic but probably made perfect sense to someone. Noah moved through the aisles slowly, the way he always did in places like this, no rush, no destination, just the quiet pleasure of not knowing what he'd find next. His fingers trailed over the spines. A worn copy of a Smashing Pumpkins album. Some deep-cut jazz he didn't recognize. A beat-up Cure record that made him stop entirely.

Disintegration. He turned it over in his hands, studied the back.

"That one's actually really good."

He looked up. You were standing a few feet away in the next aisle over, visible through the gap in the shelving, a stack of records tucked under one arm. You had rainwater still caught in your eyelashes and a slightly distracted look on your face, like you'd said the words before you'd fully decided to.

"Yeah?" he said.

You nodded, stepping around the shelving unit so you were properly in the same aisle. "Disintegration. It's basically a masterclass in making people feel things they didn't know they had. Robert Smith wrote most of it while he was convinced the world was ending." You paused. "Which, honestly, probably helped."

He laughed, a quiet, genuine laugh that surprised him a little. "That's a good way to put it."

"I work here on weekends," you said, with a small shrug, like that explained the confident record opinions. "I've had a lot of time to think about how to describe things to strangers."

"Does it work?"

You glanced pointedly at his hands. He was still holding the record.

"You're still holding it, aren't you?"

He looked down, then back up at you, caught. He put the record in his pile without another word.

——————

It wasn't like either of you planned it. You were supposed to be reorganizing the folk section. He was supposed to be browsing for twenty minutes and heading home. But somewhere between the Cure record and a debate about whether Brian Eno's ambient work counted as background music or demanded to be actively listened to, an hour slipped by without either of you noticing.

You moved through the store together in an easy, unplanned way, you'd drift back to your work, straightening a stack or checking something on the store's battered clipboard, and he'd follow the music in his head to a different section, and then somehow you'd end up in the same aisle again, picking up the conversation where it left off.

He found an old Portishead record and held it up. You made an approving sound.

You pulled out a Tom Waits album he'd never heard and handed it over without comment. He read the track listing and immediately wanted to listen to it.

"You know a lot about music," he said at some point, genuinely.

"I just love it," you said simply, like that was explanation enough. "What about you?"

"I'm in a band," he said. He always felt a little strange saying it, too much context required, too many follow-up questions usually, the conversation shifting into something that felt less like connection and more like interview.

But you just nodded, thoughtful. "What kind of music?"

"Rock. Kind of — heavier than that, some of it. It moves around."

"Do you write?"

"Yeah. Lyrics, mostly. Some composition."

You considered this with the same seriousness you'd given the records. "That's the hardest part, I think. Lyrics. Melody you can feel your way toward, but words have to mean something specific and universal at the same time." You glanced at him. "Do you find it hard?"

No one asked him that, usually. They asked what it was like to perform, or how the band got signed, or what his influences were. Not whether he found it hard.

"Yeah," he said honestly. "Sometimes it's the easiest thing in the world and sometimes it's like trying to catch something in your hands that keeps dissolving."

You nodded like that made complete sense to you. "Like trying to describe a record to someone who's never heard it."

"Exactly like that."

——————

The afternoon wore on soft and grey outside the window. The rain came and went in waves, and each time it picked up again Noah felt a quiet, selfish relief, one more reason to stay a little longer, to keep flipping through records and talking about nothing important and everything that was.

You made him listen to a song through the store speakers, cleared it with the older man behind the counter, who waved his hand like it didn't matter, which it seemed like it usually didn't. The song was something Noah had never heard, some obscure seventies folk artist with a voice like smoke and river water, and it filled the whole store and neither of you said anything for the full four minutes it played.

When it finished, Noah exhaled slowly. "Okay," he said. "That was something."

"Right?" You looked pleased in a quiet way, not showy about it. "I found that one in a collection someone donated last month. Played it on my lunch break and just sat there like—" you made a small, helpless gesture with your hands.

"Yeah." He understood exactly what the gesture meant.

He found himself watching you when you turned away, the way you handled the records carefully, two hands always, the way you'd pause and almost smile at certain covers like you were greeting old friends. There was something unhurried about you that he found himself relaxing into, the constant low hum of his own restlessness going just a little bit quieter.

He spent a lot of time in motion. It was easy to forget what it felt like to simply be somewhere.

——————

By the time the rain finally slowed to a pale, watery stop and the afternoon light began breaking thin and gold through the shop window, he had a small tower of records and had completely lost track of time.

"I should probably head out," he said, carrying his pile to the register. The older man had disappeared into the back, and you slid behind the counter naturally, like this was routine.

"Good haul," you said, picking up the first record and scanning it with the kind of practiced ease that comes from doing something thousands of times. You worked through the stack slowly, glancing at each one. "The Tom Waits is going to rearrange something in your brain, just so you know."

"Looking forward to it."

"The Portishead one—" you paused, holding it for just a second. "Listen to it at night. It's not a daytime record."

"Noted."

"And the Smashing Pumpkins you probably already know front to back, but there's a B-side on that pressing that's worth finding."

He watched you work, the easy confidence of it, the genuine care you put into things that most people would rush through. "You do this with everyone?" he asked. "The recommendations?"

You looked up, considering. "Only when I mean it."

Something about that sat warmly in his chest. He paid, and you folded the bag over neatly, and then he watched you pause, reach under the counter for a small notepad, uncap a pen, and write something quickly. You tore the sheet off and tucked it into the bag before handing it over.

He raised an eyebrow.

"A few more," you said. "For the next time it rains."

He reached into the bag and unfolded the note. Five records, written in small, careful handwriting, each one with a tiny description beside it.

For when you need to feel something.

For when you don't want to feel anything at all.

For 2am and you can't explain why you're awake.

For when things are actually okay and you want to remember that.

He read it twice. He couldn't remember the last time someone had paid that close attention to something he'd said in passing.

"This is really thoughtful," he said, and he meant it plainly, without performance.

You shrugged, but there was something soft around the edges of it. "You seemed like someone who needed the right records at the right time."

He folded the note carefully and tucked it into his jacket pocket, close. "Thank you. Genuinely."

"Come back and tell me what you think of the Tom Waits."

"I will."

He meant that too.

——————

Outside, the city smelled clean and new the way it only does after rain. The sidewalk was dark and reflective, catching the last of the afternoon light in long golden puddles, and the air had that particular quality of having been washed through, fresh and cool and full of something that felt almost like possibility.

Noah walked slowly, hands in his pockets, the bag of records hanging from his wrist. He replayed the afternoon in pieces, the smell of the store, the song you'd played through the speakers, the easy way the hours had passed, the note folded against his chest.

He thought about what you'd said. Lyrics have to mean something specific and universal at the same time. He turned it over as he walked, the way he turned lines over when they were almost right but not yet. There was something in the afternoon that felt like material, not to be mined or used, but in the way that good things always were, quietly folding themselves into who you were.

He pulled out his phone and typed a note to himself: the way some places feel like permission to slow down. He didn't know what it was for yet. He'd figure it out later.

When he got home, he made coffee and put on the Portishead record even though it wasn't night yet, because he couldn't wait. He sat on the floor with his back against the couch and just listened, really listened, the way the afternoon had reminded him how to do.

And when the last track faded out and the room was quiet again, he looked at the list of five records on the notepad paper he'd set on the coffee table, and he thought about rain, and record stores, and strangers who paid attention.

He was already looking forward to the next grey day.

[al3xandraareads]

Since it's valentines day can we get abba asking reader to be his valentine, i wanna see him being all nervous about it🫶

omg yesss this is so cute, I love the idea of him seeming all tough and nonchalant but in reality he's soo shy!!!

Valentine' s Day abbacchio leone x reader

content: fluff <3

a/n : im stuck in the car for the next 5 hrs since im seeing deftones tonight i cannot wait!! soo ill just be writing fanfics also this is a shorter fic but I hope you still enjoy it

The city of Naples was never truly quiet, even at dusk. The soft clang of the tram, the distant chatter of market vendors packing up for the night, and the constant, low hum of the sea made up a familiar soundtrack. But inside Passione’s cramped safehouse, a different kind of tension filled the air—a nervous, restless energy that seemed out of place for someone like Leone Abbacchio.

He should have been at ease. The others were out, Mista and Narancia chasing some wild lead, Fugo buried in his books, and Giorno, as usual, wrapped up in something he wouldn’t talk about. That left Abbacchio alone, pacing the length of the musty living room with the same measured steps he used on surveillance. He stopped by the window, glancing out at the street, then checked the clock again.

Six-thirty. You were late, but only by a few minutes. Still, it was enough to make his nerves fray a little more.

He’d rehearsed a dozen lines, each one more awkward than the last. “Do you want to go out tonight?” Too casual. “Would you be my valentine?” Too blunt. “I got you something, if you want it.” That sounded like a bribe. He scowled, pinching the bridge of his nose. He is a gang member, for God’s sake. He’d interrogated traitors, busted up rival crews, and faced Stand battles that would haunt even the bravest men. Why was this so hard?

He caught sight of his reflection in the dusty window. The silver hair, the dark eyeliner, the brooding frown, he looked every bit the hardened ex-cop. Not exactly the picture of romance. Maybe that was why he’d never bothered before. Life in Passione didn’t leave much room for soft things. Not for people who wanted to survive.

But you had changed things. You came into the gang with a smile that didn’t flinch, even when bullets flew or tempers flared. You listened, not just to orders, but to the silences in between. To the things he never said. The way you treated him, like he was more than just a weapon or a cautionary tale, caught him off guard. And now, for reasons he couldn’t quite admit, he wanted to try. Just this once.

The door rattled. He spun around, heart in his throat, as you stepped inside. Your hair was wind-tossed, cheeks flushed with cold, and you looked up at him with that infuriatingly gentle smile.

“Sorry I’m late,” you said, dropping your bag by the door. “Mista got into an argument with a street vendor. Something about the price of oranges. It took forever to drag him away.”

He snorted in spite of himself. “He’s hopeless.”

You grinned, peeling off your jacket. “So, what’s up? You sounded weird on the phone.”

Abbacchio straightened, shoving his hands into his pockets to keep them from shaking. “Sit down,” he said, sharper than he meant. He softened his tone. “Please.”

You blinked, surprised by the request, but you settled onto the battered sofa, hands folded in your lap. He watched you, searching for the right words, but they tangled up in his mouth. He sat on the arm of a chair, far enough to keep his cool, close enough to reach out if he dared.

He cleared his throat, staring at the floor. “I’m not… good at this.” He forced himself to look up, meeting your eyes. “I don’t talk about feelings. Not anymore.”

You waited, patient as ever, letting him find his footing.

He pressed on, voice low. “But you, getting to know you, it’s been… different. I don’t know how to say it. I keep thinking I’ll get used to you being around, that it’ll stop mattering, but it doesn’t. If anything, it's just—” He caught himself, scowling at the ceiling. “It gets harder.”

You smiled, soft but not mocking. He found the courage to continue.

“I know it’s just a stupid day,” he said, almost spitting the words, as if he hated them for making him vulnerable. “Valentine’s. It’s a joke. But… I thought maybe, if you wanted, we could do something. Together.”

He looked away, jaw clenched tight, bracing for rejection.

You leaned forward, elbows on your knees. “Are you asking me out, Abbacchio?”

A flush crept up his neck, rare, but unmistakable. “Don’t make it weird,” he grumbled, but his voice was barely a whisper. “I just… I wanted to ask. You don’t have to say yes.”

You bit your lip, trying not to laugh. “You know, you’re kind of adorable when you’re nervous.”

He glared, but it didn’t have the bite it usually did. “Don’t push it.”

You stood, crossing the space between you, and sat on the coffee table in front of him. You reached out, taking his hand carefully, as if you were afraid he’d bolt. His fingers twitched, then closed around yours, tentative but real.

“I was hoping you’d ask,” you said. “I didn’t want to push you. But I like you, too. More than I thought I would.”

He let out a shaky breath, looking at your joined hands like they were something precious. “I don’t really know how to do this,” he admitted, voice rough. “I’m not… good at romance.”

You squeezed his hand. “You don’t have to be. Just be real with me.”

He nodded, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. He glanced down, pulling something out of his pocket, a small, battered packet of chocolates, clearly bought in a hurry. He thrust it at you, not meeting your eyes. “I got these. Figured it was the least I could do.”

You took them with a grin. “Thank you. Want one?”

He hesitated, then took a piece when you offered. You both sat there, sharing cheap chocolate, the silence warm for once.

Outside, the city carried on, oblivious. But in that tiny living room, something shifted, something honest and rare, carved out of awkward words and trembling hands.

Abbacchio glanced at you, the edge of a smile tugging at his lips. “Don’t expect me to do this every year.”

You laughed, leaning into his side. “We’ll see.”

And for the first time in a long time, Abbacchio let himself hope.

[al3xandraareads]

Hello can I request something?🥺🥺🥺🥺

I really love your abbaxreader fics like I'm obsessed, can I please have an Abba fic where Abba and reader were left on their hideout because yk the other's on a mission and so first, reader and Abba doesn't talk too much to each other (they're annoyed on each other or whatever beef they're on) until reader breaks the silence and told him they're drinking and watching some documentaries.

And after drinking they laughed on whatever they're watching and suddenly things got touchy touchy and yk where that thing leads-

(I want it to be a bit funny with the "enemy" or hate rs, with a mix of romantic and smutty vibes where they kiss kiss mwahmwah) THANK YOU SO MUCH!

ooooo girl I love this idea 🤭 hope you enjoy!!!!

Bitter wine, Sweet Surrender Abbacchio Leone x reader

The silence in the hideout was suffocating.

You sat on one end of the worn leather couch, arms crossed, pointedly staring at the blank television screen. Abbacchio occupied the other end, sprawled with his usual brooding energy, one arm draped over the backrest, his pale hair catching the dim lamplight. The space between you might as well have been a chasm.

Three hours. Three hours since Bucciarati had left with Giorno, Mista, Narancia, and Fugo on that reconnaissance mission. Three hours of you and Abbacchio alone in this cramped safehouse, and neither of you had spoken more than five words to each other.

You could feel his presence like static electricity, irritating and impossible to ignore. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught him shifting, the leather creaking beneath him. He let out a long, deliberate sigh that you knew was meant for you to hear.

Asshole.

Your jaw clenched. This whole situation was ridiculous. You didn't even remember how this cold war between you two had started, maybe it was that mission two weeks ago when he'd criticised your timing, or when you'd called his methods "unnecessarily dramatic." Whatever it was, it had snowballed into this: mutual irritation that made every interaction feel like walking on broken glass.

Another sigh from his end of the couch.

That was it.

"Okay, I can't do this anymore," you announced, breaking the oppressive silence. You stood abruptly, heading toward the small kitchenette. "I'm drinking. And I'm putting on a documentary. You can either join me or sit there sulking like a gothic gargoyle, I don't care which."

You heard him scoff behind you. "A documentary? What are you, sixty?"

"Better than sitting in silence for another three hours," you shot back, rummaging through the cabinet until you found what you were looking for—a bottle of red wine, probably left behind by Bucciarati. "Besides, there's this true crime series about art heists I've been wanting to watch. Very Italian. Lots of drama. Right up your alley, actually."

You grabbed two glasses, presumptuous, maybe, but whatever, and returned to the living area. Abbacchio was watching you now, those distinctive eyes narrowed with something between curiosity and suspicion.

"I don't remember agreeing to this," he said.

"You didn't disagree either." You set the glasses on the coffee table with a decisive clink and poured generously. "Look, we're stuck here together. We can either make it bearable or keep up this stupid silent treatment. Your choice."

For a long moment, he just stared at you. Then, with a roll of his eyes that somehow managed to be both dismissive and accepting, he reached forward and took one of the glasses.

"Fine. But if this documentary is boring, I'm leaving."

"You're literally not allowed to leave. Bucciarati's orders."

"Then I'll lock myself in the bathroom."

"Dramatic," you muttered, but you were smiling slightly as you turned on the television and navigated to the streaming service.

Forty-five minutes and two glasses of wine later, everything had changed.

"No—no, wait, wait," you gasped between laughs, nearly spilling your third pour. "Did he really think he could replace a Caravaggio with a printed copy from a copy shop?"

Abbacchio was actually grinning,a rare sight that transformed his usually severe face into something almost boyish. "The balls on this guy. A copy shop! Not even a good forgery, just—" He gestured wildly with his glass, wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim. "Just straight to the local print store!"

"And it worked for three months!" You were doubled over now, your shoulder bumping against his. When had you moved closer? The couch didn't seem nearly as long as it had before.

The documentary continued, the narrator's serious Italian droning on about the eventual capture of the thief, but you were both too busy laughing to pay attention. The wine had smoothed all the sharp edges between you, dissolved that wall of animosity into something warm and fizzy.

"You know what," Abbacchio said, his voice slightly slurred at the edges, "you're not as annoying as I thought."

"Wow. Be still, my heart." You pressed a hand to your chest in mock emotion. "Such poetry. Such romance."

He snorted, taking another drink. "Shut up. I'm trying to be nice."

"Try harder."

"You're impossible."

"And yet, here you are. Drinking with me. Watching documentaries. Having a good time." You poked his arm for emphasis. "Admit it, Abbacchio. You like me."

His eyes met yours, and something in the air shifted. The laughter faded into something heavier, more charged. You were suddenly very aware of how close you were sitting, your thigh pressed against his, your faces separated by mere inches.

"I don't like you," he said, but his voice had dropped lower, rougher.

"Liar."

The word hung between you like a challenge.

You weren't sure who moved first. Maybe it was mutual, some magnetic pull that had been building all evening beneath the banter and the wine. But suddenly his hand was on your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek, and you were leaning in, and then—

His lips crashed against yours.

It wasn't gentle. It was messy and wine-soaked and desperate, like you were both trying to devour something you'd been denying yourselves. Your fingers tangled in his hair, softer than you'd imagined, and he made a low sound in the back of his throat that sent heat pooling in your belly.

"This is a bad idea," you gasped against his mouth.

"Terrible," he agreed, but he was already pulling you closer, his large hands spanning your waist, lifting you effortlessly until you were straddling his lap.

The new position made you gasp. You could feel him, hard and insistent, pressing against you through layers of clothing that suddenly felt like far too much. His mouth moved to your neck, teeth grazing sensitive skin, and your head fell back with a moan.

"Abbacchio—"

"Leone," he corrected roughly, his breath hot against your throat. "Say my name properly."

"Leone," you breathed, and felt him shudder beneath you.

His hands were everywhere, sliding under your shirt, mapping the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist. Your own hands weren't idle either, tugging at his shirt until he pulled back just long enough to yank it over his head.

The sight of him made your mouth go dry. Pale skin, lean muscle, the dark trail of hair disappearing beneath his waistband. You ran your hands over his chest, feeling his heart hammering beneath your palm, and he watched you with eyes gone dark and hungry.

"You're staring," he said.

"You're beautiful."

Something vulnerable flashed across his face before he kissed you again, slower this time but no less intense. His hands slid up under your shirt, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts, and you arched into the touch with a whimper.

"Off," he commanded, tugging at the fabric.

You didn't need to be told twice. Your shirt joined his on the floor, followed quickly by your bra. The way he looked at you, like you were something precious and profane all at once, made you feel powerful and desired in a way that stole your breath.

"Fuck," he breathed, and then his mouth was on your breast, tongue circling your nipple while his hand palmed the other. The dual sensation made you cry out, grinding down against him instinctively.

He groaned against your skin, his hips bucking up to meet yours. The friction was delicious but not nearly enough. You needed more, needed everything.

"Bedroom," you managed to gasp out.

"Too far."

He was right. The bedroom might as well have been in another country. Instead, he shifted you both, laying you back on the couch with surprising gentleness given the urgency thrumming through both your bodies. He settled between your thighs, and the weight of him, the heat of him, made you dizzy with want.

His fingers found the button of your jeans, and he paused, looking up at you with a question in his eyes.

"Yes," you said. "God, yes."

He made quick work of your remaining clothes, stripping you bare beneath him. The way he looked at you, reverent and ravenous, made you squirm.

"Stop staring and touch me," you demanded.

A smirk curved his lips. "Impatient."

"You have no idea."

His hand slid up your inner thigh, and you held your breath in anticipation. When his fingers finally brushed against your center, you both groaned, you at the contact, him at what he found there.

"So wet," he murmured, almost to himself. "Is this all for me?"

"Don't get cocky—oh—" Your words dissolved into a moan as he slid one long finger inside you.

He worked you slowly, methodically, adding a second finger and curling them just right while his thumb found your clit. The pleasure built steadily, your hips rocking against his hand, chasing more.

"That's it," he encouraged, his voice rough. "Take what you need."

But just as you were approaching that edge, he withdrew, ignoring your sound of protest. Before you could complain, he was sliding down your body, settling between your thighs with clear intent.

"Leone, you don't have to—fuck!"

The first stroke of his tongue against you obliterated any coherent thought. He ate you out like a man starving, alternating between broad strokes and focused attention on your clit that had you writhing beneath him. Your hands found his hair, holding him against you, and he groaned in approval, the vibration adding another layer of sensation.

"Don't stop," you begged. "Please don't stop."

He didn't. He worked you higher and higher until you were trembling, balanced on that knife's edge of pleasure. When he slid two fingers back inside you, curling them while his mouth worked your clit, you shattered.

The orgasm crashed through you in waves, your back arching off the couch, his name falling from your lips like a prayer. He worked you through it, gentling his touch as you came down, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs.

When you could finally breathe again, you looked down at him. His lips were swollen, his hair mussed from your fingers, and the sight of him, this usually stoic man undone by desire, made want surge through you again.

"Come here," you commanded.

He crawled back up your body, and you could taste yourself on his lips when you kissed him. Your hands went to his belt, making quick work of it and his zipper. He helped you push his pants and underwear down, and then he was finally, gloriously naked above you.

You wrapped your hand around him, stroking slowly, and he dropped his forehead to your shoulder with a shuddering breath.

"If you keep doing that, this is going to be over embarrassingly fast," he admitted.

"Can't have that." You guided him to your entrance, wrapping your legs around his waist. "I want to feel you."

He pushed inside slowly, giving you time to adjust to the stretch. The feeling of fullness, of connection, made you both groan. When he was fully seated, he paused, his arms trembling with the effort of holding still.

"Okay?" he asked, and the tenderness in his voice made your chest tight.

"More than okay. Move, Leone. Please."

He did, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in. The angle was perfect, hitting something inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids. You urged him faster, harder, and he obliged, setting a rhythm that had you both gasping.

"You feel so good," he groaned against your neck. "So perfect."

Your nails raked down his back, and he hissed in pleasure, his hips snapping harder. The couch creaked beneath you, the documentary long forgotten, the only sounds your mingled breathing and the slap of skin on skin.

"Touch yourself," he commanded. "I want to feel you cum around me."

You slid your hand between your bodies, finding your clit, and the added stimulation made you clench around him. He cursed, his rhythm faltering.

"That's it," he encouraged. "Cum for me. Let me feel it."

The combination of his words, his body, your own touch, it was too much. Your second orgasm built faster than the first, pleasure coiling tight in your belly before exploding outward. You cried out his name, your body clenching rhythmically around him.

"Fuck, fuck—" He managed a few more erratic thrusts before following you over the edge, spilling inside you with a groan that sounded almost pained in its intensity.

He collapsed against you, both of you breathing hard, sweat-slicked and trembling. For a long moment, neither of you moved, just basking in the afterglow.

Finally, he lifted his head, looking at you with an expression you couldn't quite read.

"So," he said. "Still hate me?"

You laughed, the sound breathless and genuine. "I never hated you, you idiot."

"Could've fooled me."

[al3xandraareads]

After Hour Lesson Gojo Satoru x reader

content: smut!!!

a/n: I feel bad that I haven't been posting a lot recently jve got writers block soo if you have anything you want me to write let me know okay baiii :33

The sun had long since set over Tokyo Jujutsu High, casting the hallways in deep shadow. You'd stayed late again, training until your muscles ached and your cursed energy felt depleted. As an older student, having come to jujutsu sorcery later in life than most, you felt the constant pressure to catch up, to prove yourself worthy of being here.

You were gathering your things from the training grounds when you noticed the light still on in Gojo Satoru's classroom. Your heart did that annoying flutter it always did when you thought of your teacher. It was inappropriate, you knew. He was your instructor, and despite being an adult yourself, the power dynamic made any attraction you felt seem forbidden.

But god, he made it difficult.

The way he'd adjust his blindfold while explaining curse techniques, the casual confidence in every movement, that insufferable smirk when he'd correct your form by placing his hands on your body, always professional, always appropriate, but enough to make heat pool low in your belly.

You shouldn't go to his classroom. You should go home.

Your feet carried you toward his door anyway.

You knocked softly, and his voice called out, smooth and knowing: "It's open."

Gojo sat at his desk, blindfold pushed up to rest in his white hair, those devastating blue eyes focused on paperwork before him. He glanced up as you entered, and that signature smile curved his lips.

"Well, well. My most dedicated student, staying late again." He leaned back in his chair, arms folding behind his head. "You know, there's such a thing as overtraining."

"I just wanted to ask about today's lesson," you said, closing the door behind you. The click seemed louder than it should have been.

"Mm-hmm." His eyes tracked your movement as you approached his desk. "And this couldn't wait until tomorrow because...?"

Because I can't stop thinking about you. Because every time you touch me during training, I want more. Because I'm tired of pretending this tension between us doesn't exist.

"I was already here," you said instead.

Gojo stood, moving around his desk with that effortless grace that reminded you he was the strongest sorcerer alive. He perched on the edge of the desk, long legs stretched out before him, and gestured for you to come closer.

"You're a terrible liar," he said softly. "You know that? Your cursed energy spikes every time you're not being truthful. It's quite telling."

Your breath caught. "Gojo-sensei—"

"We're alone. After hours. You can call me Satoru." His head tilted, studying you with those impossibly blue eyes. "Tell me why you're really here."

The air felt thick, charged with something electric. You'd fantasised about this moment, about being honest, about crossing that line, but now that it was here, fear and desire warred within you.

"I..." You swallowed hard. "I can't stop thinking about you."

His smile widened, but there was heat in it now. "I know."

"You—what?"

"You think I haven't noticed?" Satoru pushed off the desk, closing the distance between you in one fluid movement. He was tall, and you had to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. "The way your pulse races when I adjust your form? How your cursed energy fluctuates every time I get close? I see everything, sweetheart. Literally."

Your face burned. "Then why didn't you say anything?"

"Because you're my student. Because there are rules." His hand came up, fingers ghosting along your jawline without quite touching. "Because I was waiting to see if you'd be brave enough to come to me."

"And now that I have?"

His fingers made contact, tilting your chin up. "Now I'm going to ask you a very important question, and I need you to answer honestly. Are you here because you want this, or because you think it'll give you some advantage in your training?"

"I want this," you breathed. "I want you. I have for months."

"Good answer." And then his mouth was on yours.

The kiss was consuming, demanding. Satoru kissed like he fought, with absolute confidence and devastating skill. His tongue swept past your lips, claiming your mouth as his hand slid into your hair, angling your head exactly where he wanted it.

You gasped against his lips, and he swallowed the sound, pressing you back against his desk. Your hands found his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath his uniform, and he made a low sound of approval.

"Do you know how difficult it's been?" he murmured against your mouth, trailing kisses along your jaw to your neck. "Having you in my class, watching you train, wanting to bend you over this very desk and make you scream my name?"

A whimper escaped you as his teeth grazed your pulse point. "Satoru..."

"That's it. Say my name like that." His hands found the hem of your shirt, sliding beneath to touch bare skin. "Tell me what you want."

"You. I want you."

He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark with desire. "Be specific. I want to hear you say it."

Heat flooded your face, but his expectant gaze demanded honesty. "I want you to touch me. To fuck me. I want everything."

"Greedy," he purred, clearly pleased. "I like that."

In one smooth motion, he lifted you onto his desk, papers scattering to the floor. He stepped between your legs, hands sliding up your thighs as he kissed you again, slower this time but no less intense.

Your fingers worked at the buttons of his uniform while his hands explored your body with maddening thoroughness, tracing your curves, finding sensitive spots that made you gasp and arch into his touch.

"So responsive," he praised, lips trailing down your neck as he pushed your shirt up and off. His mouth found your collarbone, your chest, kissing and sucking marks into your skin. "I'm going to enjoy taking you apart."

He made quick work of your remaining clothes, leaving you bare and exposed on his desk while he remained fully dressed. The power imbalance should have made you self-conscious, but the hunger in his eyes as he looked at you made you feel powerful instead.

"Beautiful," he murmured, hands sliding up your inner thighs, spreading you wider. "I've imagined this so many times, but reality is so much better."

His fingers found your center, and you gasped at the contact. He was skilled, maddeningly so, touching you with exactly the right pressure and rhythm to have you trembling within minutes.

"Already so wet for me," he observed, voice thick with satisfaction. "Such a good student, so eager to learn."

"Please," you whimpered, hips rocking against his hand.

"Please what? Use your words."

"Please, I need more. I need you."

He withdrew his fingers, ignoring your sound of protest, and dropped to his knees. The sight of Gojo Satoru, the strongest sorcerer alive, your teacher, on his knees before you made your head spin.

"Let me taste you first," he said, and then his mouth was on you.

You cried out, hand flying to his hair as his tongue worked magic between your legs. He was devastating, alternating between broad strokes and focused attention on your most sensitive spots, reading your body's responses and adjusting accordingly.

Your thighs trembled around his head, and he gripped them firmly, holding you in place as he devoured you. The obscene sounds filled the quiet classroom, mixing with your increasingly desperate moans.

"Satoru, I'm going to—"

"Come for me," he commanded against your flesh. "Let me feel it."

You shattered, crying out his name as pleasure crashed through you. He worked you through it, tongue gentling but not stopping until you were oversensitive and squirming.

When he stood, his lips were glistening, and that cocky smirk was firmly in place. "Delicious. But we're not done yet."

You heard the sound of his belt, the rustle of fabric, and then he was pressing against your entrance. He paused, meeting your eyes.

"Last chance to change your mind."

"Don't you dare stop," you breathed.

He pushed inside with one smooth thrust, and you both groaned at the sensation. He was big, stretching you perfectly, and he gave you a moment to adjust before he started moving.

The angle was perfect, hitting spots inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes. Satoru set a demanding pace, one hand gripping your hip while the other braced on the desk beside you.

"So tight," he groaned. "Taking me so perfectly. Look at you."

You couldn't form words, could only hold onto his shoulders as he drove into you again and again. The desk creaked beneath you, and somewhere in the back of your mind you thought about how obvious this would be to anyone who walked by, but you couldn't bring yourself to care.

"Touch yourself," he commanded. "I want to feel you come around me."

Your hand slipped between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, and the added stimulation made you clench around him. He cursed, hips snapping harder.

"That's it. Such a good girl, following instructions so well." His voice was strained now, control slipping. "Come for me again. Show me how good I make you feel."

The combination of his words, his cock hitting that perfect spot inside you, and your own fingers pushed you over the edge again. You came with a cry of his name, body clenching rhythmically around him.

"Fuck," he groaned, and his rhythm faltered. "Where—"

"Inside," you gasped. "I'm on birth control. Please."

He thrust deep once, twice more, and then you felt him pulse inside you as he found his own release, your name a reverent curse on his lips.

For a long moment, you stayed like that, bodies joined, both breathing hard. Then Satoru pulled back, tucking himself away before gathering you into his arms. He carried you to the small couch in his office, settling you both down with surprising gentleness.

"You okay?" he asked, fingers tracing idle patterns on your skin.

"More than okay," you assured him, snuggling into his chest. "That was..."

"Yeah." You could hear the smile in his voice. "It really was."

"So what happens now?" The question felt heavy. "With us, I mean. And the rules..."

"Now," he said, tilting your face up to kiss you softly, "we figure it out. Together. You're an adult, and while the school might frown on it, there's no actual rule against teachers and adult students being involved. We'll just have to be discreet."

"Discreet. Right." You glanced at his desk, at the scattered papers and the obvious signs of what had just happened. "We're so good at that."

He laughed, the sound warm and genuine. "We'll work on it. Consider it part of your training."

"Is that what we're calling this? Training?"

"Private lessons," he corrected with a grin. "Very private, very thorough lessons. I take my teaching responsibilities very seriously."

You swatted his chest playfully, but you were smiling. Whatever complications this might bring, whatever challenges you'd face, you couldn't bring yourself to regret it. Not when being in his arms felt this right.

"Same time next week?" you asked.

His eyes gleamed with promise. "How about tomorrow? You have so much still to learn, after all."

And as he kissed you again, slow and deep, you thought that maybe some lessons were worth staying after class for.

[al3xandraareads]

Okayy this one might be a bit crazy but hear me out.. jealous abbacchio.. but he is jealous of risotto, maybe bucci gang was on a mission and risotto was sent to go after them, but instead of going after then to k!ll them he saves the reader.

If you don't really like this scenario you can write any other story i just want to see him jealous cuz he is always so stoic and unreadable. And also maybe other gang members tease him about it?

I loveee jealous abba hes so cute :3

Right Beside You Abbacchio Leone x reader

The mission had gone sideways approximately forty-seven seconds after you'd all stepped off the boat.

"Mista, left!" Bucciarati's voice cut through the chaos of the Venice alleyway, sharp and commanding. You pressed yourself against the cold stone wall, heart hammering as gunfire echoed off ancient brick. This was supposed to be a simple intelligence gathering operation, get in, retrieve the documents from the safe house, get out.

No one had mentioned La Squadra would be waiting.

"There's too many of them!" Narancia shouted from his position on the rooftop, Aerosmith's propeller whirring frantically overhead. "I count at least three Stands!"

You'd been separated from the main group in the initial ambush, ducking down a side street with Fugo at your heels. But even he'd been forced to peel off when Illuso's mirror world had threatened to trap you both. Now you were alone, sprinting through the labyrinthine backstreets of Venice with nothing but your Stand and rapidly depleting stamina.

The enemy Stand user, you hadn't caught which member of La Squadra it was, had been relentless. You could hear footsteps echoing behind you, getting closer. Your lungs burned. The narrow alley ahead split into three directions, and you chose the middle path on pure instinct.

Wrong choice.

The alley terminated in a dead end, a tall wall blocking your escape route. You spun around, summoning your Stand defensively, but you already knew you were in trouble. The enemy Stand user rounded the corner, a cruel smile playing on their lips.

"Nowhere left to run," they said, their Stand materializing beside them, something with too many arms and a distinctly predatory aura.

You braced yourself, knowing your Stand wasn't built for direct combat. This was going to hurt.

The attack came fast, multiple limbs shooting toward you like spears. You managed to dodge the first two, but the third caught you across the ribs, sending you sprawling. Pain exploded across your side. The second strike was already coming, aimed directly at your head, and you knew with crystalline certainty that you couldn't avoid it.

The blow never landed.

Metal materialised out of thin air, razor-sharp and gleaming, intercepting the attack with a screech of Stand against Stand. You looked up, dazed and confused, to see a tall figure standing between you and your attacker.

Silver hair. Dark sclera. A white coat with purple spots.

Risotto Nero.

The leader of La Squadra Esecuzioni himself had just saved your life.

"Retreat," Risotto said, his voice low and commanding. He wasn't looking at you—his attention was fixed on your attacker, who had frozen in obvious confusion. "This one isn't your target."

"But Boss said—"

"I don't care what you thought you heard. Fall back. Now."

The enemy Stand user hesitated for only a moment before the survival instinct kicked in. No one argued with Risotto Nero. They vanished back down the alley, leaving you alone with the most dangerous member of the assassination team.

You struggled to your feet, wincing at the pain in your ribs. Your Stand flickered defensively, though you knew it would be useless against Metallica.

Risotto finally turned to look at you. His expression was unreadable, those unsettling eyes studying you with an intensity that made you want to shrink back against the wall.

"You're injured," he observed.

"I'll live." Your voice came out steadier than you felt. "Why did you—"

"Tell Bucciarati that La Squadra has no interest in pointless bloodshed. Our quarrel is with the Boss, not his subordinates." He took a step back, already beginning to fade into the shadows. "You should rejoin your team. Venice isn't safe tonight."

Then he was gone, dissolved into the darkness as if he'd never been there at all.

You stood there for a long moment, trying to process what had just happened. Risotto Nero had saved you. The leader of the team sent to kill you all had actively protected you from one of his own members.

The sound of running footsteps snapped you out of your daze.

"There you are!" Narancia practically crashed into you, with Mista and Abbacchio close behind. "We've been looking everywhere! Are you okay? What happened?"

You opened your mouth to explain, very aware of Abbacchio's sharp gaze fixed on you. He was always observant, always watching, and right now those golden eyes were cataloging every detail, your disheveled appearance, the way you were holding your ribs, the confusion written across your face.

"I'm fine," you said. "But something weird happened. I was cornered by one of La Squadra, and then—"

"And then what?" Abbacchio's voice was flat, controlled. Too controlled.

"Risotto Nero showed up. He... he saved me. Told the other guy to back off and let me go."

The silence that followed was deafening.

Mista was the first to break it, letting out a low whistle. "Risotto himself? Damn, you've got a guardian angel in the assassination business. That's pretty badass."

"It doesn't make sense," Narancia said, frowning. "Why would he do that?"

"Maybe he thought you were cute," Mista suggested with a grin, clearly trying to lighten the mood. "I mean, if I was a scary assassin man and I saw—ow! Abbacchio, what the hell?"

You glanced over to see Abbacchio had smacked Mista upside the head. Hard.

"Stop being an idiot," Abbacchio growled. "We need to get back to Bucciarati and report this."

There was something off about his tone. Something tight and irritated beyond his usual grumpiness. But before you could analyze it further, the group was already moving, heading back toward the safe house where Bucciarati and Fugo were waiting.

The debriefing was tense. Bucciarati listened to your account with his usual calm attention, though you could see the wheels turning behind his eyes. Fugo theorized about possible motivations. Narancia suggested it might be a trap.

Through it all, Abbacchio sat in the corner, silent and brooding. More silent and brooding than usual, which was saying something.

"Maybe Risotto's got a soft spot for our teammate here," Mista said, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. "I mean, he could have just walked away, but instead he actively protected—"

"Can you shut up for five seconds?" Abbacchio snapped, with significantly more venom than the comment warranted.

Everyone turned to stare at him.

"Whoa," Narancia said, eyes wide. "Someone's grumpy."

"I'm not grumpy."

"You're always grumpy," Mista pointed out. "But this is like... extra grumpy. This is grumpy with a side of—"

"I said shut up."

Fugo, who had been quietly observing the exchange, suddenly smiled. It was a rare, genuine smile that made him look years younger. "Oh my god," he said. "You're jealous."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees.

"I'm not jealous," Abbacchio said, his voice dangerously low. "That's ridiculous."

"You totally are!" Narancia crowed, delighted by this revelation. "You're jealous that Risotto saved them instead of you!"

"Or maybe," Mista added, grinning like the cat that got the cream, "he's jealous that Risotto got to play hero and now our teammate here might think the scary assassin man is cool and mysterious."

You felt your face heating up. "I don't think—"

"This is the stupidest conversation I've ever been forced to endure," Abbacchio interrupted, standing abruptly. "I'm going to check the perimeter."

He stalked toward the door, but Bucciarati's voice stopped him. "Abbacchio."

The older man turned, and you were surprised to see something almost amused in Bucciarati's expression.

"The perimeter was checked fifteen minutes ago. Sit down."

For a moment, you thought Abbacchio might actually disobey a direct order from Bucciarati. His jaw was clenched so tight you could see the muscle jumping, and his hands were balled into fists at his sides.

Finally, he sat. But he didn't look happy about it.

"You know," Narancia said, apparently possessing a death wish, "if you wanted to be the one to save them, you could just say so. I'm sure they'd get into danger again. We could arrange something."

"Narancia," you said, trying to save the kid from imminent murder, "maybe we should—"

"No, no, let him talk," Mista interrupted. "This is the most entertainment we've had all week. Come on, Abbacchio, admit it. You're pissed that Risotto got to do the whole 'mysterious savior' thing."

"I'm pissed," Abbacchio said through gritted teeth, "that we were ambushed, that our intelligence was clearly compromised, and that we're now sitting here having this idiotic discussion instead of figuring out our next move."

"Uh-huh," Fugo said, not buying it for a second. "And the fact that you've been glaring at the wall for the past ten minutes has nothing to do with—"

"Enough," Bucciarati said, though there was a hint of laughter in his voice. "As amusing as this is, we do have actual work to do."

The meeting eventually dissolved into actual mission planning, but you couldn't help noticing the way Abbacchio kept shooting you looks when he thought you weren't paying attention. There was something in those glances, something vulnerable beneath the usual stoic mask.

You found him later that evening on the balcony of the safe house, smoking and staring out at the Venice skyline. The sun was setting, painting everything in shades of gold and purple.

"Hey," you said softly, stepping out to join him.

He didn't turn around. "What do you want?"

"To thank you."

That got his attention. He glanced at you, confusion flickering across his features. "Thank me? For what? I wasn't there."

"For caring," you said simply. "The others were joking around, but... I know you were worried. You're always worried, even if you don't show it."

Abbacchio was quiet for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough. "You could have died today."

"But I didn't."

"Because Risotto Nero decided to play hero." There was that bitter edge again, the one that made your chest ache.

You moved closer, close enough that your shoulder almost brushed his. "Would you have preferred to be the one to save me?"

"That's not—" He stopped, jaw clenching. "Yes. Okay? Yes. I would have preferred to be there. I would have preferred to be the one to make sure you were safe instead of having to hear about how the leader of the assassination team swept in and—"

He cut himself off, looking away sharply.

"Leone," you said softly, using his first name. He so rarely heard it that he actually flinched. "I'm glad Risotto was there, because otherwise I might not be here right now. But that doesn't mean... it doesn't change anything."

"Doesn't it?" He finally turned to face you fully, and you were struck by the raw emotion in his eyes. "You should have someone who can actually protect you. Someone who's there when it matters. Not someone who—"

You reached out and grabbed his hand, cutting off the self-deprecating spiral you could see forming. His skin was warm, calloused from years of work.

"I don't want Risotto Nero," you said firmly. "I want the grumpy, overprotective man who gets jealous when someone else saves me. I want the person who worries even when he pretends not to. I want you, Leone."

For a moment, Abbacchio just stared at you, as if trying to determine whether you were serious. Then, slowly, carefully, he squeezed your hand back.

"The others are never going to let me live this down," he muttered.

You laughed. "Probably not. Mista's going to be making jokes about this for months."

"Great." But there was the ghost of a smile on his lips now, softening the harsh lines of his face.

From inside the safe house, you could hear Narancia's voice: "Are they kissing yet? I bet Fugo five euros they're kissing!"

"They better not be," Mista called back. "I bet they'd take at least another day!"

Abbacchio closed his eyes, looking pained. "I'm going to kill all of them."

"Later," you said, grinning. "Right now, you're busy."

And before he could ask what you meant, you stood on your toes and kissed him.

He froze for half a second, then his free hand came up to cup the back of your head, and he was kissing you back with an intensity that made your knees weak. It was nothing like the careful control he usually maintained. This was raw and honest and everything you'd hoped for.

When you finally broke apart, both breathing hard, you could hear cheering from inside the safe house.

"I hate them," Abbacchio said, but he was smiling. Actually smiling.

"No, you don't."

"No," he agreed, pulling you closer. "I don't."

The Venice sunset painted you both in gold, and for a moment, the danger and the missions and the uncertainty of your lives faded away. There was just this, his arms around you, the sound of your friends' laughter, and the knowledge that jealous or not, Leone Abbacchio was exactly where he wanted to be.

Right beside you.

[al3xandraareads]

Angst to fluff with abbacchio? Reader and abba have been really close the past few months and the gang ofc noticed this and they were teasing him about it while reader was out, but reader came in at the wrong time and overheard that he doesn't like her at all, so she starts avoiding him for the next few days, and bruno decides to meddle and send them on a mission together, but they need to stay somewhere overnight and there is only one bed. Reader has been so quiet the whole time and abba finally gets the courage to actually talk about what happened??

yesss I love this idea so much, I luuuuuv writing abba!!!!!

Silence Speaks Louder

JJBA Abbachio Leone x Reader

content: angst-fluff

synopsis: For months, you let yourself believe that the quiet intimacy you share with Abbacchio means something more, until an offhand remark shatters that hope and leaves you convinced you’ve mistaken friendship for love. Determined to bury your feelings before they ruin everything, you pull away, even as the distance hurts more than staying ever did. When a mandatory overnight mission forces the two of you into close quarters, suppressed emotions and unspoken resentment finally boil over. What follows is a raw confrontation fueled by loneliness, guilt, and fear of wanting too much. Sometimes, the deepest wounds aren’t caused by rejection, but by silence, misunderstanding, and the belief that loving someone is a mistake.

a/n: I'm sorry guys for not posting for a few days ive been so busy with college work its ridiculous, ill be back on the grind soon

The morning sun filtered through the windows of Libeccio, casting golden light across the table where you sat with Narancia, watching him demolish his third plate of breakfast. It was peaceful, or as peaceful as mornings could be with Team Bucciarati.

"You're gonna choke if you keep eating like that," you said, sliding a glass of water toward him.

Narancia looked up, cheeks stuffed like a chipmunk, and grinned. "Nah, I'm fine! Hey, where's Abbacchio? He's usually here by now."

Your heart did that stupid little flutter it always did when someone mentioned him. "Probably sleeping in. You know how he is."

The past few months had been... different. Good different. Abbacchio prickly, standoffish Abbacchio, had somehow become your closest companion in the team. It started small, him offering you coffee without being asked, sitting next to you during meetings, that almost-smile he'd give when you said something that amused him. Late nights had turned into long conversations, his walls gradually coming down brick by brick.

You'd never felt this way about anyone before. The way your chest tightened when he walked into a room, how you memorized the cadence of his voice, the rare moments when his expression softened and you felt like you were seeing something precious that he showed no one else.

"Speaking of Abbacchio," Mista said, sliding into the booth with a knowing grin that made your stomach drop, "you two have been spending a lot of time together lately."

"We're teammates," you said quickly, focusing very intently on your coffee. "That's normal."

"Teammates who take walks together at midnight?" Narancia wiggled his eyebrows. "Teammates who share headphones? Teammates who—"

"Don't you have something better to do than monitor my schedule?" You tried to sound annoyed, but your face was burning.

Mista laughed. "Hey, we're just saying what everyone's thinking. Even Bucciarati noticed."

Your heart hammered against your ribs. "There's nothing to notice. We're friends."

The word tasted wrong in your mouth. Friends. Is that what you were? Is that all you'd ever be? You'd been too afraid to examine your feelings too closely, terrified of what you might find, or worse, what you might not find reflected back in Abbacchio's dark eyes.

"Sure, friends." Mista made exaggerated air quotes. "Just friends who look at each other like—"

"Like what?"

All three of you jumped. Fugo stood at the end of the table, book tucked under his arm, expression unreadable.

"Like... you know." Mista gestured vaguely. "Like there's something there."

Fugo slid into the booth, adjusting his strawberry-print tie. "You're all being ridiculous. Not everyone's relationship has to be romantic. Maybe they just have compatible personalities."

"Thank you, Fugo," you said gratefully.

"Besides," Fugo continued, opening his book, "Abbacchio's made it pretty clear he's not interested in relationships. Remember what he said last month?"

Your coffee suddenly tasted like ash. "What did he say?"

"Oh, you weren't there." Fugo didn't look up from his page. "Narancia asked him if he was seeing anyone, and he said he had no interest in 'that kind of complication' right now."

The words hit you like a physical blow. You forced yourself to keep your expression neutral, to take another sip of coffee like your hands weren't shaking.

"That was last month though," Narancia said. "Things change! Maybe—"

"I need to go," you said abruptly, standing up. "Bruno wanted me to... I have to check on something."

You didn't wait for a response, didn't look back to see their confused faces. You just needed air, needed space, needed to not think about the fact that you'd been reading into things that weren't there.

Compatible personalities. Right. That's all it was.

The next few days, you discovered that avoiding someone you lived and worked with was harder than it seemed in movies.

Abbacchio noticed immediately. Of course he did.

The first time you deflected his invitation for coffee, he'd looked puzzled. The second time, concerned. By the third day, when you'd literally turned around and walked the other direction when you saw him in the hallway, his expression had shuttered into something unreadable and cold.

It hurt. God, it hurt worse than overhearing Fugo's casual comment, worse than your own foolish hope. Because you missed him, missed his dry humor, his quiet presence, the way he listened when you talked like every word mattered.

But what hurt more was knowing that all those moments you'd treasured, all those times you thought maybe he felt something too, they were just friendship to him. Compatible personalities. Nothing more.

You'd been so stupid.

"You're avoiding Abbacchio," Bruno said.

You nearly dropped the file you were holding. The capo stood in the doorway of the office, expression gentle but firm, his signature look when he was about to meddle in someone's personal life for their own good.

"I'm not—"

"You are." Bruno closed the door behind him, leaning against it. "He's noticed. The whole team has noticed. What happened?"

You set down the file, buying time by straightening papers that didn't need straightening. "Nothing happened. I've just been busy."

"You're lying."

The words were said kindly, but they still made you flinch. You'd never been good at lying to Bruno. He had this way of looking at you that made you feel like he could see straight through to your soul.

"It's complicated," you finally said.

"Most things worth discussing are." Bruno moved to sit on the edge of the desk. "Did he do something to upset you?"

"No! No, Abbacchio didn't do anything wrong. He's been..." Perfect. Wonderful. Everything you wanted and couldn't have. "He's been fine. It's my problem, not his."

Bruno was quiet for a long moment, studying you with those perceptive eyes. "I see."

You hated how much those two words conveyed. Bruno saw everything, understood everything. He probably knew exactly what was wrong, had probably known how you felt about Abbacchio before you'd fully admitted it to yourself.

"I have a mission," Bruno said finally. "Intelligence gathering in Venezia. Two-person job, overnight stay required. I was going to send Mista and Fugo, but I think you and Abbacchio would be better suited."

Your head snapped up. "Bruno, no. Send someone else. Anyone else."

"You're both professionals. Whatever personal issue exists between you, I trust you can set it aside for one night." His tone left no room for argument. "You leave in two hours. I've already informed Abbacchio."

"Bruno—"

"Two hours," he repeated, standing. At the door, he paused. "For what it's worth, I think you're misunderstanding the situation. But the only way to fix a misunderstanding is to talk about it."

Then he was gone, leaving you alone with your dread and the ticking clock.

The car ride to Venezia was the longest three hours of your life.

Abbacchio drove in complete silence, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the road. You sat in the passenger seat, watching the countryside blur past, hyperaware of every breath, every small movement.

You'd tried, at the beginning. "Nice weather," you'd offered weakly.

"Mm."

"Traffic's not too bad."

"Mm."

After that, you'd given up. The silence stretched between you like a living thing, heavy and suffocating. This was worse than avoiding him. At least when you were avoiding him, you didn't have to face the evidence of what you'd lost, this easy companionship that had somehow become the best part of your days.

You snuck a glance at him. His profile was stern, beautiful in that sharp-edged way that had always made your heart stutter. His hair was tied back, a few silver strands escaping to frame his face. His hands gripped the steering wheel tighter than necessary.

He looked tired. Had he been sleeping? Were you the cause of those shadows under his eyes?

The guilt gnawed at you. This wasn't fair to him. He hadn't done anything wrong. It wasn't his fault you'd caught feelings, wasn't his responsibility to return them. You were the one making things awkward, the one who couldn't handle adult emotions like a professional.

"I'm sorry," you said quietly.

His hands tightened on the wheel. "For what?"

"For... being weird lately. I know I've been avoiding you." You forced yourself to continue, even though every word felt like pulling teeth. "It's not your fault. You didn't do anything wrong. I just needed some space to work through some things."

"What things?"

You couldn't answer that. Couldn't tell him that you'd been working through the heartbreak of unrequited feelings, the embarrassment of misreading friendship as something more.

When you didn't respond, Abbacchio's jaw clenched tighter. "Right."

The silence returned, somehow even heavier than before.

The safehouse was a small apartment in a quiet corner of Venezia, the kind of place that existed specifically for situations like this, nondescript, forgettable, with basic furniture and nothing personal.

You climbed the stairs in continued silence, Abbacchio carrying both bags because he'd grabbed them before you could protest. He unlocked the door, stepped inside, and stopped so abruptly you nearly ran into his back.

"What—" you started, then saw.

One room. One bathroom. One small kitchen area.

One bed.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," Abbacchio muttered.

Your face burned. "I'll take the couch."

"There is no couch."

He was right. There was a small table with two chairs, a kitchenette, and the bed. That was it.

"Floor then," you said.

"Don't be stupid. You're not sleeping on the floor."

"Neither are you."

"Then I guess we're both sleeping in the bed." He dropped the bags and moved to the window, putting distance between you. "We're adults. We can handle it."

Could you though? Could you really lie next to him all night, feeling the warmth of his body, knowing that it meant nothing to him while it meant everything to you?

"Fine," you said, because what else could you say?

The mission itself was straightforward, observe a meeting between two rival gangs, gather intelligence on their operations, report back to Bruno. You and Abbacchio had worked together enough times that you fell into familiar patterns despite the tension: you watched the east entrance while he covered the west, you took notes while he photographed key individuals, you communicated in the shorthand you'd developed over months of partnership.

For a few hours, it almost felt normal. Almost felt like before.

But then the meeting ended, and you returned to the safehouse, and reality crashed back down.

You took turns in the bathroom, changing into sleep clothes. When you emerged, Abbacchio was already in bed, as far to one side as physically possible, facing the wall.

You turned off the light and climbed in, maintaining a careful distance. The bed wasn't small, but it wasn't large either. You could feel the dip in the mattress from his weight, could hear his breathing in the darkness.

Sleep was impossible.

You lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about how many times you'd imagined being in bed with Abbacchio. Those fantasies had been different though, full of warmth and closeness and whispered conversations. Not this cold, careful distance.

"Can't sleep?"

His voice in the darkness made you jump. "I thought you were asleep."

"Can't." A pause. "You're too tense. I can feel it from here."

"Sorry."

"Stop apologizing." He sounded tired, frustrated. "You've been apologizing for days and you won't tell me what you're actually sorry for."

Your throat tightened. "Abbacchio—"

"Do you know what it's been like?" He rolled over, and suddenly you could feel him looking at you even in the darkness. "Watching you avoid me, seeing you leave rooms when I enter them, having you look at me like... like I'm something you need to get away from?"

"That's not—"

"Then what is it?" His voice cracked slightly. "What did I do? Because I've been going over every conversation, every interaction, trying to figure out where I fucked up, and I can't—"

"You didn't fuck up!" You sat up, unable to have this conversation lying down. "God, Abbacchio, you didn't do anything wrong. This is my problem, not yours."

"Then tell me what the problem is!" He sat up too, and in the dim light from the window you could see his face, frustrated, hurt, exhausted. "Let me help fix it."

"You can't fix this."

"Why not?"

"Because you can't make yourself feel something you don't feel!"

The words burst out before you could stop them, too loud in the quiet room. You clapped a hand over your mouth, horrified, but it was too late. The truth hung between you, impossible to take back.

Abbacchio stared at you. "What?"

You wanted to run. Wanted to grab your things and flee into the Venezia night and never look back. But there was nowhere to go, and you were so tired of running.

"I heard what you said," you whispered. "Or... what Fugo said you said. About not being interested in relationships, in complications. And I realized I'd been reading into things that weren't there, seeing things that didn't exist. I thought maybe we were... but we weren't. We were just friends. Compatible personalities." You laughed, but it came out broken. "So I tried to get over it, tried to put some distance between us so I could stop feeling like this, but it's hard when I see you every day and all I want is—"

You cut yourself off, but the damage was done.

"All you want is what?" Abbacchio's voice was strange, strained.

"It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me."

"Why?" You turned to look at him, and maybe it was the darkness making you brave, or maybe you were just too tired to keep pretending. "Why does it matter? You made it clear you're not interested in that kind of complication. And that's fine! You don't owe me anything. I just needed time to deal with my own stupid feelings so we could go back to being friends without me making it weird."

"Your feelings," Abbacchio repeated slowly. "Your feelings for me."

You closed your eyes. "Yes."

"You're in love with me."

"I didn't say—" But you couldn't finish the denial. What was the point? "Yes."

The silence that followed was deafening. You waited for the rejection, for the gentle letdown, for the "I'm flattered but" speech.

Instead, Abbacchio laughed.

It wasn't a cruel laugh, but it still made you flinch. You moved to get out of bed, you couldn't do this, couldn't sit here while he laughed at your feelings, but his hand shot out, catching your wrist.

"Wait," he said, still laughing, but it sounded almost hysterical now. "Wait, please. I'm not—fuck. I'm not laughing at you."

"Sounds like you are."

"I'm laughing at us. At this whole fucked up situation." His grip on your wrist tightened, thumb brushing over your pulse point. "You've been avoiding me because you thought I didn't have feelings for you?"

Your heart stopped. "What?"

"That conversation Fugo mentioned, that was about Mista trying to set me up with some girl at a bar. I said I wasn't interested in that kind of complication because I was already..." He took a shaky breath. "Because I already had feelings for someone. For you."

The world tilted sideways. "But you said—Fugo said—"

"Fugo didn't hear the whole conversation. After you left that morning, Mista and Narancia spent twenty minutes trying to get me to admit I had feelings for you. I told them to mind their own fucking business." He pulled you closer, and you let him, too shocked to resist. "I was defensive because they were right and I didn't want to admit it. Didn't want to risk what we had by wanting more."

"You have feelings for me," you repeated, unable to process it.

"I'm in love with you," he corrected, and the words sounded like they were dragged from somewhere deep inside him. "Have been for months. I thought I was being obvious, making you coffee, spending every spare moment with you, listening to you talk about things I don't give a shit about because I love hearing your voice. I thought..." He laughed again, softer this time. "I thought maybe you felt the same way, but you never said anything, so I figured I was wrong."

"I thought I was wrong," you whispered.

"We're both idiots."

"Yeah."

You were close now, close enough that you could see his face clearly in the dim light. His expression was open in a way you'd rarely seen, vulnerable and hopeful and terrified all at once.

"So," he said quietly, "just to be absolutely clear, because apparently we're both terrible at communication, I'm in love with you. I have been for months. I think about you constantly. When you started avoiding me, it felt like losing a limb. And right now, I really want to kiss you, but I need to know if that's okay."

Your answer was to close the distance between you.

The kiss was soft at first, tentative, like you were both afraid of breaking something precious. His lips were gentler than you'd imagined, his hand coming up to cup your face with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

Then you made a small sound, and something in him broke. He pulled you closer, deepening the kiss, and it was everything, desperate and sweet and full of months of pent-up longing. You threaded your fingers through his hair, and he made a low sound in his throat that sent heat racing through your veins.

When you finally broke apart, you were both breathing hard. Abbacchio rested his forehead against yours, his hand still cradling your face like you were something precious.

"I can't believe we wasted weeks on this misunderstanding," you said.

"Fugo's going to be insufferable when he finds out he caused this."

"Bruno definitely knew. That's why he sent us on this mission."

"Meddling bastard." But Abbacchio was smiling, really smiling, and it transformed his whole face. "Remind me to thank him."

You kissed him again, softer this time, savoring it. "We should probably sleep."

"Probably." But neither of you moved.

Eventually, you lay back down, but this time there was no careful distance. Abbacchio pulled you against his chest, your head tucked under his chin, his arms wrapped around you like he was afraid you might disappear.

"Is this okay?" he murmured against your hair.

"More than okay." You pressed closer, breathing in his scent, coffee and something uniquely him. "I missed you. Even though you were right there, I missed you."

"I missed you too." His hand traced slow patterns on your back. "Don't do that again. If something's wrong, talk to me. Even if it's hard. Especially if it's hard."

"Same goes for you."

"Deal."

You lay there in comfortable silence, listening to his heartbeat, feeling the rise and fall of his chest. This was what you'd wanted, not just the romance, but this intimacy, this closeness, this feeling of being exactly where you belonged.

"Hey," Abbacchio said softly.

"Mm?"

"I love you."

The words sent warmth flooding through you. You tilted your head up to kiss his jaw. "I love you too."

His arms tightened around you. "Good."

Sleep came easily after that, wrapped in warmth and safety and the knowledge that you hadn't been wrong after all. All those moments you'd treasured, all those times you thought maybe he felt something too, you'd been right. He had felt it. He did feel it.

And tomorrow, you'd go back to the team and face their inevitable teasing and Bruno's knowing smile. But tonight, in this small room in Venezia, with Abbacchio's heartbeat steady beneath your ear, everything was perfect.

The car ride back was different from the drive there.

For one thing, you were holding hands.

Abbacchio had laced his fingers through yours as soon as you sat down, and hadn't let go since. 

"They're going to know immediately," you said.

"Good." He squeezed your hand. "I'm tired of hiding how I feel about you."

Your heart did that stupid flutter again, but this time it was accompanied by a smile you couldn't suppress. "Mista's going to be unbearable."

"Mista's always unbearable."

"Fair point."

When you arrived at the hideout, the team was waiting in the common room. Bruno looked up from his newspaper with a knowing smile. Mista took one look at your joined hands and whooped. Narancia started laughing. Even Fugo smirked.

"Told you," Mista said, elbowing Narancia. "Told you Bruno's plan would work."

"You all suck," Abbacchio said, but there was no heat in it.

"Mission successful?" Bruno asked innocently.

"Very successful," you replied, unable to keep the happiness out of your voice.

"Good." Bruno returned to his newspaper. "I expect the full report by tomorrow. For now, why don't you two take the rest of the day off?"

Abbacchio didn't need to be told twice. He tugged you toward his room, ignoring Mista's catcalls and Narancia's laughter.

Once the door closed behind you, he pulled you into his arms, kissing you properly. You melted into him, still marveling at the fact that you could do this now, that he was yours and you were his.

"Worth the angst?" he murmured against your lips.

You pretended to consider it. "I could have done without the emotional turmoil."

"But?"

"But yes. Definitely worth it."

He smiled, that rare, genuine smile that you now knew was reserved just for you, and kissed you again.

Outside, you could hear the team's muffled voices, probably still discussing your relationship. Tomorrow, you'd face their teasing and questions. Tomorrow, you'd file the mission report and return to normal duties.

But right now, in this moment, with Abbacchio's arms around you and his heart beating against yours, everything was exactly as it should be.

"I love you," you said, because you could say it now, because he wanted to hear it.

"I love you too," he replied, and kissed you like he had all the time in the world to prove it.

And he did. You both did.

All the time in the world.

[al3xandraareads]

How JJK characters are in a relationship

Jujutsu Kaisen Characters x reader

content: fluff, some smut

synopsis: how jjk characters act/treat you in a relationship!!!

a/n: I didn't mean to make it this long I'm sorry 😭 ANYWAYYSS I HOPE YOU ENJOY IT

Yuji Itadori

Yuji is the definition of a golden retriever boyfriend, enthusiastic, loyal, and always ready to make you smile. He remembers the smallest details about you, like your favorite snacks or that one movie you mentioned wanting to see months ago. He'll surprise you with them at the most random times, grinning ear to ear when he sees your face light up.

Physical affection is his love language. He's always holding your hand, wrapping an arm around your shoulders, or pulling you into spontaneous hugs. He doesn't care who's watching; if he wants to show you affection, he will. His touches are warm and genuine, making you feel safe and cherished.

Despite his cheerful demeanor, Yuji has moments of deep vulnerability, especially regarding his role as Sukuna's vessel. He'll open up to you late at night, his usual brightness dimmed by worry about hurting people he cares about, especially you. These moments require patience and reassurance, but they bring you closer together.

He's surprisingly romantic in an earnest, unpolished way. He'll plan dates that might not go perfectly (reservations get mixed up, he gets lost on the way), but his genuine effort and enthusiasm make every moment special. He once tried to cook you a fancy dinner and nearly set off the fire alarm, but you both ended up laughing so hard you cried.

Yuji has incredible stamina and energy that translates into every aspect of your relationship. Whether you're training together, going on adventures, or being intimate, he brings an infectious enthusiasm that's both endearing and exhilarating. He loves pushing boundaries and trying new things with you.

When things get heated between you two, Yuji is attentive and eager to please. He pays close attention to your reactions, learning what makes you gasp or moan his name. His strength is evident but controlled, he's always careful with you, though he loves when you encourage him to let loose a little.

He gets adorably flustered when you initiate intimacy, a blush spreading across his cheeks even as his eyes darken with desire. But once he gets going, his confidence builds, and that athletic prowess really shows. He has impressive stamina and recovery time, often ready for multiple rounds if you are.

Yuji is the type to whisper sweet affirmations during intimate moments, telling you how beautiful you are, how good you feel, how much he loves you. But he also has a playful side, occasionally cracking jokes that make you both dissolve into giggles before getting back to business.

-----------

The training room is empty except for the two of you, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the floor. You've been sparring for the past hour, and while you're exhausted, Yuji still looks energized, that characteristic grin on his face.

"One more round?" he asks, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

You shake your head, laughing. "I'm done, Yuji. You win."

He closes the distance between you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you close despite how sweaty you both are. "You did great today," he murmurs against your ear, his voice dropping lower. "You're getting stronger."

You tilt your head back to look at him, and something in his expression shifts. The playfulness is still there, but there's heat in his eyes now. He leans down, capturing your lips in a kiss that starts gentle but quickly deepens. His hands slide down to your hips, gripping firmly as he walks you backward until your back hits the wall.

"Yuji," you breathe against his mouth, "someone could walk in."

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his pupils dilated. "I locked the door," he admits with a sheepish grin that quickly turns mischievous. "I was hoping we'd have some... extra training."

His lips find your neck, kissing and sucking at the sensitive skin there while his hands roam your body with increasing urgency. You can feel his heart pounding against your chest, matching the rapid rhythm of your own. When he lifts you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist, you forget all about the possibility of interruption, lost in the feeling of his strength, his warmth, and the way he whispers your name like a prayer.

Megumi Fushiguro

Megumi is the quiet, steady type of boyfriend who shows his love through actions rather than words. He's not one for grand romantic gestures, but he'll walk you home every night, carry your bag without being asked, and always position himself between you and potential danger. His protectiveness is subtle but unwavering.

He's incredibly observant and notices when something's bothering you before you even say anything. He might not always know the right words to comfort you, but he'll sit with you in silence, hold your hand, or bring you tea, whatever you need. His presence alone is calming.

Megumi struggles with expressing his emotions verbally, often getting flustered when trying to say something romantic. His ears turn red when you compliment him, and he'll look away, mumbling something under his breath. But his actions speak volumes, the way he looks at you when he thinks you're not watching, the gentle way he touches you, the fact that you're the only person who can make him genuinely smile.

He's surprisingly possessive, though he tries to hide it. When someone flirts with you, his jaw tightens and his shikigami start to manifest unconsciously. He'll casually drape an arm around you or pull you closer, his message clear without saying a word. Afterward, he needs reassurance, though he'd never directly ask for it.

In private, Megumi is more affectionate than anyone would expect. He loves when you play with his hair or trace patterns on his skin. He'll rest his head in your lap while reading, or pull you against his chest while you both relax. These quiet moments of intimacy mean everything to him.

When it comes to physical intimacy, Megumi is initially reserved and careful, almost reverent in how he touches you. He takes his time learning your body, paying attention to every reaction. Once he's comfortable, though, a more intense side emerges—he can be surprisingly passionate and even a bit rough when you encourage it.

He's the type to leave marks on you in places only he can see, a possessive streak showing through. The sight of his marks on your skin does something to him, a primal satisfaction that he's claimed you in this way. He'll trace over them gently afterward, a rare smirk on his face.

Megumi is more vocal during intimate moments than in everyday life, letting out low groans and whispered curses. He loves when you say his name, especially when you're close to the edge. Hearing you fall apart because of him breaks down his usual composure entirely.

-----------

You're in Megumi's dorm room, supposedly studying for an upcoming exam, but you've both been distracted for the past twenty minutes. You're sitting on his bed while he's at his desk, but you can feel his eyes on you more often than they're on his textbook.

"Megumi," you say softly, "if you have something to say, just say it."

He looks away quickly, that telltale redness creeping up his neck. "It's nothing."

You set your book aside and move to stand behind his chair, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. "Doesn't seem like nothing."

He's quiet for a moment, then reaches up to take one of your hands, threading his fingers through yours. "I was just thinking... about you. About us." He turns the chair around to face you, pulling you closer until you're standing between his legs. "About how lucky I am."

Your heart swells at the rare admission. You cup his face in your hands, leaning down to kiss him softly. He responds immediately, his hands coming up to grip your waist as he deepens the kiss. When you part, his dark eyes are intense, filled with an emotion he still struggles to name.

"Stay tonight," he murmurs, his voice rough. It's not really a question.

You nod, and something shifts in his expression. He stands, backing you toward the bed with deliberate steps. When the back of your knees hit the mattress, he guides you down gently, following to hover over you. His usual composure is cracking, replaced by raw need.

"Tell me if I'm too rough," he whispers against your lips, even as his hands slide under your shirt with clear intent. "I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't," you assure him, pulling him closer.

He kisses you deeply, possessively, one hand tangling in your hair while the other explores your body. When he pulls back to look at you, really look at you, sprawled beneath him, his breathing is ragged. "You're mine," he says, and though it's quiet, there's an intensity to it that sends shivers down your spine. He spends the rest of the night proving it, marking your skin and drawing out sounds you didn't know you could make, his usual restraint abandoned in favor of showing you exactly how he feels.

Nobara Kugisaki

Nobara is a confident, take-charge girlfriend who knows what she wants and isn't afraid to go after it, including you. She asked you out first, planned the first date, and initiated the first kiss. She's unapologetically herself and expects you to be the same. There's no room for games or pretense in her relationships.

She loves fashion and shopping dates, and she'll absolutely dress you up if you let her. She has a great eye for style and enjoys coordinating outfits with you. Seeing you in something she picked out makes her incredibly happy, and she'll show you off to everyone.

Nobara is fiercely loyal and protective. Anyone who talks badly about you will face her wrath, and she's not subtle about it. She'll call people out directly and has no problem getting confrontational if someone disrespects you. You're hers, and she takes care of what's hers.

Despite her tough exterior, she has a soft side that she only shows you. She loves being pampered, spa days, massages, having her hair played with. In return, she'll pamper you too, though she acts like it's no big deal. She's surprisingly nurturing when you're sick or upset.

She's very direct about her desires and needs, both emotionally and physically. If she wants affection, she'll demand it. If she's upset, she'll tell you exactly why. This honesty makes your relationship straightforward and drama-free, though her bluntness can be startling at first.

In intimate situations, Nobara is confident and knows exactly what she likes. She's not shy about telling you what to do or taking control herself. She loves being on top, watching your reactions as she moves. The power dynamic excites her, and she's vocal about her pleasure.

She has a bit of a sadistic streak, she loves teasing you, working you up until you're begging, then making you wait just a little longer. Seeing you desperate for her is a massive turn-on. But she's also generous, and when she finally gives you what you want, she's thorough about it.

Nobara leaves marks deliberately and visibly. She wants people to know you're taken, and she's not embarrassed about it. She'll admire her handiwork with satisfaction, often taking photos "for later." She also loves when you mark her back, it's only fair, after all.

-----------

You're in Nobara's room, sitting on her bed while she tries on different outfits for an upcoming mission. She's been at it for twenty minutes, and you've enjoyed every second of the impromptu fashion show.

"What about this one?" she asks, striking a pose in a new ensemble.

"Beautiful," you say, meaning it. "But then again, you make everything look good."

She grins, clearly pleased, and saunters over to you. "You're getting better at compliments," she teases, pushing you back on the bed and straddling your lap. "I think you deserve a reward."

Her lips find yours in a kiss that's immediately heated, her hands sliding up your chest. She grinds down against you deliberately, smirking when you gasp into her mouth. "Someone's excited," she purrs.

"Can you blame me?" you manage, your hands finding her hips.

She pulls back slightly, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "I've been thinking about this all day," she admits, her fingers working at the buttons of your shirt. "Thinking about you, about what I want to do to you."

"Tell me," you breathe.

Instead of answering, she shows you, kissing down your neck and chest as she removes your shirt. She takes her time, mapping your body with her lips and teeth, leaving marks as she goes. When you try to touch her, she pins your wrists above your head with one hand.

"Not yet," she says firmly. "I'm in charge right now. You just lie back and let me take care of you."

And you do, surrendering to her control as she takes you apart piece by piece. She's attentive and demanding in equal measure, telling you exactly what she wants and praising you when you deliver. By the time she finally lets you touch her, you're both desperate, and the resulting passion is explosive. She rides you with confidence and skill, her head thrown back in pleasure, and the sight of her like that—powerful, beautiful, completely uninhibited—is something you'll never forget.

Satoru Gojo

Dating Gojo is like being with an overgrown child and the most powerful sorcerer alive simultaneously. He's playful, teasing, and loves to embarrass you in public with over-the-top displays of affection. He'll teleport behind you just to wrap his arms around you, or announce loudly in front of everyone how much he missed you, even if you were only apart for an hour.

Despite his carefree attitude, Gojo is deeply devoted. You're one of the few people he's let past his walls, and he takes that seriously. He worries about you constantly, though he hides it behind jokes and smiles. He's lost people before, and the thought of losing you terrifies him more than he'll ever admit.

He spoils you relentlessly. Money means nothing to him, so he's constantly buying you gifts, taking you to expensive restaurants, and whisking you away on spontaneous trips. He loves seeing you happy, and if material things can contribute to that, he'll provide them without a second thought.

Gojo is surprisingly clingy when you're alone. He always wants to be touching you somehow, holding hands, having you sit in his lap, wrapping himself around you while you sleep. Physical contact grounds him, reminds him that you're real and there with him.

He's incredibly playful in every aspect of your relationship, including intimacy. He loves teasing you, using his abilities to enhance sensations or keep you on edge. He'll blindfold you (ironic, considering his own blindfold) and use his heightened senses to map every sensitive spot on your body.

Gojo has incredible stamina and control, able to go for hours if you let him. He loves experimenting, trying new things, and pushing boundaries. His confidence is infectious, making you feel comfortable exploring your desires with him. Nothing is too taboo or too wild for him to consider.

He's surprisingly dominant in bed, despite his playful personality. He likes being in control, directing your pleasure, making you beg. But he's also attentive, constantly checking in to make sure you're enjoying yourself. Your pleasure is his pleasure, and he takes pride in how well he knows your body.

Gojo loves when you try to take control, though he rarely lets you succeed for long. He'll let you think you're in charge before flipping the situation, pinning you down with that infuriating smirk. The power play between you is exciting for both of you.

-----------

You're trying to have a serious conversation with Gojo about an upcoming mission, but he's making it difficult. He's sprawled across the couch in his apartment, his blindfold pushed up, those stunning blue eyes fixed on you with an intensity that makes it hard to concentrate.

"Are you even listening?" you ask, exasperated.

"Of course," he says, but his smile is wicked. "You're worried about the mission. I think you're cute when you worry."

"Satoru—"

He's suddenly right in front of you, having teleported across the room. His hands cup your face, and he's looking at you with unusual seriousness. "I won't let anything happen to you," he says quietly. "You know that, right?"

You nod, your heart racing at his proximity. "I know."

His expression shifts, that playful glint returning. "Good. Now that that's settled..." He kisses you deeply, backing you up until you hit the wall. His body presses against yours, and you can feel every lean muscle, the power barely contained beneath his skin.

"I've been thinking about you all day," he murmurs against your lips. "Thinking about all the things I want to do to you."

"Show me," you challenge.

His grin is absolutely sinful. "Careful what you wish for."

What follows is overwhelming in the best way. He uses his abilities to heighten every sensation, his touch seeming to be everywhere at once. He takes his time undressing you, his eyes drinking in every inch of exposed skin like he's seeing you for the first time. When he finally touches you properly, it's electric.

He's playful and intense by turns, bringing you to the edge repeatedly before backing off, laughing at your frustrated whimpers. "Patience," he teases, even as his own control is clearly fraying.

When he finally gives you what you need, it's explosive. He's powerful and precise, knowing exactly how to move, where to touch, what to say to drive you wild. He watches your face the entire time, those infinite blue eyes seeing everything, and the intimacy of being so completely seen by him is almost as intense as the physical pleasure.

Afterward, as you lie tangled together, he's surprisingly tender, pressing soft kisses to your forehead and whispering sweet things that he'd never say in public. This is the real Gojo, the one behind the bravado, and you treasure these moments more than anything.

Yuta Okkotsu

Yuta is the sweetest, most considerate boyfriend imaginable. He's constantly checking in on you, making sure you're comfortable, happy, and safe. His thoughtfulness extends to remembering every little detail you mention, from your favorite flower to that book you wanted to read. He's attentive to a degree that's almost overwhelming.

He's initially very shy about physical affection, blushing furiously at hand-holding and getting flustered by kisses. But once he's comfortable, he craves your touch constantly. He loves cuddling, often pulling you close and burying his face in your neck, breathing in your scent like it calms him.

Yuta struggles with his past and his connection to Rika, worrying constantly that he'll hurt you or that you'll realize you deserve better. He needs frequent reassurance, though he feels guilty about needing it. These vulnerable moments, where he opens up about his fears, are when you feel closest to him.

Despite his gentle nature, Yuta is incredibly powerful and protective. If anyone threatens you, they see a completely different side of him, cold, dangerous, and utterly ruthless. He'll do anything to keep you safe, and that intensity can be both frightening and attractive.

He's romantic in a classic sense, bringing you flowers, writing you heartfelt notes, planning thoughtful dates. He puts genuine effort into making you feel loved and appreciated. Every gesture comes from a place of deep sincerity.

In intimate situations, Yuta is initially hesitant and gentle, almost reverent in how he touches you. He's constantly asking if you're okay, if you like what he's doing, if he can continue. His consideration is touching, though you sometimes have to encourage him to let go and just feel.

Once he relaxes, Yuta is surprisingly passionate. All that emotion he keeps bottled up comes pouring out during intimate moments. He's vocal, telling you how much he loves you, how beautiful you are, how good you feel. His intensity during these moments is breathtaking.

He has a bit of a possessive side that surprises both of you. Seeing marks on your skin that he left, knowing that you're his and he's yours, satisfies something deep within him. He'll trace over them gently, a mix of pride and slight embarrassment on his face.

-----------

You're in Yuta's room, both of you supposedly studying, but the textbooks have been abandoned for the past half hour. You're lying on his bed, and he's propped up on one elbow beside you, just looking at you with those soft, dark eyes.

"What?" you ask, smiling.

"Nothing, I just..." He reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "I can't believe you're here. With me."

"Where else would I be?"

He doesn't answer, just leans down to kiss you softly. It's gentle at first, but when you thread your fingers through his hair and pull him closer, something shifts. The kiss deepens, becomes more urgent, and suddenly he's hovering over you, his weight a comforting pressure.

"Is this okay?" he asks breathlessly, even as his hand slides under your shirt.

"More than okay," you assure him, pulling him back down.

He takes his time, kissing every inch of skin he exposes, whispering sweet words against your body. His hands shake slightly as he touches you, a combination of nervousness and desire. When you reach for him, helping him out of his own clothes, he makes a soft sound that goes straight through you.

"I love you," he says, his voice rough with emotion. "I love you so much."

You pull him closer, and when you finally come together, it's intense and emotional. He buries his face in your neck, breathing hard, his arms wrapped tightly around you like he's afraid you'll disappear. He moves with increasing confidence, and when you gasp his name, something in him breaks free.

He becomes more passionate, more demanding, showing you a side of himself he usually keeps hidden. The gentle Yuta is still there, but now there's fire too, a desperate need to be as close to you as possible, to show you how deeply he feels. When you both finally tumble over the edge, he holds you like you're the most precious thing in the world, and in his arms, you feel exactly that way.

Maki Zen'in

Maki is a strong, independent girlfriend who doesn't need anyone but chooses to be with you. That distinction is important to her. She's not looking for someone to complete her or save her, she wants a partner who can stand beside her as an equal. She respects strength, both physical and emotional.

She's not overly affectionate in public, preferring to keep intimate moments private. But in private, she's surprisingly tender. She'll let you massage her sore muscles after training, rest her head on your shoulder, or hold your hand while you watch movies together. These quiet moments of vulnerability are precious.

Maki is fiercely protective and doesn't tolerate anyone disrespecting you. She'll shut down insults or threats immediately, and her reputation is usually enough to make people think twice. She's fought too hard for what she has to let anyone threaten the people she cares about.

She loves training with you, whether you're a sorcerer or not. She'll push you to be better, stronger, faster. Some of your best moments together are during or after training sessions, both of you exhausted but exhilarated, the adrenaline creating a charged atmosphere.

Maki appreciates directness and honesty. She doesn't like games or passive-aggressive behavior. If something's wrong, she wants you to tell her straight. In return, she's always honest with you, even when the truth is hard. This creates a relationship built on trust and respect.

In intimate situations, Maki likes to be in control. She's confident in her body and her desires, and she's not shy about taking what she wants. She loves pinning you down, watching you squirm beneath her, having you at her mercy. The power dynamic excites her.

She has incredible stamina and strength, which translates into intense physical encounters. She's not gentle, she likes it rough, passionate, with an edge of competition. She loves when you try to overpower her, even though she usually wins. The struggle is half the fun.

Maki is surprisingly attentive to your needs despite her tough exterior. She pays attention to what makes you feel good and takes pride in her ability to satisfy you. Seeing you fall apart because of her is a massive ego boost, and she'll definitely be smug about it afterward.

-----------

The training room is empty except for you and Maki, both of you breathing hard after an intense sparring session. She's barely broken a sweat, while you're definitely feeling the workout. She smirks at you, twirling her weapon with casual expertise.

"Getting tired already?" she teases.

"Maybe," you admit, "but I lasted longer than last time."

Her smirk softens into something almost like pride. "You did. You're getting better." She sets her weapon aside and approaches you, and there's something in her eyes that makes your heart race. "I think you've earned a reward."

Before you can respond, she's kissing you, hard and demanding. Her hands grip your hips, pulling you flush against her, and you can feel the strength in her body, the power barely contained. When she pulls back, you're both breathing harder than you were during training.

"My room," she says, and it's not a request.

Once there, she wastes no time, pushing you onto the bed and straddling you. She takes her time removing her training clothes, maintaining eye contact the entire time, clearly enjoying the effect she has on you. When she leans down to kiss you again, it's consuming.

She's demanding and intense, telling you exactly what she wants and praising you when you deliver. Her strength is evident in every movement, the way she pins your wrists, the grip of her thighs, the controlled power in her body. She rides you with athletic precision, her head thrown back, and the sight of her like that powerful, beautiful, completely in her element, is almost enough to undo you right there.

"Not yet," she commands, somehow knowing you're close. "Wait for me."

It's torture in the best way, but when she finally gives you permission, the release is explosive for both of you. Afterward, as you lie tangled together, she's softer, tracing patterns on your chest, her usual armor lowered just for you.

"You did good today," she murmurs. "Both in training and... after."

You laugh, pulling her closer, and she allows it, settling against you with a contentment she rarely shows anyone else.

Toge Inumaki

Dating Toge requires patience and understanding, but it's incredibly rewarding. He communicates through rice ball ingredients, text messages, notes, and gestures. Over time, you become fluent in his unique language, able to understand exactly what he means. The effort you put into understanding him makes him fall even harder for you.

He's incredibly expressive with his eyes and body language. A look from him can convey more than most people's speeches. He's also very physically affectionate, holding hands, hugging, cuddling. Touch is one of his primary ways of showing love since he can't always use words.

Toge is thoughtful and considerate, always thinking about your needs and feelings. He'll leave you sweet notes, send you cute texts throughout the day, and find creative ways to express his affection. He once spent hours making you an origami bouquet because you mentioned loving flowers.

He's playful and has a great sense of humor, often making you laugh with his antics and expressions. He's also a bit mischievous, occasionally using his cursed speech in harmless ways to tease you (making you hiccup, making you suddenly want to hug him, etc.).

Toge is protective but not overbearing. He trusts you to handle yourself but is always ready to step in if needed. His cursed speech makes him a formidable protector, and anyone who threatens you will face the consequences.

In intimate situations, the inability to speak freely is initially challenging, but you both find ways around it. He's incredibly attentive to your body language and reactions, learning to read you perfectly. He uses his hands, his eyes, and his body to communicate his desire.

He's surprisingly passionate and intense when you're alone together. All the words he can't say come out through his actions the way he touches you, kisses you, holds you. There's a desperation to it sometimes, a need to express everything he feels through physical connection.

Toge loves when you talk during intimate moments, telling him how you feel, what you want, how good he makes you feel. Since he can't respond verbally, hearing your voice grounds him and turns him on immensely. Your words become his anchor.

-----------

You're in Toge's room, lying on his bed while he sits at his desk, supposedly working on a report. But you can feel his eyes on you, and when you look over, he's definitely not focused on his work. You raise an eyebrow questioningly, and he quickly looks away, the tips of his ears turning red above his collar.

You get up and walk over to him, gently turning his chair to face you. His violet eyes meet yours, and you can see the desire there, barely contained. You lean down and kiss him softly, and he responds immediately, his hands coming up to cup your face.

When you pull back, you take out your phone and type a message, showing it to him: "Want to take a break?"

He nods eagerly, standing and pulling you toward the bed. Once there, he's more assertive, laying you down and hovering over you. His eyes ask permission, and when you nod, he begins kissing down your neck, his hands roaming your body.

The room is quiet except for your breathing and soft sounds. Toge is incredibly attentive, watching your every reaction to figure out what you like. When you gasp or moan, his eyes light up with satisfaction, and he repeats whatever action caused it.

"Toge," you breathe, "you feel so good."

He makes a soft sound against your skin, and you can feel him smile. Your words clearly affect him, spurring him on. He takes his time undressing you, his touch reverent, and when you're finally skin to skin, the feeling is electric.

He's passionate and thorough, using every method of communication available to him. His hands speak volumes, his eyes convey his emotions, and his body shows you exactly how much he wants you. When you tell him you love him, his eyes shine with emotion, and he kisses you deeply, pouring everything he can't say into that kiss.

Afterward, he holds you close, pressing soft kisses to your forehead. He reaches for his phone and types out a message: "I love you more than words could ever say."

You smile, snuggling closer. "I know. You show me every day."

Kento Nanami

Nanami is the definition of a mature, stable partner. He's reliable, responsible, and takes relationships seriously. When he commits to you, it's with the full intention of building something lasting. He's not interested in games or casual flings, he wants a real partnership.

He's a gentleman in every sense of the word. He opens doors, pulls out chairs, walks on the street side of the sidewalk, and always makes sure you get home safely. These aren't empty gestures, they're genuine expressions of his care and respect for you.

Nanami values work-life balance and makes sure to prioritize time with you despite his demanding job. He keeps his work and personal life separate, and when he's with you, you have his full attention. Date nights are sacred, and he plans them thoughtfully.

He's not overly expressive with his emotions, but his actions speak clearly. He remembers important dates, notices when you're stressed, and knows exactly how to comfort you. He shows love through acts of service, cooking for you, fixing things around your place, taking care of you when you're sick.

Nanami has a dry sense of humor that catches you off guard sometimes. He'll make subtle jokes with a completely straight face, and the contrast is endearing. He also appreciates when you can make him laugh, which doesn't happen often but is wonderful when it does.

In intimate situations, Nanami is controlled and deliberate. He takes his time, focusing entirely on your pleasure. He's the type to memorize exactly what you like and deliver it with precision. There's something incredibly sexy about his competence and attention to detail.

Despite his usual restraint, he has a passionate side that emerges behind closed doors. When he lets go of his control, it's intense. He can be surprisingly rough when you encourage it, though he's always careful not to actually hurt you. The contrast between his composed public persona and his private intensity is thrilling.

Nanami is very vocal about his appreciation for you during intimate moments, though in his characteristic measured way. He'll tell you exactly what he likes about your body, how you make him feel, what he wants to do to you. His deep voice saying explicit things is incredibly arousing.

-----------

Nanami arrives at your apartment after a long day of work, looking tired but handsome as always in his suit and tie. You greet him at the door with a kiss, and some of the tension leaves his shoulders immediately.

"Rough day?" you ask.

"Long," he corrects, loosening his tie. "But it's better now."

You've prepared dinner, and he's visibly touched by the gesture. Over the meal, he tells you about his day, and you share yours. This domestic routine is something he treasures, normalcy in a life that's often anything but.

After dinner, you're both on the couch, you leaning against him while he reads. His free hand absently strokes your hair, and the comfortable silence is peaceful. But when you shift to look up at him, something in your expression makes him set his book aside.

"What is it?" he asks.

Instead of answering, you climb into his lap, straddling him. His hands immediately come to rest on your hips, and his eyes darken with understanding. "I see," he says, his voice dropping lower. "And here I thought we were having a quiet evening."

"We can still be quiet," you tease, leaning in to kiss him.

He responds with controlled passion, his kisses deep and thorough. When he stands, lifting you effortlessly, you wrap your legs around his waist as he carries you to the bedroom. He lays you on the bed with careful precision, then begins methodically removing his tie, his shirt, maintaining eye contact the entire time.

"I've been thinking about this all day," he admits, his voice rough. "About you. About coming home to you."

He takes his time undressing you, his touches deliberate and knowing. He maps your body with his hands and mouth, finding every sensitive spot with practiced ease. When you're writhing beneath him, begging for more, he finally gives you what you need.

His control is impressive, his movements measured and precise, angled perfectly to hit exactly the right spots. But as you both get closer, that control starts to slip. His breathing becomes ragged, his grip tightens, and when you urge him to let go, he does, showing you the passionate man beneath the composed exterior.

Afterward, he holds you close, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Thank you," he murmurs.

"For what?"

"For being here. For being you. For making coming home the best part of my day."

You smile, snuggling closer to him, feeling completely safe and cherished in his arms.

Ryomen Sukuna

Being in a relationship with Sukuna is intense, dangerous, and unlike anything else. He doesn't do relationships in the traditional sense, he possesses, claims, owns. You're his in every sense of the word, and he makes sure everyone knows it. There's no room for doubt or competition.

Sukuna is possessive to an extreme degree. He doesn't like other people looking at you, talking to you, or even thinking about you. His jealousy is violent and immediate. He's killed people for less than flirting with you, and he feels no remorse about it. You're his most prized possession.

Despite his cruelty and violence, he has a strange sort of affection for you. He's fascinated by you, by your ability to handle him, by whatever quality made him decide to keep you. He'll never be soft or gentle in the traditional sense, but there are moments of surprising tenderness, a careful touch, a rare compliment, allowing you freedoms he'd never grant anyone else.

He loves your fear but also your defiance. When you stand up to him, challenge him, or show courage despite being terrified, it excites him. He wants you to have spirit, breaking you completely would be boring. The push and pull between you is part of what keeps him interested.

Sukuna is incredibly powerful and uses that power to protect what's his. Anyone who threatens you faces a fate worse than death. He might be a monster, but he's your monster, and he takes care of his possessions. You're probably the safest person in the world, simply because harming you would invoke his wrath.

Intimacy with Sukuna is intense, rough, and overwhelming. He's not gentle—he takes what he wants, how he wants it. But he's also attentive in his own way, learning what makes you scream, what makes you beg, what pushes you to your limits. Your pleasure is his entertainment and his pride.

He loves marking you, claiming you visibly. Bites, scratches, bruises, he wants evidence of his ownership all over your body. Seeing you covered in marks he made satisfies something primal in him. He'll trace over them possessively, a dark satisfaction in his eyes.

Sukuna is surprisingly vocal during intimate moments, though it's mostly commands, possessive declarations, and dark promises. He'll tell you exactly who you belong to, what he's going to do to you, how no one else could ever satisfy you like he does. His voice alone is enough to make you shiver.

-----------

You're in Sukuna's domain, a dark and foreboding place that would terrify most people. But you've grown accustomed to it, to him. He's lounging on his throne, watching you with those four eyes, a predatory smile on his face.

"Come here," he commands, and you obey, approaching him.

When you're close enough, he reaches out, pulling you into his lap with casual strength. His arms wrap around you possessively, and he buries his face in your neck, inhaling deeply. "You smell like me," he notes with satisfaction. "Good."

"Did you expect anything else?" you ask, a hint of challenge in your voice.

He laughs, the sound dark and amused. "Still have that mouth on you. I like that." His hand slides up your thigh, possessive and demanding. "But maybe I should remind you who you belong to."

Before you can respond, he's kissing you, rough, demanding, consuming. His hands roam your body with clear ownership, touching you like he has every right to, because in his mind, he does. When he pulls back, his eyes are dark with desire.

"Strip," he orders, leaning back to watch.

You do, maintaining eye contact, refusing to show fear even though your heart is racing. His gaze is intense, taking in every inch of exposed skin with obvious appreciation and possessiveness.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, pulling you back to him. "And mine. All mine."

What follows is intense and overwhelming. He's rough and demanding, pushing you to your limits and beyond. He uses his strength and power to completely dominate you, and the feeling of being so thoroughly claimed is both terrifying and exhilarating.

He marks you deliberately, biting and scratching, leaving evidence of his possession all over your body. "Everyone will know," he growls against your skin. "Everyone will see that you belong to me."

When you're both finally spent, he holds you against his chest, one hand possessively gripping your hip. "Mine," he repeats, softer now but no less intense. "Forever mine."

And despite everything, the danger, the darkness, the violence, you can't imagine belonging to anyone else.

Suguru Geto

Geto is a complex partner, charismatic, intelligent, and deeply passionate about his beliefs. Being with him means accepting all of him, including his darker aspects. He's not looking for someone to change him or save him; he wants someone who understands and accepts his worldview, or at least respects it.

He's incredibly charismatic and charming, making you feel like the most important person in the world when you're together. He gives you his full attention, listens intently when you speak, and remembers every detail you share. His interest in you is genuine and deep.

Geto is protective and possessive, though more subtly than someone like Sukuna. He doesn't need to be loud about his claim on you, his presence and reputation are enough. People know not to cross him, and by extension, not to bother you. He handles threats quietly and efficiently.

He's romantic in a sophisticated way, taking you to nice restaurants, cultural events, meaningful locations. He puts thought into dates and gifts, choosing things that have significance rather than just monetary value. He wants to share experiences with you, to create memories together.

Despite his calm exterior, Geto has intense emotions that he usually keeps controlled. With you, he allows himself to be more open, sharing his thoughts, fears, and dreams. These vulnerable moments are rare and precious, showing you the man beneath the cult leader persona.

In intimate situations, Geto is confident and skilled. He takes his time, building anticipation, using his words as much as his touch to arouse you. He's attentive and generous, taking pride in his ability to satisfy you completely. He views intimacy as another form of connection, something meaningful rather than just physical.

He can be surprisingly dominant, enjoying the control and the trust you place in him. He'll push your boundaries gently, always checking in, but definitely leading the encounter. The power dynamic is important to him, and he takes his role seriously.

Geto is very verbal during intimate moments, praising you, telling you how beautiful you are, how good you feel, how much he wants you. His voice is hypnotic, and he knows exactly how to use it to enhance the experience. He can talk you to the edge with words alone.

-----------

You're in Geto's private quarters, a space that's elegant and refined, much like the man himself. He's asked you to join him for dinner, and the table is set beautifully, candles providing soft lighting.

"You went to a lot of trouble," you observe as he pulls out your chair.

"You're worth the trouble," he replies smoothly, taking his own seat.

Dinner is delicious, and the conversation flows easily. He tells you about his day, asks about yours, and discusses philosophy and current events. Being with him is intellectually stimulating as well as emotionally fulfilling.

After dinner, you move to the couch, and he pulls you close, one arm around your shoulders. "I've been thinking about you all day," he admits, his fingers tracing patterns on your arm. "About this. About us."

"Good thoughts, I hope?"

"Very good thoughts," he confirms, tilting your chin up to kiss you. It's slow and deep, full of promise.

The kiss intensifies, and soon you're straddling his lap, his hands on your hips, guiding your movements. "Bedroom," he murmurs against your lips, and you both stand, making your way there without breaking contact.

Once there, he takes his time undressing you, his touches reverent but purposeful. "You're beautiful," he says, his eyes roaming your body with clear appreciation. "Do you know what you do to me?"

He shows you, taking control of the encounter with confident ease. His touch is skilled, his words hypnotic, building your pleasure methodically until you're desperate. When he finally gives you what you need, it's intense and deeply satisfying.

He's attentive throughout, watching your reactions, adjusting his approach to maximize your pleasure. When you fall apart in his arms, he holds you close, pressing kisses to your shoulder, your neck, your lips.

"Perfect," he murmurs. "You're perfect."

Afterward, as you lie tangled together, he's more open than usual, sharing his thoughts and feelings. These moments of vulnerability make you feel closer to him than anything else, and you treasure them, knowing how rare they are.

"I love you," he says quietly, and you know he means it with every fiber of his being.

"I love you too," you reply, and in that moment, nothing else matters.

[al3xandraareads]

Would you be interested in writing something about risotto maybe?

YESSSS I LOVE HIM SO MUCH

Jojo's Bizarre Adventure (Risotto Nero x reader)

content: smut😉

The safehouse door closes with a heavy finality that echoes through the empty space. You can still feel the adrenaline singing through your veins, electric and intoxicating, the way it always does after a successful hit. The metallic scent of blood clings to your clothes, your skin, a perfume you've grown intimately familiar with in your line of work.

Risotto Nero stands across the room, silent as a shadow, methodically stripping off his jacket. Even in the dim light, his presence is overwhelming tall, broad-shouldered, radiating a controlled danger that most people find terrifying. You find it magnetic.

His eyes find yours in the darkness. Those unsettling red-and-black eyes that see everything, miss nothing. You've watched those eyes track targets, calculate trajectories, observe death with clinical detachment. Right now, they're fixed on you with an intensity that makes heat coil low in your belly.

"You took a risk tonight," he says, his voice low and even. There's no anger in it, just statement of fact. "That guard. You should have waited for my signal."

You peel off your own jacket, letting it drop to the floor. "I had it under control."

"That's not the point."

"Then what is the point, Risotto?" You step closer, deliberately challenging. The air between you crackles with tension, the same dangerous energy that makes you such effective partners in the field. "That I didn't follow orders? The job got done. Clean. Efficient."

Something shifts in his expression. Not quite anger, but something darker, more primal. In two strides he's in front of you, moving with that predatory grace that still catches you off guard sometimes. His hand wraps around your throat, not squeezing, just holding, his thumb pressing against your pulse point where your heartbeat hammers against his touch.

"The point," he says quietly, and somehow the softness of his voice is more threatening than any shout, "is that you're mine. And I don't take unnecessary risks with what's mine."

Your heart races faster, and you know he can feel it. The possessiveness in his words should probably bother you, you're not some fragile thing that needs protecting. But coming from him, from someone who understands exactly what you are and wants you anyway, it sends a thrill through you instead.

"I can take care of myself," you say, but your voice comes out breathier than intended.

"I know you can." His grip tightens slightly, just enough to make you gasp. "That's why I want you. But that doesn't mean I'll stand by and watch you throw yourself into danger when there's a better way."

"Hypocrite," you breathe, and his lips twitch, the closest thing to a smile you'll get from Risotto Nero.

"Maybe." His free hand slides to your hip, fingers digging in as he pulls you flush against him. You can feel the hard planes of his body, the heat of him even through your clothes. "But you knew what you were getting into with me."

You did. You knew exactly what Risotto Nero was a killer, a leader, a man driven by vengeance and violence. A man who carried death in his veins, literally, with that Stand of his that could manipulate the iron in blood itself. You'd seen what he could do to people who crossed him. You'd helped him do it.

And you wanted him anyway. Maybe because of it.

"Are you going to punish me?" you ask, deliberately provocative, and watch his eyes darken to something almost black.

"Do you want me to?"

Instead of answering, you grab the front of his shirt and pull him down into a bruising kiss. He responds immediately, his mouth claiming yours with a hunger that matches your own. It's not gentle, it's teeth and tongue and the taste of violence still lingering between you, adrenaline transmuting into a different kind of need.

His hand leaves your throat to tangle in your hair, gripping tight, angling your head exactly how he wants it. You bite his lower lip hard enough to draw blood, and the groan that rumbles through his chest goes straight to your core.

"Bedroom," he growls against your mouth. "Now."

You barely make it. He pushes you against the wall halfway there, his body caging yours, one hand already working at the buttons of your shirt. You're doing the same to him, fingers fumbling with urgency, both of you breathing hard.

"You drive me insane," he mutters, his lips moving to your neck, teeth scraping over your pulse point. "The way you move during a hit. So precise. So deadly. Do you know how hard it is to focus when all I can think about is getting you alone?"

"Show me," you challenge, and something feral flashes in those strange eyes.

He does. His hands are everywhere gripping, claiming, leaving marks that will bloom into bruises by morning. You give as good as you get, nails raking down his back, teeth finding the junction of his neck and shoulder. He hisses in pleasure-pain, and you feel the vibration of it against your lips.

By the time you actually make it to the bedroom, you're both half-naked and desperate. Risotto pushes you down onto the mattress, and for a moment he just looks at you, sprawled beneath him, flushed and wanting, marks already forming on your skin from his hands and mouth.

"Beautiful," he says, his voice rough. "You're so fucking beautiful like this. Flushed, wanting, mine."

"Prove it," you say, and he does.

He strips away the rest of your clothes with efficient movements, then his own, and the sight of him never fails to make your breath catch. All that pale skin marked with scars, the evidence of a violent life written across his body. You've traced every one of them with your fingers, your lips, learned the story behind each mark.

He settles between your thighs, his weight a welcome pressure, and you can feel how hard he is against you. But he doesn't rush, despite the tension coiled in every line of his body. Instead, his hand slides down your stomach, between your legs, and he groans when he feels how wet you already are.

"All this for me?" he murmurs, and you would roll your eyes at the arrogance if his fingers weren't doing absolutely sinful things.

"Don't—ah—don't let it go to your head," you manage, but it comes out shaky.

"Too late." He leans down to kiss you, slow and deep, even as his fingers work you open. You can feel something else too, that subtle, magnetic pull of Metallica, making your skin tingle, making you hyperaware of every point of contact between your bodies. He can sense the iron in your blood, feel your heartbeat, know exactly how aroused you are before you even tell him.

It's invasive and intimate and absolutely intoxicating.

"Risotto," you gasp, your hips rolling against his hand. "Stop teasing."

"Impatient," he observes, but there's satisfaction in his voice. He likes reducing you to this, desperate and needy and begging for him.

When he finally pushes inside you, it's with a controlled force that makes you cry out, your nails digging into his shoulders. He's big and the stretch is intense, toeing the line between pleasure and pain in a way that makes your head spin.

"That's it," he murmurs, his voice strained. "Let me hear you. No one else around for miles. Just us."

He starts to move, and the rhythm he sets is punishing, deep, purposeful thrusts that hit something devastating inside you with each stroke. You meet him movement for movement, refusing to be passive, and the pleased rumble in his chest tells you that's exactly what he wants.

"Harder," you demand, and he complies, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, the other braced beside your head. The bed frame creaks with the force of his movements, and you're lost in the sensation, the weight of him, the stretch, the delicious friction, that subtle magnetic pull of his Stand making everything more intense.

"You feel incredible," he grits out, his control starting to slip. "So tight. So perfect. Mine."

"Yours," you agree breathlessly, and something in his expression shifts, becomes almost vulnerable for just a moment before the intensity returns.

He shifts the angle slightly and you see stars, a broken moan tearing from your throat. "There," you gasp. "Right there, don't stop—"

"Never," he promises, and maintains that perfect angle, that perfect rhythm, driving you higher and higher.

You can feel your orgasm building, that coiling tension in your core getting tighter and tighter. Risotto can feel it too, you know he can, with Metallica letting him sense every change in your body, every spike in your pulse.

"Touch yourself," he commands, and you obey, your hand sliding between your bodies. The added stimulation makes you clench around him, and he curses, his control slipping further.

"Risotto—" His name is a plea, a prayer, and he understands.

"Cum for me," he orders, his voice rough and commanding. "Now."

The orgasm crashes over you with devastating intensity, your body arching off the bed, a cry tearing from your throat. Risotto follows moments later, his grip on you tightening almost painfully, his face buried in your neck as he finds his own release with a low groan that you feel more than hear.

For a long moment, neither of you moves, both catching your breath. Your heart is still racing, your body still trembling with aftershocks. Then Risotto shifts, carefully pulling out and rolling to the side, immediately pulling you against his chest.

His hand strokes down your spine in an uncharacteristically gentle gesture, and you press closer, breathing in the scent of him, metal and musk and something uniquely Risotto.

"You're reckless," he murmurs into your hair.

"So are you," you reply, pressing a kiss to his collarbone, tasting salt and skin.

"We're going to get each other killed one day."

"Probably." You tilt your head up to look at him, finding those strange eyes softer than usual in the aftermath. "But not today."

"No," he agrees, his hand cupping your face with surprising tenderness. "Not today."

He kisses you again, slower this time, and you lose yourself in it, in him, in this dangerous, violent love that you've built together. You're both killers, both stained with blood and sin, but in these moments, you're also just two people who've found something worth holding onto in a world that's tried to take everything from you.

"I love you," you say quietly, the words feeling both dangerous and necessary. Admitting to love when you live the life you do, it's a vulnerability, a weakness that could be exploited.

But with Risotto, it feels like strength.

His expression shifts, something vulnerable flickering across his features before he schools them back into control. But his hand tightens on you, and when he speaks, his voice is rough with emotion.

"I love you too," he says. "More than I should. More than is safe."

"Good," you reply, and you mean it. Safe was never what you wanted. You wanted this, the intensity, the danger, the absolute certainty that you've found someone who understands the darkness in you because they carry the same darkness themselves.

He pulls you closer, and you settle against him, your heartbeat gradually slowing to match his. Outside, the world continues its violent turn, but here, in this moment, you've found something like peace.

Even if it's the peace of two weapons finally finding their sheath.

[al3xandraareads]

My Girl

Attack On Titan (Eren Yeager x reader)

content: fluff

synopsis: A soft, intimate look at Eren Yeager completely wrapped around you spoiling you, protecting you, and loving you without hesitation. What starts as a quiet day together turns into a heartfelt reminder that to him, you’re everything.

You're curled up in Eren's bed, wearing one of his hoodies that's three sizes too big, trying to focus on your psychology textbook. The frat house is relatively quiet for once it's Tuesday afternoon, and most of the guys are either in class or at practice.

The door opens and Eren walks in, and the smile that breaks across his face when he sees you makes your heart skip.

"Hey, baby." He drops his backpack and immediately comes over, leaning down to kiss you. "Missed you."

"I saw you three hours ago," you laugh against his lips.

"Yeah, three hours too long." He kisses you again, deeper this time, his hand sliding into your hair. When he finally pulls back, there's that look in his eyes, the one that still makes you shy even after three months together. Like you're the only thing in the world that matters.

"Oh, before I forget—" He pulls out a small bag from your favorite bookstore downtown from behind his back .

"Eren..." You recognize the logo immediately. "What did you do?"

"That book you mentioned last week? The one you said you wanted to read but it wasn't at the library yet?" He hands you the bag with a grin that's almost sheepish. "They had a signed first edition."

You open the bag and sure enough it's the book you'd mentioned in passing, signed by the author. Your eyes widen. "Eren, this must have cost—"

"Don't care." He sits next to you, pulling you into his lap like it's the most natural thing in the world. "You wanted it. Besides, you should see your face right now. Totally worth it."

"You can't keep buying me things every time I mention something I like," you protest, even as you're already flipping through the book with barely contained excitement.

"Watch me." He presses a kiss to your temple. "You're my girl. I'm gonna spoil you. Get used to it."

It's not just the gifts, though those come frequently your favorite coffee appearing on your desk during study sessions, flowers delivered to your dorm, that sweater you'd looked at for two seconds too long suddenly in your closet. It's everything else too. The way he always saves you a seat. How he memorized your schedule so he knows when to text you good luck before exams. The fact that he keeps your favorite snacks in his room and remembers that you like your tea with honey, not sugar.

"How was practice?" you ask, settling back against his chest.

"Good. Kicked Jean's ass in drills." His arms wrap around your waist, holding you close. "But I kept thinking about you the whole time. Connie said I was distracted."

"You're always distracted," you tease.

"Yeah, by you." He nuzzles into your neck. "Can't help it. You're way more interesting than football."

There's a knock on the door before it swings open. Jean walks in, takes one look at you two, and groans.

"Jesus Christ, Yeager, you're supposed to help me with the history project, not whatever this is."

"This is me spending time with my girlfriend," Eren says, not moving an inch. "Which is more important than your project."

"It's our project, asshole."

You start to move. "I can go—"

"No." Eren's arms tighten around you. "Jean can come back later."

"Dude, you're so fucking whipped," Jean mutters, but there's no real heat in it. "Remember when you used to be fun?"

"I'm plenty fun. Just ask her." Eren grins and you feel your face heat up.

"Gross. I'm leaving." Jean points at Eren. "Library, seven PM, don't be late." He pauses at the door. "Also, Connie's planning another party this weekend and he's already worried you're gonna spend the whole time following her around like a puppy again."

"That's because I will," Eren says without hesitation. "Problem?"

Jean just shakes his head and leaves.

"You know they have a point," you say quietly. "You don't have to spend all your time with me. I don't want you to miss out on—"

Eren turns you around in his lap so you're facing him, his green eyes intense. "Listen to me. I don't give a fuck what they say. You're not keeping me from anything. You're the best part of my day, every day. Got it?"

You nod, and he kisses you again, soft and sweet.

"Besides," he murmurs against your lips, "I like following you around. Making sure you're okay. Making sure everyone knows you're mine."

As if on cue, your phone buzzes. You glance at it and frown slightly. "It's this guy from my econ class. He keeps asking if I want to study together."

Eren's whole demeanor shifts. "What guy?"

"Just someone from class. I've told him I have a boyfriend but he keeps—"

"Show me."

You hand him your phone and watch as his jaw clenches reading the messages. They're not explicitly flirty, but the intention is clear enough.

"Yeah, that's not happening." Eren's voice has gone flat in that way that means he's pissed. "What's his name?"

"Eren—"

"Baby, I'm not gonna do anything crazy. I just want to know who thinks it's okay to keep texting my girlfriend after she's told him no." He hands your phone back and pulls out his own. "I'm picking you up from that class from now on."

"You don't have to—"

"I want to." He cups your face, and despite the edge in his voice, his touch is gentle. "I want everyone to know you're taken. That you're mine. Is that okay?"

The possessiveness should probably bother you, but it doesn't not when it comes with so much care. Not when you can see that underneath the intensity, he just wants to protect you.

"Yeah," you whisper. "That's okay."

His expression softens immediately. "Good. Because I'm not sharing you. Not even a little bit."

Later that evening, you're both in the kitchen. You'd come down to make tea and Eren had followed he always follows. You're waiting for the water to boil when Connie and Armin walk in.

"Oh good, you're both here," Connie says. "We need to talk about the party this weekend. Eren, you're still helping set up, right?"

"Yeah, but I'm not staying late. Taking her home when she's ready to go."

"Called it," Connie says to Armin. "You owe me twenty bucks."

"We didn't bet—"

"We should have. It's easy money at this point." Connie grins at you. "No offense, but you've completely domesticated him. It's hilarious."

"I'm not domesticated," Eren protests.

"Dude, you literally meal-prepped last Sunday so you could bring her lunch between classes," Armin points out. "You color-coded the containers."

"That's not… that's just being organized."

"You've never been organized a day in your life," Connie laughs. "Not until her."

Eren flips them off, but you can see the tips of his ears turning red. You stand on your toes and kiss his cheek.

"I think it's sweet," you murmur.

"See? She appreciates me." Eren pulls you against his side. "Unlike you assholes."

"We appreciate you," Armin says. "We're just not used to you being so... devoted."

"Yeah, well, get used to it." Eren looks down at you, and there's that expression again the one that makes you feel like the center of his universe. "She's it for me."

Your breath catches. You've been together three months and he's already talking like…

"I mean it," he says, quieter now, just for you. "I know it's fast, but I've never been more sure of anything. You're everything."

Connie makes a gagging sound. "Okay, we're leaving before this gets more disgustingly cute. Come on, Armin."

When they're gone, you turn in Eren's arms, wrapping yours around his neck. "You're everything to me too," you whisper.

He kisses you deeply, walking you backward until you're pressed against the counter. "Say it again," he murmurs against your lips.

"You're everything."

"Fuck, I love you." The words spill out of him, urgent and honest. "I know we haven't said it yet, but I do. I love you so fucking much."

"I love you too," you breathe, and his smile is brilliant.

"Yeah?" He picks you up, setting you on the counter so you're eye level. "Say it again."

"I love you, Eren Yeager."

"Best thing I've ever heard." He kisses you again, and again, and again. "My girl. Mine."

"Yours," you agree, and you've never meant anything more.

The kettle starts whistling, forgotten, but neither of you moves. You're too wrapped up in each other, in this moment, in the overwhelming certainty that this he is exactly where you're meant to be.

"Tea's ready," you eventually murmur.

"Don't care." Eren's forehead rests against yours. "Just want to stay like this."

"We can do both."

"Okay, but I'm making it. You just sit there and look pretty."

"Eren—"

"Let me take care of you, baby. Please." His eyes are so earnest, so full of adoration. "It's my favorite thing to do."

So you let him. You let him make your tea exactly how you like it, let him carry you back upstairs, let him tuck you into his bed and hold you close while you read your new book and he pretends to study but mostly just watches you with that soft, infatuated expression.

And when you fall asleep against his chest, you hear him whisper, "Gonna marry you someday. Gonna spend the rest of my life making you this happy."

You smile against his shirt, already half-dreaming, and think that sounds perfect.

[al3xandraareads]

Spoiled Rotten

content: smut!!

synopsis: Valentine’s Day with Gojo Satoru was never going to be subtle. From extravagant gifts and stolen kisses to a night that blurs the line between passion and devotion, he makes it clear that loving you is his favorite indulgence. As the day unfolds, you’re reminded that behind his teasing grin and overwhelming confidence is someone who loves fiercely, deeply, and without hesitation.

a/n: i’m thinking of maybe doing a little series leading up to valentine’s day… everyday from the 1st-14th it’s how different characters would spend their valentine’s day with you/what they’d do… is this a stupid idea 😭 ANYWAYS enjoy the story!!!

The morning light filtered through the curtains of your shared bedroom, casting soft golden rays across the sheets. You stirred slowly, consciousness returning in gentle waves as you became aware of the warmth beside you or rather, the lack of it. Your hand reached across the mattress, finding only cool fabric where Gojo should have been.

Before you could fully process his absence, the bedroom door opened, and there he was.

Gojo Satoru, the strongest sorcerer alive, was carrying a tray laden with breakfast, his signature blindfold gone showing off his blue eyes, white hair perfectly tousled in that effortlessly attractive way that made your heart skip. He was wearing gray sweatpants and a fitted black t-shirt, and the smile on his face was absolutely radiant.

"Good morning, beautiful," he sang out, his voice warm and playful. "Happy Valentine's Day."

You pushed yourself up against the headboard, blinking in surprise as he carefully set the tray across your lap. The spread was impressive, fluffy pancakes arranged in a heart shape, fresh strawberries, whipped cream, perfectly cooked bacon, and a glass of fresh orange juice. There was even a single red rose in a small vase.

"Satoru, you made all this?" you asked, genuinely shocked. While Gojo was capable of many things, cooking wasn't typically his strong suit.

"Well," he said, sliding onto the bed beside you, "I may have had some help from a certain bakery downtown, but I arranged it all myself. That counts for something, right?" He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. "Only the best for my girl on Valentine's Day."

Your chest tightened with affection as you turned to look at him. Seven months together, and he still managed to surprise you. Seven months of living together, of falling asleep beside him and waking up to his presence, and somehow the novelty hadn't worn off. If anything, you'd only fallen deeper.

"This is so sweet," you murmured, reaching up to cup his cheek. "Thank you."

"Oh, that's not all," Gojo said, his grin widening into something almost mischievous. He reached behind him and produced a large gift bag and an enormous bouquet of roses, at least three dozen, in varying shades of red, pink, and white. "Open it."

You set down the fork you'd just picked up, eyeing the bag with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. "Satoru..."

"Just open it!" he insisted, practically bouncing with excitement like an overgrown puppy.

With a small laugh, you reached into the bag and pulled out the first item, a long, elegant box. Your breath caught as you opened it to reveal a stunning necklace, a delicate platinum chain with a pendant featuring a brilliant sapphire surrounded by small diamonds. The craftsmanship was exquisite, and you didn't need to be an expert to know this was expensive.

"Satoru," you breathed, "this is gorgeous, but—"

"Keep going," he interrupted, clearly pleased with your reaction.

You set the necklace box aside carefully and reached into the bag again. This time you pulled out another box this one containing a matching bracelet. Then another box with a pair of elegant earrings. Your eyes widened as you continued to unpack: a beautiful designer dress in your favorite color, a pair of luxury heels you'd admired in a shop window weeks ago but would never have bought for yourself, and finally, a soft cashmere sweater.

"Satoru!" you exclaimed, looking from the pile of gifts to your boyfriend, who was watching you with undisguised delight. "This is too much! You spent way too much money on all this!"

He waved a dismissive hand, leaning back against the headboard with that confident, carefree attitude that was so quintessentially him. "Money means nothing to me, you know that. Besides, I'm the strongest sorcerer in the world, I think I can afford to spoil my girlfriend on Valentine's Day."

"But this is..." you gestured helplessly at the gifts, "this is excessive! The jewelry alone must have cost—"

"Ah, ah, ah," Gojo interrupted, pressing a finger to your lips. "No talking about costs. Not today. Today is about celebrating you, celebrating us." He removed his finger, replacing it with his lips in a soft, sweet kiss. When he pulled back, his expression had softened into something more sincere. "You deserve to be spoiled. You deserve everything. Let me do this for you."

You felt your resistance crumbling under the weight of his affection and sincerity. "You're impossible," you said, but you were smiling.

"Impossibly charming? Impossibly handsome? Impossibly in love with you?" He waggled his eyebrows, making you laugh.

"All of the above," you admitted, leaning in to kiss him properly this time. His hand came up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair as he deepened the kiss for a moment before pulling away.

"Eat your breakfast before it gets cold," he instructed, nodding toward the tray. "We have a big day ahead of us."

"We do?" you asked, picking up your fork again.

"Mhmm. I've got the whole day planned out. After breakfast, I thought we could take a walk through the city, maybe do some shopping if you want. Then we have dinner reservations at Mizuki's at seven."

Your eyes widened. "Mizuki's? Satoru, that place is impossible to get into! People book months in advance!"

He shrugged, that cocky grin returning. "What can I say? Being me has its perks. Plus, I may have pulled a few strings." He reached over and stole a strawberry from your plate, popping it into his mouth. "Wear that new dress I got you. I want to show off my beautiful girlfriend."

You shook your head, but you couldn't stop smiling. "You're really going all out today, aren't you?"

"It's our first Valentine's Day together," he said, his voice taking on a more tender quality. "Our first Valentine's Day living together, sharing a life together. That's worth celebrating, don't you think?"

Your heart swelled with emotion. For all his playfulness and bravado, Gojo had a way of saying exactly the right thing when it mattered. "Yeah," you agreed softly. "It really is."

He watched you eat for a moment, his expression content, before speaking again. "You know, seven months ago, I never imagined I could be this happy. I never thought I'd find someone who could keep up with me, who could see past the whole 'strongest sorcerer' thing and just... see me."

You set down your fork and turned to face him fully, taking his hand in yours. "Satoru..."

"I love you," he said simply, removing his sunglasses so you could see his brilliant blue eyes, those eyes that could see everything, now focused entirely on you. "I love you so much it scares me sometimes. But it's a good kind of scared, you know?"

"I know," you whispered, squeezing his hand. "I love you too. So much."

He leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss that was deeper, more intense than before. When you finally broke apart, both slightly breathless, he rested his forehead against yours.

"Finish your breakfast," he murmured. "We've got a whole day of me spoiling you ahead."

---

The day passed in a blur of happiness. True to his word, Gojo took you shopping, insisting on buying you anything that caught your eye, despite your protests. You walked through the city hand in hand, stopping at a café for coffee, visiting a bookstore where he bought you a stack of novels you'd mentioned wanting to read. He was attentive and affectionate, stealing kisses when you least expected them, wrapping his arm around your waist, whispering sweet and sometimes scandalous things in your ear that made you blush and swat at him playfully.

By the time evening rolled around and you were getting ready for dinner, you felt thoroughly loved and appreciated. You stood in front of the mirror, smoothing down the dress Gojo had bought you. It fit perfectly, hugging your curves in all the right places, the color complementing your skin tone beautifully. You'd paired it with the heels he'd given you and the jewelry, and as you fastened the sapphire necklace around your neck, you had to admit you looked good.

"Wow," came Gojo's voice from the doorway, and you turned to see him leaning against the frame, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit with a white shirt, no tie. He'd forgone the blindfold and sunglasses entirely, his striking blue eyes roaming over you with undisguised appreciation. "You look absolutely stunning."

"You clean up pretty well yourself," you said, taking in his appearance. He always looked good, but there was something about Gojo in a suit that was particularly devastating.

He crossed the room in a few long strides, his hands finding your waist as he pulled you close. "I'm the luckiest man alive," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your neck, just below your ear. "Getting to call you mine."

You shivered at the contact, your hands coming up to rest on his chest. "We should go, or we'll be late for our reservation."

"Let them wait," he said against your skin, his lips trailing along your jaw. "I'm enjoying this."

"Satoru," you laughed, even as your body responded to his touch. "You're the one who made these impossible to get reservations."

He sighed dramatically, pulling back to look at you. "Fine, fine. But only because I want to wine and dine you properly before I get you home and out of this dress."

Heat flooded through you at his words, at the promise in his eyes. "Is that so?"

"Oh, absolutely," he said, his voice dropping to a lower register that sent tingles down your spine. "I've been thinking about it all day. But first, dinner."

---

Mizuki's was everything you'd heard it would be and more. The restaurant was elegant and intimate, with soft lighting, crisp white tablecloths, and a view of the city lights through floor-to-ceiling windows. You were led to a private corner table, secluded enough to feel like you were in your own world.

Gojo held your chair out for you, ever the gentleman when he wanted to be, before taking his seat across from you. In the candlelight, with his white hair and blue eyes, he looked almost ethereal, and you found yourself staring.

“See something you like?" he teased, catching you looking.

"Maybe," you said, trying to sound casual even as you felt your cheeks warm.

The waiter appeared with menus and a wine list, and Gojo ordered a bottle of expensive wine without even looking at the price. As you perused the menu, you felt his foot brush against yours under the table a light, teasing touch that seemed innocent enough but sent a clear message.

"Everything looks amazing," you said, trying to focus on the menu and not on the way Gojo was looking at you over the top of his own menu, his eyes glinting with mischief.

"It does," he agreed, but he wasn't looking at the menu anymore. He was looking at you.

You ordered your meals, and as you waited for the food to arrive, Gojo reached across the table to take your hand, his thumb tracing circles on your palm. It was a simple gesture, but combined with the intensity of his gaze, it felt charged with meaning.

"Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?" he asked.

"Only about five times," you said with a smile.

"Well, it bears repeating. You're absolutely breathtaking." His thumb continued its lazy circles, and you felt your pulse quicken. "That dress is perfect on you. Though I have to admit, I'm already thinking about taking it off you later."

"Satoru," you said, glancing around to make sure no one had overheard, but you couldn't help the smile that tugged at your lips.

"What? I'm just being honest." He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping. "I've been patient all day, haven't I? Taking you shopping, being a perfect gentleman. But tonight..." He paused, his eyes darkening with intent. "Tonight, I'm going to show you exactly how much I love you."

Your breath caught, heat pooling low in your belly at his words. "Is that a promise?"

"Oh, baby, that's a guarantee."

The food arrived, providing a momentary distraction, but the tension between you only continued to build throughout the meal. Every glance, every casual touch of his hand against yours, every low comment whispered across the table, it all added to the anticipation building between you.

Gojo was a master at this, you'd learned over the past seven months. He knew exactly how to wind you up, how to make you want him with just a look or a carefully chosen word. And tonight, he was pulling out all the stops.

"How's your food?" he asked at one point, his tone innocent, but his foot had found its way to your calf under the table, sliding up slowly.

"It's... it's good," you managed, trying to maintain your composure.

"Just good?" He tilted his head, a small smirk playing at his lips. "We'll have to do better than that when we get home."

You nearly choked on your wine, and his smirk widened into a full grin.

By the time dessert arrived a decadent chocolate creation that you were meant to share you were wound so tight you could barely think straight. Gojo fed you a bite from his fork, his eyes never leaving yours, and when a small bit of chocolate ended up at the corner of your mouth, he reached across to wipe it away with his thumb, then brought that thumb to his own mouth, sucking it clean.

"Delicious," he murmured, and you knew he wasn't talking about the dessert.

"You're terrible," you said, but your voice came out breathier than you intended.

"You love it," he countered, and he was right.

When the check finally came, Gojo paid without even looking at it, and then he was standing, offering you his hand. "Ready to go home?"

You took his hand, letting him pull you to your feet. "More than ready."

The car ride home was torture in the best way. Gojo kept one hand on the wheel and the other on your thigh, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin, occasionally sliding higher before retreating. Every touch was deliberate, calculated to drive you crazy, and it was working.

"Satoru," you breathed, your hand covering his to still its movement.

"Yes, baby?" He glanced at you, all innocence, but you could see the heat in his eyes.

"You're driving me insane."

"Good," he said simply, his hand flexing under yours. "That's the plan."

When you finally pulled into your building's parking garage, you could barely contain yourself. Gojo came around to open your door, and the moment you were out of the car, he was on you, pressing you back against the vehicle, his mouth finding yours in a searing kiss.

You melted into him, your hands fisting in his jacket as his body pressed against yours. He kissed you like he was starving for it, like the entire evening had been leading to this moment, and you kissed him back with equal fervour.

"Upstairs," you gasped when he finally pulled back, both of you breathing hard. "Now."

He grinned, that wild, excited grin that made him look younger, more carefree. "Your wish is my command."

The elevator ride up to your floor was a blur of heated kisses and wandering hands. Gojo had you pressed against the wall, his mouth on your neck, your hands in his hair, and you were grateful no one else got on. By the time you reached your floor, your lipstick was smudged, his hair was a mess, and you were both flushed with desire.

He fumbled with the keys at your door, which was almost comical given his usual perfect coordination, but then you were inside, and he was kicking the door shut behind you, his hands already reaching for the zipper of your dress.

"I've been wanting to do this all night," he murmured against your lips, slowly dragging the zipper down. "Watching you in this dress, knowing I was going to be the one to take it off you..."

The dress pooled at your feet, leaving you in just your lingerie and heels. Gojo stepped back, his eyes roaming over you with such intensity that you felt it like a physical touch.

"God, you're perfect," he breathed. "So fucking perfect."

You reached for him, pulling him back to you, your fingers working at the buttons of his shirt. "Your turn."

He helped you, shrugging out of his jacket and shirt, revealing the lean, muscled body you'd explored countless times but never tired of seeing. Your hands ran over his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin, the steady beat of his heart.

"Bedroom," he said, but instead of leading you there, he swept you up into his arms, making you laugh in surprise.

"Satoru! Put me down!"

"Not a chance," he said, carrying you down the hall to your bedroom. "I'm doing this right."

He laid you down on the bed with surprising gentleness, given the urgency of moments before, and then he was covering your body with his, his weight a welcome pressure. His mouth found yours again, kissing you deeply, thoroughly, while his hands explored your body, relearning curves he already knew by heart.

"I love you," he whispered against your lips, his hand cupping your face with such tenderness it made your chest ache. "I love you so much."

"I love you too," you whispered back, your hands sliding into his hair, holding him close. "Show me."

Something shifted in his expression, the playfulness giving way to something deeper, more intense. "I will," he promised. "I'm going to make you feel so good, baby. Going to worship every inch of you."

He kissed his way down your neck, pausing to suck gently at your pulse point, marking you. His hands slid behind your back, unclasping your bra with practiced ease, and then his mouth was on your breast, his tongue circling your nipple before taking it into his mouth.

You arched into him, your fingers tightening in his hair, a soft moan escaping your lips. He lavished attention on your breasts, his hands and mouth working in tandem, until you were squirming beneath him, desperate for more.

"Patience," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the valley between your breasts. "I'm taking my time with you tonight."

His mouth continued its journey downward, kissing and licking a path across your stomach, his hands sliding your panties down your legs. He settled between your thighs, his breath hot against your most sensitive skin, and looked up at you with those devastating blue eyes.

"You're so beautiful like this," he said, his voice rough with desire. "Spread out for me, wanting me. Do you know what you do to me?"

Before you could answer, his mouth was on you, and coherent thought became impossible. He was skilled with his tongue, knowing exactly how to touch you, where to focus his attention. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you open for him as he worked you higher and higher.

"Satoru," you gasped, your hips rolling against his mouth. "Oh god, Satoru..."

He hummed against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your body. One of his hands left your thigh, and then his fingers were joining his tongue, sliding inside you, curling to hit that perfect spot that made you see stars.

"That's it, baby," he encouraged, pulling back just enough to speak. "Let me hear you. Want to hear how good I make you feel."

You were beyond caring about being quiet, beyond anything except the pleasure he was giving you. Your hands fisted in the sheets, your back arching as he brought you closer and closer to the edge.

"Cum for me," he commanded, his voice sending shivers through you. "Cum on my tongue, beautiful. Let go."

His mouth sealed over your clit, sucking gently, and that was all it took. You came with a cry of his name, pleasure washing over you in waves, your body trembling with the intensity of it. He worked you through it, his movements gentling as you came down, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs.

When he finally crawled back up your body, his lips were glistening, and he was grinning like he'd just won a prize. "You taste amazing," he said, kissing you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. "Could do that for hours."

You were still catching your breath, but you managed to reach between your bodies, palming him through his pants. He was hard, straining against the fabric, and he groaned at your touch.

"Your turn," you said, but he caught your hand, bringing it to his lips.

"Later," he said. "Right now, I need to be inside you. Need to feel you."

He made quick work of his remaining clothes, and then he was settling between your thighs again, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. He paused there, one hand braced beside your head, the other cupping your face.

"I love you," he said again, his eyes locked on yours. "You're everything to me. Everything."

"I love you too," you whispered, wrapping your legs around his waist. "Please, Satoru. Need you."

He pushed inside slowly, both of you groaning at the sensation. No matter how many times you'd done this, it always felt incredible, the stretch and fullness of him, the way your bodies fit together perfectly.

"Fuck," he breathed, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. "You feel so good. So perfect. Made for me."

He started to move, long, slow strokes that had you clinging to him, your nails digging into his shoulders. He kept his eyes on yours, maintaining that intimate connection, and it was almost overwhelming, the physical pleasure combined with the emotional intensity of his gaze.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured, punctuating his words with kisses. "So perfect. Love watching you like this, love feeling you around me. Could stay here forever."

"Faster," you pleaded, needing more. "Please, Satoru, faster."

He obliged, picking up his pace, his hips snapping against yours with more force. The hand that had been cupping your face slid down to grip your hip, angling you so he could go deeper, and you cried out at the sensation.

"That's it," he encouraged, his voice strained with his own pleasure. "Take it, baby. Take all of me. You're doing so good, feel so fucking good."

His praise washed over you, adding to the pleasure building inside you again. He shifted slightly, changing the angle, and suddenly he was hitting that perfect spot inside you with every thrust.

"Oh god," you gasped, your head falling back against the pillow. "Right there, don't stop, please don't stop—"

"Never," he promised, maintaining that perfect rhythm. "Gonna make you cum again. Want to feel you cum on my cock. Can you do that for me, beautiful? Can you cum for me again?"

One of his hands slid between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit, circling it in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation was too much, pleasure building rapidly, threatening to overwhelm you.

"Look at me," he commanded, and your eyes snapped to his. "Want to see you when you cum. Want to watch you fall apart for me."

The intensity in his gaze, combined with the relentless pleasure he was giving you, pushed you over the edge. You came with a cry, your body clenching around him, and he groaned, his rhythm faltering.

"Fuck, yes, just like that," he gasped, his movements becoming more erratic. "So good, you're so good, I'm—"

He buried himself deep, his body going taut as he found his own release, your name falling from his lips like a prayer. You held him through it, your hands stroking his back, feeling the tremors that ran through him.

He collapsed on top of you, careful not to put his full weight on you, his face buried in your neck. You could feel his heart racing against your chest, matching the rapid beat of your own.

"I love you," he murmured against your skin, pressing soft kisses there. "Love you so much. Best Valentine's Day ever."

You laughed softly, your fingers carding through his sweat-dampened hair. "It's not over yet. Still have a few hours left."

He lifted his head to look at you, and despite what you'd just done, despite the satisfied exhaustion you could see in his face, there was still heat in his eyes. "Is that an invitation for round two?"

"Maybe," you said, smiling up at him. "After we catch our breath."

He grinned, rolling to the side and pulling you with him so you were tucked against his chest, his arms wrapped securely around you. "Deal. But I'm warning you, I'm nowhere near done with you tonight."

"Good," you said, pressing a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. "Because I'm not done with you either."

You lay there together in comfortable silence for a while, just enjoying the closeness, the intimacy of the moment. His hand traced lazy patterns on your back, and you could feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

"Thank you," you said softly. "For today. For everything. It was perfect."

"You're perfect," he corrected, tilting your chin up so he could kiss you. "And you deserve perfect days. Deserve to be spoiled and loved and cherished. I'm just lucky enough to be the one who gets to do it."

Your eyes stung with sudden tears, overwhelmed by the depth of emotion you felt for this man. "How did I get so lucky?"

"Pretty sure I'm the lucky one," he said, wiping away a tear that had escaped with his thumb. "You put up with me, after all. That's no small feat."

You laughed, the sound watery but genuine. "You're not that bad."

"Liar," he said affectionately. "I'm a handful and you know it."

"Maybe," you conceded. "But you're my handful."

He kissed you again, soft and sweet, and you felt yourself melting into him all over again. When he pulled back, there was a vulnerability in his expression that he rarely showed.

"I mean it, you know," he said quietly. "About being scared. I've never felt this way about anyone before. Never wanted to build a life with someone, never imagined a future that included someone else. But with you... I can see it all. I want it all."

Your heart felt too big for your chest. "I want that too," you whispered. "All of it. With you."

"Good," he said, his smile returning, though his eyes remained serious. "Because you're stuck with me now. No take-backs."

"Wouldn't dream of it," you assured him.

He held you closer, and you felt the last of the tension drain from his body as he relaxed completely. This was your favorite version of Gojo, not the strongest sorcerer, not the confident teacher, but just Satoru, vulnerable and open and completely yours.

"Hey," he said after a moment, his tone shifting back to something more playful. "You know what would make this Valentine's Day even better?"

"What's that?"

"Round two," he said, already rolling you onto your back, his body covering yours once more. "And three. And maybe four, if you're up for it."

You laughed, wrapping your arms around his neck. "You're insatiable."

"Only for you," he said, and then he was kissing you again, and you were lost in him once more.

The night stretched on, filled with whispered words of love, shared pleasure, and the kind of intimacy that went beyond the physical. By the time you finally fell asleep, wrapped in each other's arms as the first light of dawn began to creep through the windows, you knew without a doubt that this was exactly where you were meant to be.

With Gojo Satoru, every day felt like Valentine's Day, full of love, laughter, and the promise of forever.

[al3xandraareads]

The Morning After ( Part 2 of His Kind of Relief)

content: fluff

synopsis: Waking up beside you was never part of the plan. Haunted by guilt and the fear that he crossed a line, Abbacchio struggles with the aftermath of a night driven by anger and desire. But when honesty finally breaks through the walls he’s built, both of you are forced to face the truth.

The morning light filters through the curtains in shades of pale gold, and Abbacchio wakes to the unfamiliar weight of another person in his bed.

For a moment, he doesn't move. Doesn't breathe. Just stares at the ceiling and tries to process the fact that you're herecurled on your side facing away from him, sheet tangled around your waist, your bare shoulder rising and falling with each slow breath.

His body aches in that pleasant, used way that comes after good sex. But the satisfaction he should feel is buried under something heavier, something that sits in his chest like a stone.

What the fuck did I do?

He turns his head slowly, carefully, to look at you. Your hair is a mess, splayed across his pillow. There are marks on your neck, his marks, purple-red reminders of how rough he'd been, how he'd used you to work out his anger and frustration. He can see a bruise forming on your shoulder where he'd gripped too hard.

The guilt hits him like a punch to the gut.

He'd told himself it didn't mean anything. That it was just stress relief, just two people who couldn't stand each other finally giving in to the tension. But that was bullshit, and he knows it. He's known it for months, even if he's been too much of a coward to admit it.

He likes you. More than likes you, if he's being honest with himself, which he usually tries not to be.

And last night, he'd stormed into your room like you were just a convenient outlet for his rage. He'd fucked you hard and angry, and you'd let him, and now, now you probably think that's all you are to him. An object. A way to blow off steam.

The thought makes him feel sick.

Abbacchio sits up slowly, running a hand through his hair. He should leave. Get out before you wake up and he has to face whatever this is. That's what he's good at, running from things that matter, fucking up anything that could be good.

But he doesn't move. He just sits there, looking at you, memorizing the curve of your spine, the way the morning light catches in your hair.

"I can feel you staring," you mumble, voice rough with sleep.

He freezes. "I wasn't—"

"You were." You shift, rolling onto your back to look up at him. Your eyes are still heavy with sleep, but there's something guarded in them. Uncertain. "It's fine. You can go if you want."

The casual dismissal stings more than it should. "That what you want?"

You shrug, and the gesture is too careful, too controlled. "I mean, we both know what this was. You were pissed off, needed to work it out. I get it."

"Do you?"

"Yeah." You sit up too, holding the sheet against your chest. There's a distance in your voice that wasn't there last night, even when you were arguing. "It's not a big deal, Abbacchio. We're adults. We can fuck and move on."

He should agree. Should take the out you're offering him. But the words stick in his throat because that's not what he wants, and the idea of you thinking that's all it was—

"What if I don't want to move on?"

The words come out rougher than he intended, almost angry, and you blink at him in surprise.

"What?"

Abbacchio looks away, jaw tight. This is why he doesn't do this. Doesn't let people in. He's shit at it, always has been. "Last night. I shouldn't have—" He stops, forces himself to continue. "I came in here like you were just... like it didn't matter. But it does. You do."

The silence stretches between you, heavy and uncertain.

"I don't understand," you say quietly.

"I like you, alright?" The admission comes out harsh, defensive. "I have for a while. And last night I treated you like you were nothing, like you were just there for me to use, and that's not—" He runs a hand over his face. "Fuck. I'm not good at this."

"You... like me?" You sound genuinely confused, and he can't blame you. He's spent months being an asshole to you, arguing over everything, keeping you at arm's length.

"Yeah. I do. Even though you're stubborn and reckless and you never listen to orders—"

"Wow, really selling it," you interrupt, but there's something lighter in your voice now.

"—and you drive me fucking crazy," he continues, finally looking at you again. "But not in the way I pretended. I was scared that if I admitted it, if I let myself feel it, something would happen. We'd lose you on a mission, or you'd realize I'm not worth the trouble, or—" He stops himself. "Doesn't matter. Point is, last night wasn't just about the mission. And I'm sorry if I made you feel like it was."

You're quiet for a long moment, studying his face. He forces himself not to look away, even though every instinct is screaming at him to shut down, to put the walls back up.

"I thought you hated me," you finally say.

"I know."

"Everyone else could tell, apparently. That we—that there was something. But I just thought you couldn't stand me."

"I couldn't," he admits. "Because every time I looked at you, I wanted..." He trails off, shaking his head. "Easier to fight with you than deal with that."

You laugh, soft and a little disbelieving. "We're both idiots."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." You reach out, fingers brushing against his hand. "Because I like you too. Have for months. Even when you're being a complete asshole."

Something in his chest loosens, that stone weight lifting just slightly. "I'm always an asshole."

"I know." You smile, and it's tentative but real. "But you're my asshole."

"That's the worst thing you've ever said."

"Shut up." You move closer, and he lets you, lets you press against his side. "So what now?"

Abbacchio wraps an arm around you, careful of the bruises he left. "I don't know. I'm not good at... this. Relationships, feelings, any of it."

"Good thing I'm patient."

"You're really not."

"Okay, fine. But I'm willing to try if you are." You tilt your head to look up at him. "And maybe next time you're stressed after a mission, we can talk about it first? Before the angry sex?"

"The angry sex was your idea too," he points out.

"I'm not saying I didn't enjoy it." Your smile turns wicked. "Just that maybe we could add some variety. Angry sex, makeup sex, regular sex..."

Despite everything, the guilt, the fear, the vulnerability he's never comfortable with Abbacchio finds himself smiling. "You've really thought this through."

"I've had months of sexual tension to think about it."

He pulls you closer, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. It's more tender than anything he did last night, more honest than any of the arguments you've had. "We're going to be terrible at this."

"Probably," you agree. "But at least everyone else will finally stop making comments about the sexual tension."

"They're going to be insufferable."

"Absolutely." You lace your fingers through his. "Worth it though."

And looking down at you, at the marks he left on your skin, at the way you're looking at him like he's not the fuck-up he knows he is, like maybe he's worth taking a chance on Abbacchio thinks you might be right.

It's terrifying. But maybe, just maybe, it's worth it.

"Stay," he says quietly. "Today. Just... stay."

You squeeze his hand. "I'm not going anywhere."

And for the first time in longer than he can remember, Abbacchio lets himself believe it.

[al3xandraareads]

Out of My Comfort Zone

Attack On Titan (Eren Yeager x Reader)

content: fluff

synopsis: You’re not a party person. Eren Yeager very much is. Dragged to a frat party you never wanted to attend, you end up catching the attention of the one guy everyone talks about loud, intense, and way too charming for his own good.

a/n: i’m OBSESSED with fratboy!eren yeager so expect a lot of these fics coming soon 👀

You shouldn't be here.

That's the thought running through your mind on repeat as you press yourself against the wall of Shinzou House, trying to make yourself as small as possible while the party rages around you. The music is too loud, there are too many people, and you're pretty sure someone just spilled beer on your shoes.

"You okay?" Mikasa appears at your side, her dark eyes concerned. She's the only reason you're here at all, your best friend since freshman year, who'd somehow convinced you that coming to her adoptive brother's frat party would be "fun" and "good for you."

"I'm fine," you lie, raising your voice to be heard over the music. "Just... taking it all in."

Mikasa doesn't look convinced, but before she can say anything, a voice cuts through the noise.

"Mikasa! There you are!"

You look up to see a guy making his way through the crowd toward you. He's tall, with dark brown hair pulled back in a messy bun, intense green eyes, and a smile that's probably gotten him out of more trouble than you can imagine. He's wearing a Shinzou House tank top that shows off his arms, and there's an energy about him, something magnetic and a little overwhelming.

This must be Eren. Mikasa's told you about him, but she failed to mention that he looks like that.

"Eren," Mikasa says, and there's warmth in her usually stoic voice. "This is my friend. The one I told you about."

Eren's eyes shift to you, and the intensity of his gaze makes you want to melt into the wall behind you. His smile widens, becoming something warmer, more interested.

"Hey," he says, and even that one word sounds like it means something more. "I'm Eren. Mikasa's mentioned you."

"Hi," you manage, your voice coming out smaller than you intended. "Nice to meet you."

"You too." He's still looking at you, really looking, in a way that makes your cheeks heat. "I'm glad you came. Mikasa said you weren't really a party person."

"I'm... not really," you admit, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear nervously. "But Mikasa insisted."

"Good." Eren leans against the wall next to you, close enough that you can smell his cologne, something woodsy and warm. "Because now I get to meet you. Can I get you a drink? We've got pretty much everything."

"Oh, um, I'm okay—"

"She'll have whatever's not too strong," Mikasa interjects, giving Eren a look that you can't quite decipher. "And Eren, don't—"

"Don't what?" Eren's grin is innocent, but his eyes are sparkling with mischief. "I'm just being a good host."

Before you can protest, he's disappeared into the crowd, leaving you alone with Mikasa.

"I'm sorry," Mikasa says immediately. "He's... a lot. If he makes you uncomfortable, just tell me and I'll—"

"No, it's fine," you say quickly, even though your heart is racing. "He seems nice."

Mikasa gives you a knowing look. "He's interested in you. I can tell.”

"What? No, he's just being friendly—"

"Trust me. I've known Eren my whole life. That's not his 'just being friendly' face."

Before you can process that information, Eren's back, holding two red cups. He hands you one with a smile that should be illegal.

"It's just punch," he assures you. "Light on the alcohol. Promise."

You take it, your fingers brushing against his, and you swear he holds the contact for a second longer than necessary. "Thanks."

"So," Eren says, settling back against the wall next to you, "Mikasa tells me you're a literature major?"

You blink, surprised he knows that. "Yeah. How did you—"

"I asked about you," he says simply, like it's the most natural thing in the world. "Wanted to know more about Mikasa's mysterious friend who never comes to parties."

Your cheeks are definitely red now. "I'm not mysterious. Just... not really into the party scene."

"That's fair. Not everyone is." He takes a sip of his drink, those green eyes never leaving your face. "But I'm glad you made an exception tonight. What made you change your mind?"

"Mikasa can be very persuasive."

"She can be," Eren agrees, grinning. "But between you and me, I think she had an ulterior motive."

"What do you mean?"

"I've been asking about you for weeks," he admits, and there's something almost vulnerable in his expression. "Every time Mikasa mentioned hanging out with you, I'd ask if you were coming to the next party. She finally got tired of it and dragged you here herself."

You don't know what to say to that. Your brain has short-circuited somewhere between "asking about you for weeks" and the way he's looking at you right now.

"Eren!" A blonde guy appears, adjusting his glasses nervously. "The keg stand, people are asking if you're still doing it."

Eren's expression shifts, that intensity focusing on something else for a moment. "Yeah, Armin. I'm doing it. I told everyone I would."

"You're going to hurt yourself," Armin says, but he sounds resigned, like he's had this argument before.

"I'll be fine." Eren looks back at you, and his smile returns. "You should come watch. I'm about to break a three-year record."

"I don't—"

"Come on," he says, and there's something almost pleading in his voice. "I could use a good luck charm."

"Eren," Mikasa warns, but there's no real heat in it.

"Please?" Eren's looking at you with those impossibly green eyes, and you feel your resolve crumbling. "I promise it'll be impressive. And if it's not, you can make fun of me for it later."

"I don't think—"

"Great!" He takes your hand, actually takes your hand and starts leading you through the crowd. Your heart is hammering so hard you're sure he can feel your pulse. "You're going to love this."

The crowd around the keg is massive. People are chanting, phones are out recording, and you can feel the energy crackling in the air. Eren positions you near the front, making sure you have a good view, before turning to face the keg.

"This is insane," you mutter to Mikasa, who's appeared at your side again.

"That's Eren," she says, but there's fondness in her voice. "When he decides he's going to do something, nothing stops him."

A tall guy with light hair, Reiner, you think you hear someone call him, and a lanky dark-haired guy take position on either side of the keg. Eren cracks his knuckles, rolls his shoulders, and then looks directly at you.

"This one's for you," he says, loud enough for you to hear over the crowd, and your face goes nuclear.

"Oh my god," you whisper.

"Told you," Mikasa murmurs.

Then Eren's upside down, and the crowd is roaring, and you can't look away. There's something almost hypnotic about the way he holds himself, the sheer determination in every line of his body. His arms are shaking with effort, his core tight, but he doesn't stop.

"Two minutes!" someone shouts.

"Three minutes!"

"Three forty-seven! He tied it!"

The crowd is going insane, but Eren keeps going. His face is red, his muscles trembling, but there's something in his expression that same intensity you saw when he was looking at you, now focused entirely on this goal.

"Three fifty-two!"

They lower him down, and he stumbles slightly, catching himself. His chest is heaving, his hair has come loose from the bun, and he's grinning like he just conquered the world. The crowd is chanting his name, people are clapping him on the back, but his eyes find yours immediately.

He pushes through the crowd until he's standing in front of you, still breathing hard, that triumphant smile on his face.

"So?" he asks, slightly breathless. "Was I impressive?"

You can't help but laugh, some of your nervousness melting away in the face of his obvious pride. "That was... actually pretty impressive."

"Yeah?" He leans in slightly, and you can feel the heat radiating off him. "Impressive enough to get you to stay a little longer? Maybe let me actually talk to you without the whole party watching?"

Your heart does a complicated flip in your chest. "I... maybe?"

"I'll take maybe." His grin widens. "Come on. I know a quieter spot. We can actually hear each other talk."

He offers his hand again, and this time, after only a moment's hesitation, you take it.

Mikasa catches your eye as Eren leads you away from the crowd. She's smiling, actually smiling and gives you a small nod of approval.

Eren takes you up a back staircase to what looks like a study room, quieter, with comfortable couches and significantly fewer drunk people. He closes the door, muffling the party noise, and suddenly it's just the two of you.

"Better?" he asks, and there's something softer in his voice now.

"Yeah," you admit. "Much better."

He sits on one of the couches, patting the spot next to him. You sit, leaving a careful distance between you, but he shifts closer, closing the gap.

"So," he says, "now that I've successfully shown off and gotten you alone, I should probably admit something."

"What's that?"

"I'm really bad at this," he says, running a hand through his loose hair. "The whole... talking to someone I actually like thing. Usually I just argue with people or challenge them to stupid competitions."

"You like me?" The words come out before you can stop them, small and disbelieving.

"Yeah." He looks at you, and there's no teasing in his expression now, just honesty. "I really do. Have since Mikasa showed me your Instagram like a month ago. I know that's weird, and I know I'm coming on strong, but I don't really know how to do this any other way. When I want something, I go after it."

Your cheeks are burning, but there's something thrilling about his directness. "I don't... I'm not really good at this either."

"That's okay." He smiles, gentler this time. "We can figure it out together. If you want to, I mean. No pressure. I know parties aren't your thing, and I'm probably overwhelming, and—"

"Eren," you interrupt, surprising yourself with your boldness. "I'd like that. Figuring it out together."

His face lights up in a way that makes your stomach flip. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Can I..." He hesitates, and it's the first time you've seen him uncertain. "Can I kiss you? I've been wanting to since you walked in, but I don't want to push—"

"Yes," you say, before your nerves can talk you out of it.

Eren cups your face gently, his thumb brushing your cheek, and leans in slowly giving you time to change your mind. But you don't want to. You close the distance, and when his lips meet yours, it's soft and sweet and nothing like you expected from someone so intense.

When you pull back, you're both smiling.

"So," Eren says, his forehead resting against yours, "think Mikasa will be mad that I stole you away from her?"

"Probably," you admit. "But I think she planned this."

"Oh, she definitely did." He grins. "She's been telling me for weeks that I needed to actually meet you instead of just asking about you. Said we'd be good together."

"And what do you think?"

Eren pulls back just enough to look at you properly, and there's that intensity again, but warmer now, focused entirely on you in a way that makes you feel seen.

"I think she might be right," he says. "I think you might be exactly what I've been looking for."

And despite the party raging below, despite being completely out of your comfort zone, despite everything you think he might be right too.

[al3xandraareads]

His Kind of Relief

⁺ . ✦ .　⁺ Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure (Abbacchio Leone x reader)⁺ . ✦ .　⁺

content: smut minors dni!!!

synopsis:

a/n: first smut fanfic i’ve written omg!! let me know how it is and maybe i’ll write a part 2 👀

The safe house door slams so hard the walls shake, and you know immediately who's arrived. Heavy footsteps echo through the hallway purposeful, angry, unmistakable. You're lying on your bed, trying to read, but the sound of Abbacchio's return makes your stomach tighten with that familiar mixture of irritation and something else you refuse to name.

The rest of Bucciarati's gang is in the common area. You can hear Mista's concerned voice, Narancia asking questions, but Abbacchio's responses are clipped, dismissive. The mission clearly didn't go well. You should feel sympathy, maybe, but all you feel is that electric anticipation that always precedes your encounters with him.

You don't even get a chance to brace yourself.

Your door flies open, no knock, no warning and Abbacchio fills the doorway. His lipstick is smudged, his hair disheveled, and those pale lavender eyes are blazing with barely contained fury. He looks like hell, and infuriatingly, your first thought is how good he looks even when he's a mess.

"Ever heard of knocking?" you snap, sitting up and closing your book with more force than necessary.

"Ever heard of locking your door?" he shoots back, stepping inside and kicking it shut behind him. The click of the lock engaging sends a shiver down your spine.

"What the hell do you want, Abbacchio? Come to blame me for whatever went wrong on your mission? Because I wasn't even there, so—"

"Shut up." His voice is low, dangerous, with that gravelly edge that always makes something in your stomach flip. He crosses the room in three strides, and suddenly he's right there, looming over you with all six feet of barely restrained aggression. "Just... shut the fuck up for once."

You should tell him to get out. You should be angry. You are angry. But you're also acutely aware of how close he is, how his chest is heaving beneath that netted top, how his eyes are raking over you with an intensity that makes your skin burn.

"Make me," you challenge, tilting your chin up defiantly.

It's the wrong thing or maybe the right thing to say.

Abbacchio's hand shoots out, fingers tangling in your hair and yanking your head back hard. The sharp sting makes you gasp, and then his mouth is on yours, brutal and demanding. It's not a gentle kiss, it's all teeth and anger and frustration, the taste of wine and lipstick flooding your senses. You kiss him back just as fiercely, biting his lower lip hard enough to make him growl.

"Fucking brat," he mutters against your mouth, his other hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. "Always running that smart mouth."

"And you're always an insufferable asshole," you fire back, but your voice is breathless, and you're already pulling at his clothes, fingers fumbling with the zippers and buckles of his elaborate outfit.

He doesn't bother with finesse. He shoves you back onto the bed, following you down, his weight pressing you into the mattress. His hands are everywhere rough, impatient, pulling at your clothes with a desperation that mirrors your own. Fabric tears, and you don't even care. You'll deal with it later.

"This doesn't mean anything," you gasp out as his mouth moves to your neck, teeth scraping over sensitive skin hard enough to leave marks.

"Obviously," he growls, but his hands are shaking slightly as they map your body, and there's something in his touch that contradicts his words something almost reverent beneath the roughness.

Your clothes are gone you're not even sure how and then his fingers are between your legs, testing, finding you already wet. He makes a sound that's half-laugh, half-groan.

"All that attitude, and you're already soaking for me," he says, voice dripping with dark satisfaction. "Pathetic."

"Fuck you," you manage, but it comes out as more of a moan when he slides two fingers inside you without warning, curling them in a way that makes your back arch off the bed.

"That's the plan," he mutters, and there's almost a hint of dark humor in his voice, but it's swallowed by the intensity of the moment.

He's not gentle. His fingers work you roughly, scissoring and stretching, thumb pressing against your clit with just the right amount of pressure to make you see stars. You're torn between wanting to curse him and wanting to beg for more. Your hands find his hair that distinctive style you've always secretly loved and you pull, hard, making him hiss.

"Stop being such a tease and fuck me already," you demand, and his eyes flash with something dark and hungry.

"Demanding little thing, aren't you?" But he's already pulling his fingers out, already positioning himself between your legs. "Turn over."

"What—"

"I said turn over." His hands are already on your hips, flipping you onto your stomach before you can protest. He yanks your hips up, forcing you onto your knees, face pressed into the pillow. "I don't want to look at your face right now."

The words should sting, but instead they send a bolt of heat straight through you. You feel him behind you, the blunt head of his cock pressing against your entrance, and then he's gripping your hips hard enough to leave fingerprint bruises and slamming into you in one brutal thrust.

The stretch is almost too much, pleasure-pain that makes you cry out into the pillow. He doesn't give you time to adjust, doesn't wait for you to catch your breath. He sets a punishing pace immediately, hips snapping against yours with bruising force, the sound of skin on skin obscenely loud in the quiet room.

"This what you wanted?" he grits out, one hand pressing between your shoulder blades to keep you down, the other gripping your hip to hold you in place. "This what you've been asking for every time you run that mouth? Every time you look at me like that?"

"Yes!" you gasp out, fists clenching in the sheets. "Yes, fuck, Abbacchio—"

Hearing his name on your lips like that seems to break something in him. He leans over you, chest pressed against your back, and his hand comes up to wrap around your throat not squeezing, just holding, a reminder of his control. His other hand slides beneath you to find your clit, rubbing rough circles that make your whole body tense.

"You drive me fucking crazy," he growls against your ear, voice rough and strained. "Every goddamn day, with your attitude and your smart mouth and those eyes—"

He cuts himself off, thrusting harder as if to punish himself for saying too much. But you heard it, and something in your chest clenches at the admission.

"I hate you," you gasp out, but your body is betraying you, pushing back to meet his thrusts, clenching around him.

"I hate you too," he responds, but his lips are on your shoulder, your neck, pressing kisses between the bites and the bruises he's leaving. "Hate how good you feel. Hate how much I've wanted this."

The tension coiling in your lower belly is reaching a breaking point. You're close, so close, and he seems to sense it. His movements become more erratic, less controlled, and you realize he's close too. The hand on your throat tightens just slightly, and the hand between your legs works faster.

"Come on," he growls against your ear, voice rough and commanding. "Cum for me. Let me feel it. Let me feel you fall apart."

It's the command in his voice that does it that and the perfect pressure of his fingers on your clit and the angle of his cock hitting that spot inside you that makes you see stars. Your orgasm crashes over you like a wave, and you cry out, body arching and clenching around him so hard he curses. You hear him groan, feel him thrust once, twice more before he's following you over the edge, spilling inside you with a sound that's almost pained.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. You're both breathing hard, bodies slick with sweat, and you can feel his heart pounding against your back. Reality is starting to creep back in, and with it, the weight of what just happened.

Abbacchio pulls out slowly, and you both wince at the sensitivity. He releases his hold on you, and you collapse onto the bed, rolling onto your back. He sits on the edge of the mattress, one hand running through his disheveled hair, not looking at you.

The silence stretches between you, heavy with unspoken things.

"This was—" you start, voice hoarse.

"A one-time thing," he finishes, but there's no conviction in his voice.

"Right. Obviously."

Another silence. You can feel him looking at you now, and when you turn your head to meet his gaze, there's something in his expression that makes your heart skip, something softer than you've ever seen from him, vulnerable in a way that Abbacchio Leone never allows himself to be.

"The mission was a shitshow," he says quietly, and for once there's no edge to his voice. "Almost lost Mista. I just... needed..."

"I know," you say, and surprisingly, you do. You understand the need to feel something other than fear and frustration, to lose yourself in sensation and forget, even for a moment, that you're all living on borrowed time.

His hand finds yours in the space between you, fingers intertwining. It's more intimate than anything that came before, somehow more vulnerable than the sex, more honest than your constant arguments.

"You're still annoying as hell," he mutters, but his thumb is tracing circles on the back of your hand.

"And you're still an asshole," you reply, but there's no heat in it. You squeeze his hand.

From somewhere in the safe house, you hear Mista's voice: "Think they finally figured it out?"

Narancia's response is gleeful: "About damn time!"

You and Abbacchio look at each other, and despite everything despite the bruises forming on your skin, despite the mess you've made, despite the fact that you're both terrible at feelings you both start to laugh. It's quiet, exhausted, but genuine.

Maybe this wasn't a one-time thing after all.

Maybe it was just the beginning.

[al3xandraareads]

A Dangerous Kind of Fun

⁺ . ✦ .　⁺ Jujutsu Kaisen (Gojo Satoru x reader) ⁺ . ✦ .　⁺

content: fluff!!!

synopsis: You arrive at Jujutsu High determined to prove yourself as a capable sorcerer and teacher. What you don’t expect is Gojo Satoru’s relentless curiosity or the way his teasing slowly turns into something more genuine.

From the moment you step onto Jujutsu High grounds as a newly appointed sorcerer teacher, you can feel it.

Someone’s watching you.

“Well, this is exciting.”

You turn to see Gojo Satoru leaning against a pillar, hands in his pockets, blindfold tilted just enough to be annoying. He looks you over like you’re a particularly interesting puzzle.

“You must be the new teacher,” he continues. “Cute. Confident posture. Didn’t trip on the steps. Promising start.”

“…Are all senior staff this welcoming?” you ask.

He grins. “Only to people I plan on flirting with.”

You pause. Then smile politely. “That’s unfortunate.”

“For you?” he asks, already stepping closer.

“For me, yes.”

He laughs like that only encourages him.

By lunchtime, you’ve learned two things:

1. The students respect you.

2. Gojo Satoru has absolutely no intention of behaving.

He shows up halfway through your class, sits on the back fence, and watches.

Openly.

“Is he… allowed to do that?” a student whispers.

“He outranks me,” you say flatly. “Unfortunately.”

Gojo waves. “You’re doing great, by the way. Very commanding. Love the voice.”

You don’t look at him. “If you interrupt again, I’ll assign you homework.”

“Oh?” He perks up. “You trying to keep me after class?”

The students explode into whispers.

Your eye twitches.

After class, you find him waiting outside, arms folded, smile softening just a bit.

“You handled that well,” he says. “Most new teachers either freeze up or yell at me.”

“And you enjoy both reactions,” you reply.

“Mm. Yours more.”

You meet his gaze. “You flirt with everyone like this?”

He tilts his head. “Nope. Just people who don’t fall apart when I do.”

There’s a beat. The air shifts, lighter than tension, heavier than coincidence.

“So,” he continues casually, “dinner tonight?”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“You’re new. Campus food sucks. I’m charming. It’s practical, really.”

“You’re relentless.”

“Only when I’m interested.”

You consider him. The strongest sorcerer alive. A walking disaster. Smiling at you like you’re the most entertaining thing he’s seen all day.

“…Fine,” you say. “But if you behave like this in front of the students again—”

“I’ll flirt quieter,” he promises.

You sigh. “That’s not what I meant.”

He beams. “See? Already negotiating. We’re gonna get along great.”

As he walks beside you down the path, too close but not touching, you realize something important.

Being a new teacher is stressful.

But being flirted with by Gojo Satoru?

Dangerous.

And maybe… a little fun.

[mothdino]

me liking multiple posts each day from one creator hoping they get the sign they should write more

[al3xandraareads]

Stay

⁺ . ✦ .　⁺ jojo’s bizzare adventure (abbacchio leone x reader) ⁺ . ✦ .　⁺

content: fluff, slight angst??

synopsis: after a long mission leaves everyone exhausted, tensions simmer beneath the surface. as Abbacchio struggles with jealousy and the belief that he’s too broken to be loved, you refuse to leave his side. in the quiet that follows the chaos, walls fall, truths are spoken, and two people finally admit what they’ve been afraid to want.

The mission runs longer than it should.

By the time the last enemy drops and Bucciarati signals the all-clear, the sun is already slipping toward the horizon, painting the rooftops of Naples in burnt orange and violet. Your muscles ache, your ears ring faintly, and your Stand feels sluggish, overworked but steady.

You stretch your shoulders as Narancia lands beside you, Aerosmith dissipating into light.

“Did you see that guy I took out near the alley?” he says, grinning wide. “Boom. Right in the—”

“Yes, Narancia,” Abbacchio cuts in flatly from behind you. “We all saw it.”

Narancia pouts. “You don’t have to sound so impressed.”

Mista snorts as he holsters Sex Pistols. “Kid, if Abbacchio ever sounds impressed, we’ll know the world’s ending.”

You laugh quietly, shaking your head.

Mista glances over at you, eyes bright. “You good? You took a hit back there.”

“It’s nothing,” you say. “I’ve had worse.”

Narancia gasps dramatically. “You’re telling me you’ve been injured worse than that and didn’t tell us? That’s cold.”

You shrug. “Occupational hazard.”

“Still,” Mista says, stepping closer, voice dropping just a bit. “You handled it like a pro. Kinda impressive.”

Narancia nods enthusiastically. “Yeah! You were super cool. Like—bam, bam—no hesitation.”

You feel heat creep into your cheeks. “You’re exaggerating.”

“Am not,” Narancia insists. “If I weren’t already me, I’d totally—”

“Narancia,” Abbacchio snaps. “Enough.”

The air shifts.

Narancia blinks. “What? I was just—”

“Mission’s over,” Abbacchio says sharply. “Focus.”

An awkward silence settles over the group. Mista raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push it.

You glance at Abbacchio.

He isn’t looking at you.

The walk back is long and quiet, broken only by Narancia’s occasional humming and the sound of footsteps echoing against stone. You fall into step beside Mista without thinking, listening as he mutters about food and showers and how he swears the next mission better come with hazard pay.

Narancia drifts closer too, nudging your arm lightly.

“So,” he says, “you wanna sit with us later? We’re probably gonna steal whatever snacks Bucciarati hid.”

You smile. “We’ll see.”

“Hey,” Mista adds, grin lopsided, “if Abbacchio gives you trouble, just come hang with us.”

You laugh softly.

Behind you, Abbacchio’s jaw tightens.

He says nothing the entire way back.

⸻

The safehouse greets you with its usual stillness, cool air, drawn curtains, the faint hum of electricity. Everyone disperses quickly, the team falling into familiar routines.

You’re halfway toward your room when you hear it.

“Don’t.”

You stop.

Abbacchio stands at the end of the hallway, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“Don’t what?” you ask.

“Don’t go with them,” he says.

Your heart skips. “Go with who?”

“Mista. Narancia.” His voice is controlled, but tight. “They’re not—” He exhales sharply. “Just stay.”

The word lands heavier than it should.

You hesitate, then nod. “Okay.”

He gestures toward his room. “In here.”

The door closes behind you with a soft click.

His room is darker than the rest of the safehouse, curtains drawn tight. A faint scent of incense lingers in the air. Everything is neat, precise-like order is the only thing keeping chaos at bay.

Abbacchio doesn’t sit. He paces.

“I don’t like how they talk to you,” he says finally.

You lean back against the wall, arms folding loosely. “They’re just being themselves.”

“They’re careless,” he snaps. “They don’t think. They don’t understand what kind of world we live in.”

“And you do?” you ask gently.

He stops pacing.

“That’s exactly the problem,” he mutters.

Silence stretches between you.

You watch him carefully. His shoulders are tense, jaw clenched, eyes dark with something unspoken.

“…You’re jealous,” you say quietly.

His head snaps up.

“No,” he says immediately.

You raise an eyebrow.

He scoffs, turning away. “I don’t get jealous.”

“Abbacchio.”

“I don’t,” he insists, voice sharp. “I don’t have the right to.”

That makes your chest tighten.

You push off the wall and take a step closer. “Why not?”

He laughs softly, bitter. “Because I’m not someone people choose.”

The words hit harder than you expect.

“You don’t believe that,” you say.

“I know it,” he replies. “I’ve lived it.”

He faces you again, eyes hard but tired.

“I’ve watched people leave,” he continues. “Because I wasn’t enough. Because I was too angry, too bitter, too broken.” His voice drops. “Because loving me is exhausting.”

You shake your head. “That’s not true.”

“You don’t know that,” he snaps.

“I do,” you say firmly. “Because I’ve stayed.”

That gives him pause.

“I see the way you look at me,” he admits quietly. “And I hate myself for noticing.”

Your breath catches.

“I see how easy it is for them,” he continues. “How they laugh with you. How they don’t carry the weight I do.” His hands curl into fists. “And I think… maybe that’s what you deserve.”

You step closer until there’s barely any space between you.

“And what do you deserve?” you ask softly.

He doesn’t answer.

So you do it for him.

“You deserve someone who sees you,” you say. “Someone who understands you. Someone who doesn’t run when things get heavy.”

His expression fractures.

“I don’t want to be a burden,” he whispers.

“You’re not,” you reply immediately. “You never have been.”

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and the vulnerability in his eyes steals the breath from your lungs.

“Why do you stay?” he asks. “Why do you look at me like that?”

You swallow.

“Because I like you,” you say. “Because I care about you. Because when things get quiet, you’re the one I want beside me.”

The room feels too small.

Abbacchio’s breath shudders.

“You shouldn’t,” he says weakly.

“But I do.”

He reaches out, stopping just short of touching you, like he’s afraid.

“If I let myself want this,” he murmurs, “I won’t know how to let go.”

“You don’t have to,” you say.

That’s all it takes.

He closes the distance between you in a single step, hands coming to rest at your waist, hesitant but firm.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers.

You don’t.

His lips meet yours, slow, careful, like he’s afraid of hurting you. The kiss is warm, lingering, filled with everything he’s been holding back. When you kiss him back, he exhales softly, relief flooding through his posture.

The second kiss is deeper.

His hands tighten slightly, grounding himself, grounding you. You rest your hands against his chest, feeling his heart racing beneath your palms.

When you pull away, foreheads touching, he laughs quietly.

“…I really am jealous,” he admits.

You smile. “I noticed.”

He presses a soft kiss to your temple. “Stay tonight.”

You nod. “Okay.”

Later, you’re curled up in his bed, the lights dim, the world reduced to the quiet rhythm of shared breathing. His arms wrap around you protectively, one hand resting against your back like an anchor.

You fit together easily, like this was always meant to happen.

“I don’t usually let people this close,” he murmurs.

“I know,” you say. “Thank you for trusting me.”

He shifts slightly, pressing a kiss to your hair. “Thank you for choosing me.”

Sleep comes slowly, gently.

And when it does, Abbacchio holds you like he’s afraid the night might take you away, like this moment is something sacred.

For the first time in a long while, he lets himself rest.

With you.

[al3xandraareads]

How the Bucci gang show affection to the reader headcannons

content: fluff

synopsis: bucci gang showing affection to the reader!! includes giorno, bucciarati, abbacchio, narancia, mista, fugo, trish

Bruno Bucciarati

Bucciarati shows affection in the smallest, most consistent ways. He notices when you’re tired before you do. He remembers how you take your coffee, when you last ate, how you react when you’re overwhelmed. He doesn’t need to ask, he simply acts. A jacket draped over your shoulders, a hand guiding you away from danger, a calm voice grounding you when everything feels too loud.

He never raises his voice at you. Even in tense moments, his tone stays gentle, controlled. When you’re hurt, he kneels in front of you, eyes focused, hands careful as if you’re made of glass. He listens without interrupting, never dismissing your worries, no matter how small.

Bucciarati is protective, but never suffocating. He trusts you, truly trusts you, and that trust is one of the deepest forms of affection he knows how to give.

At the end of the day, loving Bucciarati feels like safety. Like being guided through chaos by someone who refuses to let you fall. He may not say “I love you” often, but every action screams it. With him, affection is consistency, loyalty, and choosing you every single time.

Leone Abbacchio

Abbacchio doesn’t show affection easily. In fact, he tries not to show it at all. He masks it with sarcasm, irritation, and long silences. But if you pay attention, it’s all there.

He watches you constantly, not in a possessive way, but a protective one. He memorizes your habits, your moods, the way your voice changes when you’re tired. He’s the first to notice when something’s wrong, even if he pretends not to care.

When you’re hurt emotionally, he doesn’t try to fix it with words. He sits beside you instead. Offers his presence. His silence is heavy, but comforting, like he’s saying you don’t have to go through this alone. If someone hurts you, he never forgets. Ever.

He struggles with jealousy, not because he doubts you, but because he doubts himself. He’s terrified of losing the few people he allows close.

When Abbacchio loves you, it’s deep and consuming. He won’t say it easily, but he proves it by staying when things get difficult. By trusting you with the parts of himself he hates the most. By choosing you, even when he believes you deserve better.

Guido Mista

Mista shows affection with noise and chaos. He teases you, flirts shamelessly, and acts like everything’s a joke, but the moment you’re in danger, that humor disappears.

He’s always close. Leaning on you, bumping your shoulder, throwing an arm around you without thinking. He makes you laugh on purpose, especially when you look upset. If you’re quiet, he notices. If you’re hurting, he gets angry on your behalf.

He’ll complain endlessly about missions, about bad luck, about everything, but he never complains about you. If anything, he brags. You’re someone he trusts, and that means everything to him.

When Mista loves you, it’s bold and obvious. He doesn’t hide it. He makes sure you know you matter, that you’re wanted, that you’re safe. And if anyone tries to hurt you? They won’t get a second chance.

Narancia Ghirga

Narancia loves with his whole heart and doesn’t know how to hold back. If he likes you, you’ll know. He sticks close, talks nonstop, and gets excited over the smallest things involving you.

He’s incredibly affectionate hugs, leaning against you, sitting too close. He shares his food, his music, his thoughts. If you’re sad, he gets sad with you. If you’re scared, he panics a little but refuses to leave your side.

He trusts easily, but when he trusts you, it’s something special. You become his safe person. Someone he looks for in every room.

When Narancia loves you, it’s pure and honest. He doesn’t overthink it. He just feels it. And in a world as cruel as theirs, that kind of sincerity is rare and precious.

Pannacotta Fugo

Fugo shows affection through worry. Constant, overwhelming worry. He notices every bruise, every change in behavior, every risk you take. He tries to hide how much he cares, but it leaks out in sharp words and anxious glances.

He offers help in practical ways, bandages, advice, warnings. He gets flustered when you thank him or praise him. Compliments make him uncomfortable, but he remembers every one.

He’s terrified of losing control, of hurting you, of not being good enough. But that fear makes his affection incredibly sincere. When he chooses to stay near you, it means he trusts you more than he trusts himself.

When Fugo loves you, it’s careful and intense. He protects you by thinking ahead, by worrying enough for both of you. And even when he doubts himself, he never doubts that you matter.

Giorno Giovanna

Giorno shows affection in calm, deliberate ways. He isn’t overly expressive, but every action is intentional. When he cares about you, he pays attention, to your words, your habits, your silences. He notices when you’re uncomfortable before you say anything. Notices when you’re pushing yourself too hard.

He’s incredibly gentle with you, both physically and emotionally. He speaks to you with patience, never raising his voice, never dismissing your feelings. When you’re hurt, he kneels beside you without hesitation, hands steady as he tends to your wounds or uses his Stand to ease your pain. There’s something incredibly reassuring about the way he focuses entirely on you in those moments, as if nothing else in the world matters.

Giorno doesn’t flirt much. Instead, he shows care through understanding. He asks thoughtful questions. He listens deeply. He remembers what you tell him and brings it up later in quiet moments, just to show you that your words mattered.

When you’re scared or doubting yourself, he reminds you of your strength, not with empty praise, but with quiet certainty. He believes in you completely, even when you don’t believe in yourself.

When Giorno loves you, it’s calm and unwavering. It’s the kind of love that doesn’t demand anything, that simply exists as support and faith.

Trish Una

Trish shows affection in subtle but deeply meaningful ways. She isn’t loud about it, and she doesn’t cling, instead, she expresses care through presence. She sits beside you when things feel heavy. She listens when you talk, really listens, eyes soft and attentive. When you’re overwhelmed, she’s the first to notice, offering you quiet comfort without making a scene.

She understands fear better than most. She knows what it’s like to feel powerless, to be dragged into a world you didn’t ask for. Because of that, she’s incredibly gentle with you. She checks in often, asking how you’re holding up, if you’re okay, not out of obligation, but genuine concern.

Trish has a protective streak, even if she doesn’t always show it outwardly. If someone disrespects you, she bristles immediately. If someone hurts you, she doesn’t hesitate to stand in your defense. Her strength isn’t loud, but it’s unwavering.

She’s also surprisingly affectionate once she’s comfortable. She’ll sit close to you, share headphones, rest her head against your shoulder during quiet moments. When you’re anxious, she holds your hand grounding, warm, steady.

When Trish loves you, it’s with understanding. With empathy. With the kind of care that says you’re not alone in this anymore. She doesn’t try to fix you or protect you from everything, she simply stays, reminding you that you deserve softness even in a cruel world.