flatmate!toji x reader | college au; fraternity au | fluff and angst | oneshot | living with toji isn't easy when he's gruff, unfettered, messy and rough - but somehow you don't really mind it | 2k words
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this is how it went - beabadoobee
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Living with Toji is by no means an easy feat.
Not only does this man leave dishes piling high in the sink (and next to it) and he is loud even in the early hours of the morning, he also refuses to wear a shirt around the house and oftentimes more than not, forgets to shut his bedroom door when he is changing. He has clogged the toilet at least five times in the last few weeks, and his friends, whenever they are over, are loud, flirt with you way too much, and always leave crumbs on the carpet which you find a week later when you feel something sharp poking your ass.
He huffs more than he speaks sometimes. Oftentimes, he grunts at you when he wants you to pass him something like some sort of neanderthal. Not to mention, he enjoys shoulder-checking you as he passes you by in the kitchen like some sort of barbarian instead of waiting for you to get out of the way or saying 'excuse me' like any civilised person. Worst of all, sometimes you think he sees you more as a boy than a girl much shorter than him. The force of his body knocking into yours feels more like an unwarranted rugby tackle more than anything.
Last week, he accidentally smashed your favourite Hello Kitty mug when his elbow sent the thing flying off the kitchen counter and into pieces on the wooden floor. Yesterday, he flooded the shower so badly that warm soapy water seeped into the hallway from the gap between the door and the floor. In January, a hand-shaped hole appeared randomly one morning on the hallway wall because the night before, Toji almost slid on a stray t-shirt you dropped from hauling a pile of laundry from the dryer to your room. When questioned about it, he told you very calmly, that his footing almost gave out in the darkness of your flat, and his hand shot out like a hydraulic press which flattened into the plaster to regain balance.
Yet, when you trudge through the door with three large, loaded bags of groceries and Toji happens to be home at the time, he is on his feet immediately to help you. On days you return home late, having eaten nothing all day because you were in back-to-back lectures, with bags under your eyes, dinner is already cooked, sitting on the stove with some tinfoil hastily crammed over the plate.
Oftentimes you fall asleep on the couch mid-movie with that giant hunk of muscle, the toll of the day completely taking over you; then, you find yourself waking up in your own bed, enveloped in the softness of sheets that smell like you, makeup wiped off and skin supple with your expensive Japanese moisturiser. More than a few times when this has happened, when your knees are tucked slightly toward your chest, and your eyelids droop and droop with exhaustion until sleep takes over, your head will tip onto him. He will feel your smooth cheek brush the solid warmth of his upper arm, decorated with thick and defined muscle.
He often lets you stay there, for a moment longer than necessary, until his heart stops racing and then the TV quietly shuts off with a muted click.
A while ago, when you had a date with Satoru Gojo, he stopped you half-way out of the door to tell you that you had a bump in your ponytail. His massive hands went to fix it for you; thick fingers gently smoothing down on the unruly strand before he patted the top of your head, blank expression, told you that you looked okay, and then you practically skipped out of the flat without a second thought.
Toji can faintly recall some time, maybe six weeks ago, hearing the front door unlock, and he was on the couch nursing a beer, while Choso and Sukuna were on the floor with consoles in their hands, battling it out on the PlayStation.
You appeared with red-rimmed doe eyes, brimming with moisture that you so desperately tried to sniff back to no avail. You had the sleeves of your hoodie covering your hands but the grey material had very obviously been used to soak up any tears you shed on the way home; your head hung low as you walked through the door. The worst part was that you had completely forgotten he had plans to have the boys over – otherwise you would have gone to the safety of some nook in the library to cry it out this late at night.
You recall that Toji didn’t notice the tears, not at first. He had made some dumb joke about you staying out late because you’re a nerd and you should be studying. And then his pink-haired friend with the tattoos and piercings was about to say something flirty as he always does, but on account of noticing your tearful disposition, they both kept their mouths shut for a moment as Toji rose from his position on the couch, bottle of ice cold beer placed idly on the floor as he came over to inspect you.
“You good, angel?” He asked, hands resting on his knees as he bent down to peer at you. “Failed an exam or what?”
You sniffed, voice muffled by your blocked nose. “No, it’s fine– just leave me al–”
“Hey, hey–” He manoeuvred smoothly into your path, hands held up. “Did something happen?”
Choso had put his console down on the carpet and exchanged an unsure look with Sukuna. You bit your lip. Toji’s dark eyes remained on you. Something softened in his usual teasing tone.
“Did something happen?”
You paused. “I-I was in the library with Nobara, and then…”
Your eyes filled with tears again, and your sleeves immediately flew to them to mop up the wetness. Toji practically had to pry your hands off your face. Sukuna and Choso were both listening now, the video game still casting light on their faces and long abandoned.
“Just calm down,” Toji started. “What happened?”
“No, it’s stupid– you’re gonna laugh.” You sobbed quietly, wanting nothing more than to crawl into a hole and die because how mortifying it was to cry in front of your hot flatmate and his hot friends.
Toji curled his eyebrows, getting a little irritated now. “Just spit it out–”
“Someone from the frat sent her a message–” You exhaled heavily. “Satoru showed someone– people– I don’t know– some dumb photos I sent him and they got sent round to–”
“Photos?”
Your face was burning red at this point, stomach ready to lurch with bile.
“Like… photos.” You emphasised between heavy breaths. “Nude ones–”
You didn’t need to say more. The room went so quiet you could have heard a pin drop. Toji straightened up at that point, hands dropping to his sides. He recalls feeling the breath he was holding catch in his throat, and he swallowed it down.
“Oh yeah?” He questioned. At this point, you remember that Toji was not loud or visibly angry. His words came out flat but there was a burning sensation in his chest he didn’t verbalise to you.
Behind him, Sukuna mutters a low, “That’s low. Even for him.”
You nodded, humiliated beyond repair. “I didn’t even send them to anyone else. I thought it was just between us and he– I didn’t know he’d–”
You hated how small your voice sounded. Hated that Sukuna and Choso were hearing this. The PlayStation menu music looped faintly in the background. And then the muscle in Toji’s jaw ticked once. Twice. You were still looking down at the floor, vision swimming with tears so you didn’t even notice when Toji turned to his two friends with a murderous look in his eyes. And the two on the floor began rising to their feet, a silent understanding between the three of them.
Sukuna had a smirk on his lips as if to say ‘let’s drop him now’.
Toji’s tongue dragged slowly over his bottom lip. He rolled his tense shoulders back lazily, muscle rippling under the dark fabric of his compression top.
“Choso,” he said casually, turning and walking toward the hallway before you could even register his feet padding away.
“Yeah.”
“Keys?”
Sukuna huffed a low laugh. “I’ve already got ‘em, chief.”
The normalcy of it all made your stomach drop.
“Wait, what are you doing?” You stepped forward into the dim light, panic sharpening your nasally voice.
Your giant flatmate paused long enough to shove his feet into his shoes while Choso tugged on his jacket.The fabric stretched across his shoulders. Sukuna followed suit.
“Don’t worry about it, angel.” Toji drawled. “Just go sort yourself out and have a bath– I don’t know what you girls do–”
“What?”
You recalled how Sukuna pulled his hoodie over his head, fanged grin sharp at the edges. “I call first swing if he says something stupid.”
“You won’t need to,” Toji replied calmly, slipping his hands into his pockets as he opens the door. “I’ll handle it.”
You remembered how Choso lingered only a second longer, glancing at you with something almost apologetic but not pitiful. “Lock the door after us.”
That all happened about six weeks ago, and you recall seeing Satoru around campus sporting a giant splotch of purple on each cheek, and of course, you can’t forget the black eye which he was trying to cover with some shades in class. You remember last week when your phone buzzed once – then twice – and then for a third time during a movie night with Toji, and it was Satoru sending you a half-assed apology text for doing what he did, even though it humiliated you to the ends of the earth. You recall when Toji told you to block him, and no further questions were asked about how Satoru got those bruises – but to be honest, you didn’t need to ask because the scratching on Toji’s usually smooth knuckles told you everything you needed to know.
You don’t think you can ever forget how Toji’s lips curled into a very, very faint smile when you randomly thanked him one day for it. And he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget when one morning, you trudged into the kitchen at 7 AM, still half asleep in your pyjamas (his top that you accidentally stole from the dryer and some shorts) and your eyes immediately brightened, the widest of smiles stretching your face when you saw a brand new Hello Kitty mug sitting on the countertop with fresh coffee in it.
So yes, Toji isn’t easy to live with by any means, but that doesn’t mean you don’t enjoy every second with him. And would you ever ask for another flatmate?
frat!kuna | college au; fraternity au | just a little something of what i think frat!kuna's instagram would look like | meant to be an accompaniment to a little life oneshot (frat!kuna x reader au) here
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Summary: A few hours before the infamous serial killer!Gojo Satoru's inevitable execution, Dr. Ryomen Sukuna is being sent to figure out what happened to Gojo Satoru's wife. (Mentioned Choso, Yuji, & Toji.) WC: 1.7k.
Warnings: Discussions of past graphic violence & self-erasure fantasies (suicidality), serial killer themes, psychological horror, interrogation, murder, dismemberment, implied necrophilia, implied anthropophagic ideation, implied vorarephilia, cannibalistic implications, grooming themes (not children), emotional abuse, manipulation, execution, forensic crime, blood, death, trauma, obsession, and moral corruption.
A/N: I wrote this ages ago & forgot about it, so I'm posting it now. Soft BroKuna stricks again.
They’d built the room to neutralize people like him.
No reflective surfaces. Corners curved inward. One narrow table bolted to the floor. Two chairs.
And Gojo Satoru sat in his, wrists cuffed, smiling like the room was a joke he’d already heard.
Dr. Ryomen Sukuna shut the door behind him and let the sound echo.
It took exactly four seconds for Satoru to speak.
“Wasting a perfectly good night with me?” His voice was hoarse from disuse but too casual. “You smell like soap and fear.”
“I bathed,” Sukuna said dryly, pulling the chair out. “Fear’s optional.”
Satoru tilted his head. “You sound like a priest, Doctor.”
“I work with criminals.”
“That’s fair.”
Sukuna moved to sit. The chair scraped the concrete. He set the recorder on the table, thumb hovering over the button.
“Today,” he said, “we’re talking about your wife.”
Satoru’s smile thinned. “Straight to necrophilia. You’re bold.”
“She’s missing, not dead.”
“Semantics.”
Sukuna pressed play.
00:00:03
Sukuna: “You’ve refused to discuss her for eight years. Why now?”
Satoru: “Because I’m dying tomorrow.”
Sukuna: “And that makes you nostalgic?”
Satoru: “It makes me curious how you’ll look when you realize I’m not lying.”
He laughed under his breath, eyes gleaming through the curtain of hair that had grown too long. The sound never reached his face. He looked half-starved and half-divine, like someone who’d forgotten which side of the line he stood on anymore.
Sukuna kept his tone even. “You wished to talk about her.”
Satoru stretched his hands as far as the cuffs allowed. “You say that like it’s a choice.”
“You’ve had choices. You just liked playing God in a mortal body.”
Satoru hummed. “Careful, Doctor, you sound jealous.”
“Of what?”
He smiled wider. “Of certainty.”
Sukuna ignored that and slid a folder across the table.
Inside: photos. Seven victims.
The last page blank.
“Tell me where she is.”
Satoru didn’t look down. “You’re thinking of that boy again.”
Sukuna’s pulse stuttered. “Excuse me?”
“Your brother,” Satoru said lightly. “Choso, right? You’ve got his eyes. Not the dead ones, the living ones.”
Sukuna stilled. “Stick to your wife’s case.”
Satoru shrugged. “They overlap. Everyone overlaps if you dig deep enough.”
He leaned forward. The chains made a loud rattle like acid against skin. “He screamed your name when I broke his spine. Did you know that?”
Sukuna’s jaw clenched so hard it clicked.
He said nothing. He couldn’t afford to. Yet.
Satoru smiled as if reading it anyway. “You’re trembling.”
“Blood sugar,” Sukuna said. “Lunch was bad.”
“Liar.”
00:12:14
Satoru: “You know what’s funny? They all think I hate women.”
Sukuna: “You killed twelve.”
Satoru: “Not hate. Obsession. Love’s just hunger dressed nice. Besides, I have killed way more men.”
Sukuna: “And your wife?”
Satoru: “She fed me first.”
Sukuna scribbled something on the notepad—words he didn’t feel, just motion to anchor his hands.
“She was a teacher,” Satoru said suddenly. “First graders. She used to come home smelling like crayons. The smell sticks, you know? Innocence. Harder to wash off than blood.”
He smiled faintly. “She used to cut my hair in the kitchen. Said barbers made me look too sharp. I liked that—being softened by someone who didn’t understand the edges.”
Sukuna asked, quietly, “What happened to her?”
Satoru’s eyes flicked up. “You think I killed her.”
“I think you killed everyone else.”
“That’s lazy profiling.”
“It’s math.”
Satoru smirked. “Then solve for X.”
Sukuna held his gaze. “You tell me.”
Silence stretched, thick as static.
Then Satoru leaned back and whispered, almost tender, “She’s still where I left her.”
“Where?” Sukuna asked.
Satoru tilted his head. “You ever see snow cover a grave? Looks clean until spring.”
The lights flickered. Sukuna told himself it was the wiring.
“Her name?”
“You don’t remember?”
“I want to hear you say it.”
Satoru’s mouth twitched. He said it like a prayer that had rotted into a curse.
00:27:45
Sukuna: “Why her?”
Satoru: “Because she looked at me and didn’t look away.”
Sukuna: “That’s not a reason.”
Satoru: “It’s the only one that ever matters.”
Satoru’s expression softened for the first time. It was almost worse than the grin.
He looked… fond.
“She used to talk in her sleep,” he murmured. “Names, places, little lies she never told me awake. I’d listen. Sometimes I’d answer.”
“You answered?”
Satoru nodded. “One night she whispered, ‘If I disappear, don’t look for me.’”
He smiled faintly. “So I didn’t.”
Sukuna felt a cold pull in his stomach. “You’re saying she ran.”
“I’m saying she made a wish.”
“And you granted it?”
“I’m kind like that.”
Sukuna stared at him for a long moment. “You’re enjoying this.”
“I enjoy pattern recognition.”
“Then recognize this,” Sukuna said, leaning forward. “They already have you. You’re not untouchable anymore.”
Satoru’s smile didn’t falter. “Neither are you.”
Sukuna’s hand stilled above his notes. “Meaning?”
“You keep your brother’s photo in your desk. Wallet too. He was younger. Laughed a lot. You’ve been blaming yourself for years—thinking if you’d driven him to campus, he wouldn’t have met me because I was already locked up.”
Sukuna’s throat went dry. “You’re giving conjecture.”
“I don’t do conjecture,” Satoru murmured. “I see.”
He shouldn’t have been able to.
The glass walls, the guards, the soundproof doors—none of it stopped the way Satoru seemed to peel thoughts open with his eyes.
“You killed him,” Sukuna acknowledged. The words came out before he could temper them. “You killed Choso.”
Satoru blinked once, slowly. “You’re finally naming the dead. Good sign.”
“Why?”
“He was there,” Satoru said simply. “Wrong place, wrong kindness. I asked for directions. He smiled.”
Sukuna felt his stomach twist. “Why did Yuji survive?”
“Because I let him.” Satoru’s gaze sharpened. “He’s your son now, isn’t he? Cute kid. Toji told me he likes drawing monsters.”
Sukuna’s pen snapped between his fingers. “You’ve been talking to Toji?”
Satoru laughed softly. “You think these walls mean anything? Everyone wants a peek before I go.”
Sukuna tried to steady his breath. “You’re not going anywhere except the chamber.”
“Then you’d better ask faster.”
01:02:33
Sukuna: “Tell me where the bodies are.”
Satoru: “Which ones?”
Sukuna: “Start with hers.”
Satoru: “You think finding her will save you?”
Sukuna: “It might save your soul.”
Satoru: “Souls are for amateurs.”
Sukuna stood abruptly. He needed distance.
The air was too thin, his pulse too loud.
Satoru watched him like an experiment still unfolding.
“You know,” he said quietly, “I almost told you the truth last time. But you were too busy pretending not to be mortal.”
Sukuna turned. “Try me now.”
Satoru’s smile returned, brittle and bright. “She’s in pieces.”
Sukuna froze. “…Pieces?”
Satoru tilted his head. “Not in the way you think. She asked me to make her disappear. So I did. A piece in every place we loved. A tooth in Okinawa. A rib under our bed. Her eyes—”
“Stop.”
Satoru did. Obediently.
Then, “You wanted honesty.”
Sukuna’s voice was low. “You expect me to believe she consented?”
“I expect you to realize it doesn’t matter.”
For the first time, Sukuna felt something like genuine fear—not of death, but of proximity.
Satoru’s presence filled the room without moving. He radiated the kind of certainty that didn’t need proof.
Then he said softly, “You could understand if you let yourself. You already talk to killers for a living. You just hide behind therapy because it lets you play savior.”
“I’m not like you.”
“Of course you are. You just haven’t started cutting.”
01:24:09
Sukuna: “How did you kill Choso?”
Satoru: “I taught him something first.”
Sukuna: “What?”
Satoru: “How long it takes for blood to forget the body it came from.”
Sukuna sat again, breathing through his teeth. “You’re wasting time.”
Satoru leaned forward. “No, I’m investing it. You’re the only one worth talking to.”
“Because I’m your confessor?”
“Because you’ll finish it.”
Sukuna stared. “Finish what?”
Satoru smiled. “The pattern.”
Something in Sukuna’s chest went cold.
He realized—too late—that Satoru hadn’t been reminiscing.
Forensic pathologist Dr. Ryomen Sukuna was being groomed.
“You think I’ll carry your sickness?” Sukuna asked quieter.
“You already are,” Satoru answered. “Every time you dream about Choso’s body, you’re rehearsing.”
Sukuna felt bile rise. “You want me to kill you.”
“No. I want you to understand me.”
“And then what?”
Satoru’s eyes gleamed. “Then I can die.”
01:37:52
Sukuna: “You think death will free you?”
Satoru: “Freedom’s overrated. But contagion—”
Sukuna: “Contagion?”
Satoru: “That’s legacy.”
Sukuna shut the recorder off. The silence hit hard. He stood, knuckles white against the table.
“Last chance,” he growled. “Tell me where she is.”
Satoru smiled faintly. “You’re still asking the wrong question.”
“What’s the right one?”
Satoru leaned in until their skin nearly touched, then he looked at Sukuna’s hands like appreciating art. “Ask what she became.”
For a moment, Sukuna forgot to breathe.
The warmth of Satoru’s breath, the slight hum in his voice—it didn’t feel human.
“What did you do to her?” he asked, voice lost to the dry air.
Sukuna stared at the words until the guards informed him that the execution of Gojo Satoru had been conducted without a hitch. The man was dead. Body rotting.
He didn’t move.
Because beneath the writing, faint and wet, was a single blue thread—long, silken, and unmistakably from Satoru’s uniform.
And stuck to it, something…soft.
A piece of human skin.
Still warm.
A/N: This grew out of a conversation between me and @mullermilkshake. She may choose to do her own spin on it in the future. However, please don’t pressure or hound her about it.
Now tell me what do you think happened to you here?
Header is by me. Dividers are by @saradika-graphics & @omi-resources.
Hygiene: Don’t repost without permission, lift, or 'AI remix' my works.
— ୨୧ trying to convince dad’s best friend kento nanami to stay just a little longer
cw: age gap and mortally compromising themes. click out if that’s not for you. Nanami is older than canon.
Nanami Kento never believed in blurred lines. Strict boundaries were a staple. He wouldn’t do overtime, he doesn’t fuck around and find out, and he definitely does not have personal affairs with his bestfriend’s daughter.
He knew he was fucked the moment his best friend called, practically pleading with him to allow you, his daughter an internship at his office.
He considered himself a well-off man when it came to his morals. Sure, he was a businessman. No businessman was truly pure of heart, but he’d never be stupid enough to think inappropriately of a girl two decades younger than him! Or atleast that’s what he told himself after jerking off to the thought of you and the outfits you’d wear to the office.
I mean, what was going on? You showed up the first day in a tight pencil skirt—if you could even call it that with such a short length—and a flimsy button up.
He didn’t even know what was going through his head when he called you over before you called off for the night, beckoning you closer each time you walked forward. His breathing was labored, reviewing a couple pages in his rough hands.
“You did this..” Nanami drifted off as you leaned over. It was nearly offensive; how your body played tricks on his mind. “Wrong. It’s all wrong.” He finishes, avoiding any eye contact with you or your tits.
You bit your bottom lip, taking a deep inhale before leaning on your heels. “Sorry, Ken’, wasn’t sure how to do it.” He shut his eyes and clenched his jaw in utter irritation. It wasn’t with you, more like with himself, but he wouldn’t let that show.
“Sir.” He corrected, his grip on the pages was now harsh and tight. The edges that sat between his hands were crumpled. “You’re working here, I’m not your fucking baby sitter.” You let out a small gasp; a gasp that was a bit too innocent for his liking.
“Sir, I didn’t think I’d be that big of a deal. It’s just a measly piece of paper.” Your entitlement reeked, but the flowery perfume you wore almost overwhelmed it. You fidgeted with your hands, breath catching when he loosened his tie.
Oh, and for the last time, he didn’t know how it happened. How he ended up in your apartment complex, with his cock deep inside your cunt, or with his cum filling you to the brim.
But he did know how fucking wrong it was when he collapsed beside you, panting and trying to catch his breath. You were naked, hair dripping over your shoulder like a sweet dream. Droopy, sleepy eyes just fighting to stay open and stare at his big arms, and his big hands running across his face in anguish and frustration.
“This is so fucked up,” he whispered underneath his breath, standing off the bed and zipping his pants up. He didn’t even have the patience to fully strip. “Mister Nanami— where are you—” Your voice was heard as almost worried; desperate. You tried to sit up with your elbows and he scrunched his nose along with all other features.
“That’s enough.” He muttered, holding a palm up to signal for you to stay laying down. He could almost see a tearful gaze in his peripheral before he heard your timid voice again. “But Ken’—” It was cracked, eyebrows rising and a lump forming in your throat.
“I said that is enough!” It was a shout this time, shooting a glare at you. Even his tongue was dominating—in so many ways. But then he saw you, tits on display for him, bare and soft; your hair covering parts of your shoulders and chest like a natural curtain restraining him from everything he wants. How badly he wants to defile you but how truly it weighs on him.
He didn’t know when you, the sweet little girl he used to know, became so damn provocative. He was a provincial to the kingdom of your voice, your body, your mind. A subject to your reign, but God knows that’s all just made up. He subjugated you.
It seemed to him that you knew just what to do. The sheets slipped off your body, revealing your abdomen and hips before even showing the part he vitiated. It was wrong to think of your body in such a way; like a commodity.
“I thought,” You whispered, avoiding his gaze. “You’d stay a bit longer. Or the night.” He shook his head with vexation. Nanami pinched the bridge of his nose, your body squirmed a bit under his stare.
“There’s no staying, none of that.” His words carried guilt; shame.
“You can’t,” you hesitated. Attraction was real, but fear didn’t just dissipate. Your hands ran over your body in a seemingly harmless manner, but Nanami saw how you grazed all the right places. All the marks he left ridden on you. Staking a claim he didn’t know existed. “You can’t just erase me.”
His eyes lingered on every curve and dip of your body, like if God himself handcrafted it. The stern glare shifted into a softer, more familiar one. Perhaps God created a successor. He’d devote himself to you if it meant worshipping you the way he did tonight.
“This,” Your hand stilled over a bite mark that was fading into a bruise. “It won’t go away.” He bent, grabbing his bag. He tried to cling to any semblance of dignity left before he could wash it down the drain.
You tried harder. So damn insistent. You laid down, this time strolling a hand down to your cunt. “You can’t unfuck me, Kento.” It was whiny, mixed in with a soft moan from your own touch.
“Watch your fucking mouth—” He blurted through gritted teeth. Nanami stalked towards you, grabbing your jaw, basically lifting you up with his firm hand. “You talk to your father with that mouth?” He said and you rolled your eyes although he could see remnants of tears from a moment ago.
“Won’t you stop talking and thinking about my father? Who cares about him.” He stayed quiet, taking in your face. This pretty face spouting this bratty nonsense was almost unfathomable. “You fucked me regardless of my father so don’t pretend like you care now.”
His hand let you go, instead coming down with a sharp impact against cheek. You gasped louder this time, head snapping back a bit. Before any complaints left your lips, he growled. He was upset because it touched a nerve—because regardless of what he thought, it was true.
He wanted to pull you in and apologize when he noticed the tears welling up once again, but all sympathies faded when you turned your head back to him expectingly. Like he was opium and you were addicted. “Stop with the waterworks, kid.” He mumbled but it had no real bite to it, giving a firm tap to the same cheek.
Nanami begins to kneel, resting him head on your stomach and whispering against it. “I shouldn’t have, but,” his lips were wet and soft. “I’ve thought about this before. How you’d look like having an orgasm, wondering how many kisses it’d take till I reached that sweet little cunt.” His voice was husky and gravelly, exhaling now against your hip.
Your hand came down to run through his hair, slightly less tense now. “Did I live up to your standards?” He chuckled deeply, truly from the depths of his chest.
“You were fucking perfect… I counted twenty four.” You whimpered, wrapping your legs around his kneeling frame. “I’m a terrible man, sweetheart.” He looked up at you, seeing how you pursed your lips into a fine line at his comment.
“Don’t pity me or victimize me. I chose this, Kento. Remember?” He let out a shaky breath—although he listened, he knew it wasn’t true. He knew this was depraved, completely venal. He had known you since you were a little girl; he still had memories of your father referring to him as your uncle, for Christ’s sake.
But after tonight? Nothing, not even the heavens coming down or the earth crumbling, would stop him from reaching you.
♡ — SUMMARY: Yuji goes to Satoru for relationship advice, not knowing that the only love his teacher has ever known has been lost forever.
♡ — CONTENT: angst, mentions of reader’s death/dying during childbirth.
♡ — WC: 1.1k
“Are you busy?”
Yuji’s worrisome voice caught Satoru’s attention. The white-haired man, who sat on an outdoor bench, lost in thought, curiously looked up at the teenager standing in front of him.
“Hm?” Satoru paused. “Nope, I’m not busy at all. Something wrong?”
When Yuji didn’t answer immediately — his brown eyes glaring at the concrete ground as a telltale sign that something was bothering him — Satoru nodded at the empty spot on the bench, inviting him to sit.
Without hesitation, Yuji sat down and slumped over.
“I’m having girl problems.”
“Oh?” Satoru raised his eyebrows. “Do you need pads or-”
“Hey! Not like that,” with a frown, Yuji buried his face in his hands, the tips of his ears turning red from utter embarrassment.
Coming to his teacher for advice in general was humiliating enough for him, but he couldn’t imagine that anyone else would have been able to help him out.
Satoru was one of the very few people he knew who seemed to think about life outside of being a jujutsu sorcerer and could potentially offer him some advice.
“There’s a girl I’m interested in. I really like her, ya know? But I’m not sure how I should ask her out. I wanted to go see Human Earthworm 3 with her, but Nobara said that most girls aren’t into stuff like that. But if I ask her to see a chick flick, then what if she gets mad at me for assuming she’d wanna see that stuff because she’s a girl? But if I ask her to pick a movie, then it might seem like I’m putting pressure on her to make all the important decisions because I don’t care enough or something. What should I do?”
Satoru smiled softly. Looking at his dear student was like looking at his own reflection. Years ago, he too was a teenager, frustrated and flustered over a girl.
“Well, there are a bunch of movies that aren’t chick flicks or creepy films that you could take her to see. You could suggest three films and have her pick one. That way, it shows that you care, but you don’t make the mistake of assuming what she’d like. Also, I’d recommend going to dinner after the movie instead of before, that way you both have something to talk about.”
Yuji glanced up at his blindfolded teacher and blinked, taking in the valuable advice.
“Right! Good idea!” Breaking out into a smile, Yuji said, “I knew I made the right decision by asking you!”
“You sure did. I’m an expert, you know.”
Yuji laughed softly. Suddenly, the upturned corners of his mouth slowly fell into a frown, and his eyebrows furrowed as a thought crossed his mind.
“Hey,” Yuji turned his head to face Satoru, his eyes squinting from the afternoon sunlight. “You’re not really an expert, are you? I’ve never seen you with anyone before. Are you in a secret relationship or something? What goin’ on?”
A gentle, sad smile graced Satoru’s face, his voice soft and tender as he spoke. “Nope, I’m all alone.”
“Oh.” Yuji dropped his gaze to his red shoes. “Wait a minute, what about that one lady you went to go see?”
“What lady?”
“Uh . . .” Scratching his cheek awkwardly, the teenager mumbled, “I kinda overheard you telling Nanamin that you were gonna buy flowers on your way to see . . . uh . . . I think her name was Y/N. That was about a week ago. What about her?”
Typically, Satoru wasn’t the sort of person to find himself at a loss for words. But, right now, his mind, body, and soul seemed to have disconnected, caused by a broken spirit.
He was quiet only for a moment, but it was long enough for Yuji to innocently look up at him with great concern.
A lump formed in Satoru’s throat, but he spoke anyway.
If there was one thing he excelled at, it was being able to function through his pain. He had years of experience with that sort of thing.
“You misunderstood. That’s what you get for eavesdropping,” Satoru suddenly removed his blindfold, ignoring the ache in his head when he did so. He brought the soft black fabric to his lips, and gently kissed it. You had given it to him. “Y/N was someone I was in love with. I met her when I was around your age. She died five years ago, and I was getting flowers before heading to her grave.”
“Oh man, that sucks. I’m really sorry,” A flash of guilt washed over Yuji’s innocent face. “I didn’t mean to-“
“It’s fine,” Satoru interrupted, locking eyes with his student. “It’s not like it’s a big secret or anything.”
The soft buzz of insects bouncing around in the nearby grass filled the silence as the sky darkened, the sun kissing the world goodbye. Satoru’s eyes flickered down to Yuji’s fidgeting hands, his fingers toying with the sleeve of his hoodie as he stared at the ground.
“What’s wrong?” Satoru questioned. He knew his student all too well and could tell that the younger boy was biting his tongue, quite both figuratively and literally.
“I was just wondering . . . how did she die? If that’s an okay thing to ask. You don’t gotta tell me if you don’t wanna. But I won’t lie, I’m curious, ya know?”
Satoru hummed, thinking about how death was a peculiar topic that the kind sorcerer was wholesomely interested in.
“Childbirth.”
“What?” Yuji’s spikey strands of hair shifted as he whipped his head in Satoru’s direction, eyes widening. “Seriously? That’s . . . I thought . . .”
“You thought she might have died in battle?” Satoru placed his blindfold back on, not to ease his aching eyes, but so Yuji wouldn’t see the tears starting to brim in his reddened waterline. “Sometimes we forget that sorcerers can die in other situations as well, don’t we?”
“Yeah.” Yuji didn’t know if it was okay to ask another question or not. Satoru spoke with misery coating his words. But curiosity was a thirst that couldn’t be easily quenched. “What was she like?”
A heartbroken smile graced Satoru’s face.
“Well, she was shyer than most. Kind. A good person. It was pretty funny, because she could kill curses and take down enemies, but she was always too nervous to ask for oat milk instead of whole milk in her lattes whenever we’d go to a local coffee shop. And she was lactose intolerant too, but still wouldn’t ask. She was a hugger, but really only towards me. Couldn’t stand pollen. Loved watching TV and reading short romance stories about fictional characters. She was so . . . I loved her more than I can express with words.” Satoru had to clear his throat. “I wish I could say she died peacefully, but she looked scared. Died right in front of me . . . trying to deliver my kid.”
Satoru thought about your teary, bloodshot eyes, shining with fear as you held on to him while lying helplessly in a hospital bed.
He was stroking your hair, telling you that everything would be okay when the light left your gaze, and suddenly, you were nothing more than a corpse.
Yuji was silent, but Satoru knew what his next question would have been: did the child survive?
“My kid didn’t make it either.”
“I’m sorry,” Yuji mumbled. “I wish I could fix it. I wish there was something I could do. But . . . I hope you find love again someday.”
“I don’t.” As Satoru spoke, a single tear fell. “If it’s not with her, I don’t want it. I’d rather be alone.”
Weapons. Trained, tested, forged in steel and fire. Failure is an inevitability that ends in death. Pain should not be felt--it should be recognized, familiar, and inconsequential
Martyrs. In the form of servants and princes, of leaders and underdogs. If blood is necessary, the martyr will lift their hands and offer it all
Shields. Like tempering a sword, but only to bear and not to lash out. Wounds are medals--not symbols of pride, but symbols of worth. A pretty shield is useless; scars mean a job well done
Experiments. Raised on the cold comfort of a lab table. Restraints are only necessary when they're not in their right mind. Is it honorable, to be twisted beyond recognition? Or is it just a necessary evil?
Monsters. Cruelty, caution, and regarding one as a creature beyond reasonable thought is tempering in its own right. But if you keep a leash at the right length, perhaps the massecre won't reach you. One can hope.
Idols. Pretty face, pretty name, pretty hands around their shoulders and throat. There to seduce, manipulate, force any feeling to come to the surface and twist it to their favor. Any genuinity stays locked behind the guilded cage that surrounds their pretty little heart
Trophies. Status and wealth and the traditions that keep someone at their heels, on their knees, to display and serve and decorate one's ballroom.
Sacrifices. Drenched in honorable clothes, prepared and adored and cleansed. The gift of hope at the cost of one's life. Is it taken with no fight? How can you escape the ropes you were born in?
sukuna thinks you can't hear him talking to your belly every night before he sleeps.
it's nothing spectacular. he tells your bump about his day. offers anecdotes of the world your baby will soon be welcomed into. tells bean (as you affectionately call it) about your friends, his job, his classes, your classes. anything for bean to hear his voice. to know their dad.
it's all so mundane. so...tender.
two words sukuna never wants to be associated with.
you don't even know what he'd do if he knew. would he stop out of embarrassment? you're not entirely sure. but you don't want him to. even the possibility of him ceasing to talk to your baby is enough to keep you silent and still.
"i wonder if you'll look like your momma," he murmurs softly one quiet night, his fingertips grazing your bare belly in a soft caress. "she refuses to show me her baby pictures. says they're embarrassing." he snorts.
"if you look like her, i can see it in the flesh," he continues, before pausing.
"i hope you look like her. you'll be the cutest little thing ever. but don't tell her i said that. she doesn't like when i call her cute. but she's the cutest person i've ever seen."
he sighs, and his fingers carefully drum over your abdomen now. "i guess it wouldn't be too bad if you looked like me, though. but i'm gonna ask around, see if i can guarantee that you look like your mom by...manifesting, or whatever the hell she says she does to get her favourite parking spot every day."
your lips quirk, but you will yourself not to laugh. he should sleep.
"yeah, i should sleep," sukuna groans as if reading your thoughts, running a hand down his face. "i sound batshit. but you sleep tight, yeah? don't give your mom too much trouble. she has a nine am lecture, and she feels bad for missing so many. goodnight."
and, like clockwork, sukuna places a loving kiss on the skin above your belly button, before pulling your shirt back down, pulling the covers back up, and pulling you into his warm embrace.
you won't tell him you know, you decide.
you can't risk losing this. not even for a day.
author's note: baby fever has been getting to me so bad like i'm this 🤏 close to letting the next man i see on the street get me pregnant
cw: stalking, suguru being creepy, unrequited love turned reciprocating; nothing too dark though, bit suggestive at the end but not graphic at all, mundane au — w.c: ~2.1k • masterlist
Suguru Geto.
That was the name on the nameplate that changed on the apartment next door. You hadn’t even noticed that your elderly neighbour had moved out—but then again, you weren’t ever too prying. At most, you took a look out of the peephole, hoping to avoid whoever it was you were probably about to meet, especially since you were dragging a bag of dirty laundry down the stairs.
He’d only caught a glimpse of you as you disappeared into the basement door of the apartment before carrying the last of the boxes inside. This apartment was tricky, with its long, winding stairs that seemed to spiral round and round. For the most part, he didn’t care who his neighbours were, just as little as you did This move was meant to be his first real shot at living alone after finally getting out of shared dorms and it was meant to just stay as that. Nothing less, nothing more.
That was until you started making a little too much noise for his liking.
It all started with you playing music on a Friday night, which would have been fine if you’d stopped when it got close to midnight—but you kept going. You weren’t doing this to be rude, though. It was just that your old neighbour had been hard of hearing, so you’d adopted a bad habit. You also lived on the furthest end of the building, so the apartment adjacent to yours was the only one you shared a wall with.
At first, Suguru tried to ignore it too, because he thought it was a one-night thing. Whatever, he supposed—it was going to be the weekend tomorrow and while he had work, maybe you didn’t. Maybe it was a once-in-a-while thing, so he could begrudgingly get used to it as long as it wasn’t too frequent. But then it was. Now, Suguru was a patient guy, but even he had his limit. At some point, he simply snapped.
He wasn’t usually the knock-on-the-door-and-confront-the-asshole type of guy either, but unfortunately for you, he had already clocked you as the noisy neighbour. You were already an interference in his mind—someone who was loud, pestering, and inconsiderate.
And yet, somehow, that all flew out of the window when he met you face to face. For some reason, he wasn’t expecting someone like you. He gulped, blinking down to meet you as you wore a loose-fit t-shirt with the faded logo of a band he hadn’t listened to since he was in secondary school. Somehow, a rush of forgotten memories came flooding back, and he remembered Kento introducing him to their first album, which he’d listened to on repeat to get through the more difficult times.
Your voice was low and raspy and tired when you spoke, your shoulder pressing up against the frame of the door.
“Hey,” you croaked, something about the way you talked scratching just the right parts of his brain. “Can I help you? Or…” you trailed off, noticing how your music echoed into the hallway, narrowing your eyes in realisation. “Oh, is my music too loud?”
The irritation that masked his face was still there, but it gradually softened. He didn’t like that he was so easily swayed by a pretty face, especially one he didn’t know all too well—but it wasn’t like you were being rude. You were just someone enjoying their time alone. That made you both similar enough, didn’t it?
“Not at all,” he murmured, brushing the issue off, trailing off as he glanced past you before blinking back into focus. Wait. No. He came here to scold you—even if only slightly. “Well, wait—yes, it’s too loud, but…”
You tilted your head.
“I start work really early most days,” he explained. “Any chance you could tone it down by midnight at the latest?”
You blinked, surprised that you’d been that loud, but nodded along. Something about his energy and the way he focused on you made you feel a little thrown off—like he was reading too much into you—but that might have just been your imagination. You were never one to take first impressions too seriously, after all. You were awkward too in the wrong situations and there was no way to make a noise complaint anything but tense.
“Of course,” you nodded. “Didn’t mean to cause any trouble. I’ll turn it down before it gets too late.”
And before he could thank you, you’d already turned around and shut the door behind you, leaving him standing on your doorstep a little longer than he intended—unable to get you out of his mind.
Later that week, he found himself listening to the sound of your music the next night. And the next. And the next. It wasn’t too loud anymore, since you’d made the effort to turn it down and wrap it up before midnight. So you were considerate, indeed—and despite his initial complaint—he found himself sitting close enough to the wall to hear more.
Suguru, although unintentionally at first, had come to learn a lot through those thin walls. He knew exactly what time your alarm would go off and how long it took you to get out of bed based on how the floorboards creaked. He learned how long you took in the shower from the way the pipes groaned with the outdated plumbing. He learned more than he meant to—and it wasn’t like you were being alluring on purpose, or obvious, for that matter. He just couldn’t bring himself to stop.
He learned about those private moments you wouldn’t tell anyone else, growing closer to you without meaning to. He’d laugh when you laughed on the phone, or when he heard you watching something weird or silly in bed. He’d clench his jaw when you argued with someone over a call, and stare into the dark along with you as you cried into your pillow.
Honestly, he never meant for it to happen this way, or go this far—but you were like a mystery he couldn’t quite get enough of. He’d see you occasionally too, so it wasn’t entirely about the noise. You’d pass him on the stairs, brushing against his arm in the narrow corridor. You’d shove wrongly delivered mail into his hands with a, “Got your bills,” and he’d find himself looking too long at where your touch had lingered.
Sometimes you broke through the silence with small talk, calling him Suguru and not your weird neighbour. Like he was just that—and not someone who took comfort in the life you lived beyond those thin walls. Like he was a normal guy, not someone with just as messy a past as yours, with just as many secrets behind tired eyes. Not someone who had memorised everything about you. Not like the stalker, he felt he was.
Later in his tenancy, he found himself growing bolder. He began frequenting the common spaces of the building just to catch fleeting moments of you. He’d hang near the entrance with headphones on or loiter in the courtyard pretending to mind his business. He’d smoke on the balcony in the evenings, leaning a little too far over to check if your living room blinds were open. Sometimes, he’d even look in from the street, catching you on and off in various states of undress—
It got weird. Too weird, too soon and too fast.
He started to know more about you than you knew about yourself. He recognised the signs of your moods. If you paced quickly, you were going through something bad. If you took your time, you were relaxed. If the microwave dinged too much, you were cooking less and feeling sorry for yourself.
He knew too much but he couldn’t bring himself to feel guilty. And one fateful night, you knocked on his door.
It was late, and you were deliciously tired, batting up at him with sleepy eyes. Your hair was a mess and your t-shirt was torn in places and stained, but it sat over your form so perfectly. You wore shorts and sliders and it wasn’t a particularly appealing look—but by then, he was hopelessly, unrequitedly in love with you.
“Think I blew a fuse,” you said through a yawn. “Got a flashlight I can borrow? Please?”
He didn’t reply at first—just looked at you before reaching for one that he conveniently had nearby. He was quiet too as he followed you down the hall, saying nothing as you fumbled with the panel, furrowing your brows, chewing your bottom lip in concentration.
Then finally, after searing the sight of you into his memory, he mumbled, “Allow me.”
He fixed it quickly—because he was good with his hands. He knew which switches to flick and what buttons to press. He restored the power without even breaking a sweat.
“This place hates it when too many things are running at once,” he said, glancing around your kitchenette. You had the air fryer, the kettle, and the microwave all going. It had likely been too much.
“Oh yeah?” you replied sleepily. “I’ll keep that in mind for next time. Wouldn’t want to bother you too much.”
Suguru tightened his jaw and swallowed. Maybe he shouldn’t have said that. He liked the interaction, after all. But it wasn’t like you knew how far gone he was.
It wasn’t like you noticed he kept track of everything.
From the soft way you breathed… to the way your hand fell away as you handed back the flashlight.
It got weirder after that—or harder—or both.
It became difficult not to think about you because you had become part of his routine. He started to wonder about the little things. Like what your shampoo smelt like if he pressed his nose into your hair, or what type of lip balm you used—and whether the taste would linger when he kissed you.
It grew more complex when he started imagining all the little things he’d seen scattered around your apartment... but in his own space.
Would he get annoyed with always having plushies on the sofa?
Would he find himself tutting at the fact that you didn’t clean up as you cooked?
Would he help you keep track of yourself—do the dishes for you—just to have you be extra sweet by the end of the night?
He couldn’t help but wonder. So, he started setting aside space.
In his mind at first. Then physically. Just to imagine it.
What an empty drawer on the other side of the bedside cabinet might look like. What your portion of the sink might have on it. What toothpaste you’d use—and what your body might look like in the shower in the morning—
Would he argue for you to hurry up?
Or would he join you?
All the while, you drifted closer to him in a way you thought was natural.
It wasn’t like you had any reason to believe he had bad intentions, because why would you? He was kind. Soft-spoken. Polite. Maybe reserved at times, but you got that. He never crossed a line nor did he pressure you into anything strange.
He was just your same-aged, handsome neighbour—the one you’d started to feel you could open up to.
And just like that, you began to fall into rhythm with him.
You let him do things for you when he offered.
Such as assembling the furniture you’d complained about struggling with or fixing your sink when it leaked.
In turn, you gave him bites of leftovers. You talked with him more. You lingered a little longer in his doorway, hoping to catch a glimpse of him too.
So, when all those little things fell into place—in a way that felt, again, natural—it almost felt correct(?)
Especially when your shitty apartment broke in a way he couldn’t fix. Or rather... subtly tampered with. Just enough to finally ask you—
“Why don’t you stay at mine tonight?”
Instead of sleeping in a freezing apartment with busted heating—when his place was perfectly warm.
Or rather... attuned to just the way you liked it.
Suguru, all the while, told himself that this was perfectly fine because you seemed to like him back, so it wasn’t like he was being creepy or anything of the sort.
You were leaning into his company just as naturally as he thought and definitely not because he’d slowly isolated you from everyone else—carefully enough to seem coincidental. It wasn’t like he’d intentionally made himself the only one you could easily reach out to. The quickest one to respond.
That couldn’t have been manipulative... right?
It wasn’t like you meant to fall for him.
Not when he’d only come over that night intending to ask his noisy neighbour for some peace and quiet.
Not when, by the end of it all, he had planned that the nights up ahead would never end in silence again.
(Because he’d make sure to make you scream his name however many times he could.)
Cast (In order of appearnce): Fushiguro Megumi, Nanami Kento, Gojo Satoru, Fushiguro Toji, Geto Suguwu, Kamo Choso, Itadorki Yuji, & Ramen Sukuna.
Summary: A dissection of fandom Y/N tropes that confuse access with intimacy, cruelty with depth, and projection with love. WC: 4.5k
Warnings: Psychological manipulation, Grooming-adjacent dynamics, Infantilization of adults, Emotional dependency/Emotional labor exploitation, Stalking behaviors, Implied violence & death, Abuse of power dynamics, Incest-adjacent language/themes, Cult dynamics/moral coercion, Non-romantic depictions of canon characters, No comfort, no redemption, no happy endings for readers, Yandere Reader Insert, Dead Dove: Do not eat.
A/N: Based off a private request I got randomly on TikTok. This work critiques fandom tropes. It is not ship-positive and does not romanticize the behaviors depicted. See this basically as my take on the Y/N trend. These are not love stories. They are case studies. Read them as such.
FUSHIGURO MEGUMI × Y/N
Megumi noticed her because she made noise where none was required.
She walked into lampposts. Benches. Other people. Apologized with exaggerated gestures. Laughed at herself like she expected applause.
She was not interacting with him.
That made it worse.
Secondhand embarrassment settled between his shoulders like tension he hadn’t asked for. Noise demanded participation. Megumi refused.
She tripped near him and looked up, eyes wide, expectant.
He didn’t help her up.
The pause stretched. Long enough to register. Long enough to sting.
Then passing by, Yuji tripped.
Not theatrically or performatively. He actually went down, swore under his breath, palms scraped.
Megumi moved immediately.
“Idiot,” he snapped, already hauling him upright. “Watch where you’re walking. Are you hurt?”
Yuji laughed, sheepish. “I’m fine, I’m fine—”
“Sit down,” Megumi said, checking his hands anyway. “You’re bleeding.”
The contrast was violent.
She was still on the ground.
She scrambled to her feet, flustered, muttering about how she was “just like that.” She lingered, glancing at him from the corner of her eye.
He moved away.
Over the next week, she appeared everywhere. Always falling. Always audible. Always positioned so someone—anyone—would notice.
Megumi hated it. Not morally. Viscerally.
People who had never been corrected grew up thinking inconvenience was charm.
When she finally spoke to him, it was through humor. Self-deprecation sharpened just enough to demand reassurance.
“You don’t get to make other people uncomfortable and call it personality,” he said, deadpan.
Her face fell. Not hurt. Exposed.
Megumi didn’t think about her after that. People like her relied on cushioning. The world was not obligated to provide it.
Y/N was younger. Not dramatically. Just enough to explain the behavior without excusing it.
She dropped things constantly. Made small noises when startled. Framed herself like a child who had never been told no.
“I’m just sooo bad at this stuff,” she said, smiling, waiting.
Megumi noticed something specific.
She never failed when no one was watching.
She leaned into him physically. Hung off his arm. Asked him to do things she could do herself. Framed it as cuteness.
Megumi did not find it cute.
He had grown up too fast to romanticize incompetence. He had been parentified by circumstance. He did not want to date someone who expected him to finish raising them.
When he did not respond to her cues, she increased them. Higher voice. Bigger reactions. More public embarrassment.
So he said it. “You don’t act like this with other people.”
She froze.
That was the rupture. The moment the performance collapsed under observation.
She accused him of being cold. Of not understanding softness. Of preferring women who were “too serious.”
Megumi did not argue. He simply disengaged.
Y/N moved on quickly. There were always men who confused fragility with femininity.
Megumi wasn’t one of them.
NANAMI KENTO × Y/N
Y/N spoke to Nanami like he was a wallet that had learned to talk.
She didn’t flirt with Nanami.
She evaluated him.
She praised his reliability the way people praise infrastructure. Stable. Safe. Sensible. She called it “provider energy” and watched his reaction like she was checking a credit score.
She complained about emotionally unavailable men while transferring emotional labor onto him within days. Planning. Reassurance. Decision-making. Little jokes about money that arrived too early to be jokes.
Nanami recognized the pattern with too much clarity.
She wasn’t attracted to him.
She was attracted to what she believed he could absorb.
Y/N liked how he listened. She misinterpreted his politeness as indulgence. She casually infantilized herself, playing up her incompetence by asking him to explain basic things and laughing about how she was "bad at adulting," as if helplessness was charming rather than strategic.
He corrected her once.
“I am not interested in caretaking,” he said.
She laughed. Interpreted the boundary as foreplay.
So she escalated. More vulnerability-as-performance. More admiration. More pressure disguised as honesty. Complaints shaped to invite rescue.
Nanami ended it cleanly.
She cried. Told people he was cold. Said he “didn’t know how to love.”
Nanami did not argue. He never did with people who mistook boundaries for cruelty.
He returned to work relieved.
Then he saw her again on a train platform at 7:42 AM.
She was already talking. On the phone, to no one that cared, about how early mornings were “not her vibe.” She dropped her coffee. Gasps. Laughter. An apology to the universe.
Nanami stepped back automatically. He disliked inefficiency. He disliked mess. He disliked people who exported both.
She noticed his attention retract.
“Oh no,” she said, smiling, “I’m such a mess, right?”
He didn’t respond.
That irritated her.
She sat beside him on the train despite available seats. Her knee jiggled. Her bag spilled. She asked him what time it was, though there was a rather large clock above them.
He answered once. Briefly. Polite. He assumed that would end it.
It did not.
By the fourth morning, the routine was deliberate. Same car. Same seat. Same rehearsed incompetence. Nanami began taking an earlier train. She adjusted.
That was when he understood this was not coincidence. It was intrusion.
He told her plainly to stop. Calm. Direct. Documented. No raised voice. No cruelty.
She cried.
Not quietly. Publicly. Accusatory.
People stared at him like he had committed a crime.
Nanami absorbed the looks. Like he always did.
He reported the behavior through proper channels. He documented dates, times, patterns. He changed routes again.
She escalated anyway. Notes. Waiting. Following at a distance.
Nanami didn’t rescue people from consequences.
He removed variables.
One evening, she followed him somewhere she did not belong. Somewhere unsafe.
Nanami did not kill her. He simply didn’t position himself as a shield when the environment did.
He went back to work the next day, filed his report in peace.
Some people mistake kindness for a renewable resource.
Nanami never did.
GOJO SATORU × Y/N
He noticed her because everyone did.
Not in a flattering way. In the way you notice a fire alarm screaming inside a grocery store—too loud, too sudden, impossible to ignore, and immediately suspicious.
She talked to strangers as if they were props. Loud. Performative. Narrating her own actions under her breath, then louder, then to no one in particular.
She dropped things, laughed too long, apologized theatrically, then repeated the behavior.
She tripped on nothing. Twice.
Gojo clocked it instantly. Not clumsiness. Design.
The problem was not that she was embarrassing. It was that she was trying to be witnessed. Gojo had spent his entire life filtering attention, separating noise from threat, chaos from intention. He knew the texture of accidents.
This wasn’t one.
Y/N’s defining trait was that she was unimpressed. Loudly. Constantly. Proud of it. As if indifference were proof of intelligence.
She cut him off mid-sentence to correct details he hadn’t gotten wrong. She sighed when he talked about work. She called him a nerd for liking sweets, like she’d discovered fire instead of repeating something a bored child could have said.
“God, do you ever shut up,” she said, smiling, tilting it like flirtation.
People laughed. That was the point.
She assumed that because his students mocked him, she was entitled to the same. She didn’t understand hierarchy, or intimacy, context, or why some people earned familiarity and others borrowed it badly.
She mistook proximity for permission.
Gojo noticed immediately.
Not because it hurt his feelings. Because it was boring.
He let it continue just long enough to confirm the pattern. This wasn’t banter. It was calibration. She needed him smaller to feel large. She needed to be the exception, the woman who did not fall at his feet.
“You don’t talk like this to other adults,” he said eventually, mild as weather.
She scoffed. “Relax. You’re not that serious.”
He smiled. Thin. Precise.
“No,” he said. “You’re not.”
After that, he disengaged. No reactions. No corrections. He treated her like a coworker who had wildly overestimated the scope of her access.
She escalated. Mockery sharpened when it stopped landing.
What Y/N didn’t understand was that Gojo tolerated ridicule only when it arrived with competence, trust, or care.
She had offered none of the above.
She got louder. Made sure everyone knew she was rejecting him, not the other way around.
Gojo didn’t fix the story. He rarely bothered correcting fiction.
She drifted closer once she realized he was not reacting. People like her always did. Silence offended them.
“Oh my god, I am so sorry,” she said, bumping into his arm. “I am literally the worst.”
He looked down at the contact point. Then at her face.
“No, you’re not,” he said, flat. “You’re just loud.”
She blinked, wrong-footed. He walked away.
She followed.
That was the error.
He stopped in a narrow side street where cameras didn’t linger and people didn’t idle. He turned, smiling pleasantly, like a man explaining a policy.
“You’re doing this on purpose,” he whispered. “You want proximity. You want association. You want to be remembered.”
She laughed too high, too fast.
He leaned in just enough for the air to shift. “Do this again,” he said softer still, “and you won’t be remembered at all.”
Her smile fractured. Not fear. Offense. She hated being legible.
She didn’t approach him again. She did, however, continue performing elsewhere, getting louder whenever attention dipped.
Two weeks later, she wandered into a restricted area she’d been warned about. She’d always assumed consequences were fictional.
They weren’t.
Gojo didn’t attend the cleanup. He never said her name.
To him, she wasn’t a woman who died.
She was a pattern that completed itself.
FUSHIGURO TOJI × Y/N
A page from Megumi’s journal.
They ask me this sometimes.
Which one bothers me most.
I usually don’t answer right away. Not because I don’t know—but because once you say it out loud, people get defensive. They always think you’re talking about them.
All of them romanticize my father’s damage.
She fetishizes his neglect. His violence. His exhaustion. She frames survival behaviors as aesthetic grit. She thought being chosen by him meant she was special.
The worst one is the girl who thinks she redeems him through love.
Her whole personality is tolerance and the belief that endurance is the same thing as strength.
Somehow, through her softness, my father becomes safe. Loyal. Domestic. As if one woman’s willingness to stay rewrites decades of violence, poverty, addiction, and rage.
That’s not romance. That’s erasure.
Close second is the one who says, proudly, “I can handle him.”
She always says it like it’s a skill.
Brags about being the exception. About how he’s different with her. How he’s gentle when no one else is watching.
That isn’t insight. That’s survivorship bias wearing confidence.
Men like him don’t have exceptions.
They have phases.
Anyone who grew up around that kind of volatility knows the difference.
Then there’s the domestic fantasy.
Housewife narratives. Baby-trapping. Dad jokes. Family dinners.
No instability. No fear. No tension.
Just vibes and a kitchen table.
People don’t understand how insulting that is—to the damage he caused, and to the intelligence of anyone who lived with men like him.
You don’t get to sandblast reality until it’s palatable and call that healing.
I also hate the trauma-bond soulmate version. Two broken people spiraling together and calling it recovery.
That’s not healing. That’s mutual destruction with better lighting.
The common thread is always the same.
Y/N romanticizes his damage.
She fetishizes neglect and calls it grit. Frames violence as edge. Treats exhaustion like masculinity.
She thinks being chosen by him makes her special, as if proximity to chaos is a prize.
She talked about fixing him while refusing to understand him.
She likes that he’s rough but resents him for being unkind. Wants the danger without the blade. The image without the cost.
She believes love is endurance, that staying is virtue, that self-erasure is loyalty.
My father never promised her anything.
She projected anyway.
She excused absences. Justified cruelty. Took pride in being the one who stayed.
When he didn’t change, she reframed suffering as proof of depth.
He tolerated it longer than he should have because she didn’t demand anything. Until she did.
Until she tried to moralize him.
Until she softened him in public.
Until she implied ownership.
That’s when he left.
No explanation. No closure. That part is always accurate.
Afterward, she calls him irredeemable. Says she tried. Says she loved him.
He never asked to be redeemed.
The only version that doesn’t bother me is the one where she doesn’t try to save him.
Someone who sees him clearly, keeps distance, sets terms, and leaves when lines are crossed.
No ego about being special. No fantasy about being the exception.
Anything else is just people playing dress-up with a loaded weapon and calling it love.
GETO SUGURU × Y/N
Y/N believed ideology was intimacy.
She listened when Geto spoke and nodded at the correct intervals. She repeated his language back to him with slightly different phrasing, like she was studying for an exam she didn’t intend to pass. She treated his convictions as a shared aesthetic—something solemn, intelligent, elevated.
Agreement, to her, was proof of depth.
She liked how serious he sounded. How absolute. How righteous it felt to align herself with someone who spoke in conclusions instead of questions.
She told people she understood him. That she saw what others refused to.
She never asked about the cost.
Y/N framed herself as his conscience while outsourcing all responsibility. She criticized non-sorcerers with theatrical cruelty, then retreated into abstraction when pressed. It wasn’t hatred—she made that distinction often. It was philosophy. It was logic. It was necessary.
Geto noticed how her moral certainty sharpened in public and softened in private. How her beliefs adjusted depending on the audience. How she used conviction as a mirror instead of a spine.
She liked proximity to power. To ideology. To the gravity of someone willing to burn the world down with reasons attached.
She did not like accountability.
When Geto defected, she followed—not because she believed, but because she didn’t want to be left behind. She called it loyalty, understanding.
She told herself she was anchoring him, that without her he would tip fully into monstrosity.
Geto let her believe that.
He did not love her. He did not need to.
What he needed was access.
A civilian face. Someone who could move through spaces he no longer could without friction. Someone who would rationalize anything as long as it preserved her self-image as enlightened.
She was useful.
He watched how easily she reframed his actions when speaking to others. How quickly she explained away disappearances. How smoothly she turned atrocity into abstraction.
She did the labor willingly, eagerly, because it made her feel chosen.
She cooked. She organized. She soothed curses like they were logistics problems.
She kept things running while telling herself she was preventing something worse.
Geto never corrected her.
He noticed how she flinched when consequences were immediate. How she recoiled from blood when it wasn’t metaphorical. How she needed his ideology to remain theoretical enough to be flattering.
She called herself his moral compass.
He knew better.
A compass points north regardless of terrain. She pointed wherever the ground felt safest.
When she accused him of losing himself, he almost laughed. She had mistaken charisma for conscience and conviction for intimacy.
She thought proximity equaled influence.
He had never asked her to understand him.
He had let her stay because she did not challenge him. Because she absorbed doubt so he didn’t have to. Because she was willing to call complicity love as long as it meant she mattered.
Eventually, even utility decays.
When she asked him to soften—just a little, just publicly, just enough to preserve the illusion—Geto understood the limit of her loyalty. She didn’t want his truth. She wanted a version of him she could survive.
He withdrew without drama. Not because he was conflicted, but because she had ceased to be useful.
She told people he’d changed. That he’d become extreme. That she had tried to be his anchor.
Geto knew then that she had never seen him at all.
She had only ever seen herself—standing beside something terrible and calling it meaning.
KAMO CHOSO × Y/N
Y/N treated Choso like a malfunctioning child.
She rationed information. Curated what he was allowed to know, who he was allowed to speak to, which parts of the world he was allowed to touch without her approval.
His unfamiliarity with modern life was framed as incompetence instead of displacement. She laughed when he didn’t understand phones. Explained things slowly, indulgently, like correction was affection.
She made decisions before he could ask questions. Spoke for him in conversations. Answered on his behalf. Smiled when people praised her patience.
She called it care.
She softened his anger into something palatable. Rewrote his restraint as fragility.
Took a man forged by violence, loss, and centuries of survival and shaved him down into something harmless. Something grateful. Something small.
She loved calling him gentle.
She loved calling him soft.
She loved reminding him—subtly, constantly—that he needed her.
The sexual framing came later, and that was the most damning part. Never honest enough to be confronted directly. It lived in tone. In imbalance dressed up as intimacy. In dynamics where authority was reframed as safety and dependence was marketed as devotion.
Power, misnamed as healing.
Any discomfort raised was met with defensiveness. “You’re misreading it.” “You need me.” “You don’t know how the world works.” The language of justification stacked neatly on top of control.
Choso was none of this.
Choso was rage held in a closed fist. Loyalty sharpened by choice, not fear. A man who knew exactly what he was capable of and therefore chose restraint.
Someone who understood autonomy because he had been denied it before.
Y/N did not want that man.
She wanted a doll.
Someone who would cling and cry and kneel emotionally while she narrated herself as a savior.
Someone whose boundaries could be dismissed as trauma responses.
Someone whose independence could be labeled dangerous.
Choso noticed the pattern slowly, then all at once.
He noticed that her kindness evaporated when he disagreed.
He noticed that praise was conditional. Compliance rewarded. Resistance framed as regression.
He noticed how often she spoke about him to others as if he weren’t present.
How easily she summarized his feelings without asking.
How quickly she corrected him when his version didn’t align with hers.
He noticed how she discouraged him from acting alone. How concern always arrived wrapped around limitation.
“Let me handle it,” she’d say. “You don’t have to worry about that.” “You don’t understand.” “You wouldn’t get it.” “It’s complicated, cho.”
Cho.
She used it when she was pleased with him. When he complied. When he stayed quiet. The nickname arrived soft, syrupy, corrective—never when he was angry, never when he spoke too firmly, never when he sounded like a man who remembered what he was capable of.
His full name only surfaced when she was explaining him to others. “Choso doesn’t really understand these things.” “He’s very sensitive.” “He needs someone to guide him.”
She talked over him with a smile. Touched his arm when he disagreed. Lowered her voice like she was soothing an animal that startled easily.
“Easy, cho.”
God, he had never hated his own name more.
It wasn’t affection.
It was reduction. A way of shaving him down syllable by syllable until he fit the version of him she preferred—smaller, quieter, grateful.
Love that insists on shortening you is not love.
It’s containment.
When he asserted himself, she reframed it as ingratitude.
When he distanced himself, she called it betrayal.
When he left, she told others he was confused. Unready. Lost without her guidance.
Choso didn’t correct the story.
He didn’t owe clarity to someone who had mistaken dominance for devotion.
He walked away intact.
He moved into Yuki’s old place—quiet, anchored, unremarkable in the way safety often is—while Yuki continued drifting in and out of Japan, orbiting places instead of inhabiting them, mistaking movement for independence.
Choso rebuilt in stillness.
He had survived experimentation. Erasure. The theft of his body and his brothers’ lives. He had endured being shaped by forces that never asked for consent.
He recognized the pattern.
He refused to live inside it again.
ITADORI YUJI × Y/N
Y/N treated Yuji like an emotional support animal.
She overshared immediately. Not all at once, but in controlled bursts—traumas delivered early enough to create obligation, spaced carefully so there was always another crisis coming. She cried loudly, apologized for crying, then cried harder about being a burden. Yuji listened because listening was what he did.
She had noticed him being kind in public.
She had also noticed something else behind his eyes.
She never named it directly, but the fascination was obvious. The way her concern lingered. The way her gaze paused as if she were waiting for something else to speak.
Yuji noticed the shift when her questions stopped being about him.
That was usually how it began.
At first, she spoke gently to him, like he was fragile. She praised his patience. His goodness. His softness. She framed herself as someone who needed protection and framed him as the only one capable of providing it.
She introduced her problems in stages. Each one calibrated to pull him closer. Each one framed as vulnerability rather than responsibility.
Yuji listened. He always did.
Y/N needed saving constantly—from her emotions, from other people, from consequences she repeatedly created. She praised Yuji’s empathy while turning it into a point of dependency.
She confused his willingness to care with consent to be relied on.
She liked calling him safe. Gentle. Different. She used language that blurred categories—care that sounded possessive, concern that came with expectations. Familiarity that edged too close to ownership.
Worse, she infantilized him.
She spoke to him as if he were younger than he was. She withheld information he already knew. She praised him like a good boy instead of treating him like an adult with agency.
Sometimes she crossed lines she pretended not to see. Familial language slipped into intimacy. Comfort became something exclusive. The people around them brushed it off as humor. As shipping. As exaggeration.
It wasn’t. In what world was shipping with your family or demons justified.
Yuji began noticing patterns. Her crises escalated whenever his attention drifted. She discouraged his other relationships indirectly—never forbidding them outright, just framing herself as the only one who truly understood him.
What she wanted to understand wasn’t Yuji.
She asked careful questions about the thing inside him. About control. About what it felt like when he was tired. Distracted. Weak. About whether the other presence ever spoke without his permission.
She said she was scared.
Yuji knew better.
She framed closeness as destiny. Talked about souls merging. About connections that shouldn’t have boundaries. She treated intimacy like something that justified itself.
Yuji didn’t notice the danger immediately.
He just became more guarded.
He avoided touch. Calculated exits. Measured his words. Thought about what Sukuna might see. What Sukuna might say.
Sometimes he went still mid-conversation, jaw tight, breath controlled, listening to warnings only he could hear.
Not commentary.
Warnings.
Promises.
She didn’t like his distance. She laughed it off at first. Called him shy. Gentle. Old-fashioned. She said it like a compliment and meant it like pressure.
Yuji didn’t explain that it was fear.
That every time she got close, he imagined Sukuna smiling.
She spoke often about how love should hurt. How longing proved depth. How the most meaningful bonds never fully separated. She talked about monsters with unsettling familiarity—about danger as romance, about being chosen by something terrible as a kind of validation.
Sometimes she joked about which one of them she would belong to if Yuji ever lost control.
She always laughed afterward.
Yuji never did.
When he pulled back, she cried. Accused him of changing. Of becoming cold. Of abandoning what they had built.
What they had built was dependence.
When she finally crossed the line, she called it inevitability. She spoke about the other presence as if it were an extension of Yuji—as if sharing a body meant sharing consent.
Yuji understood then that she hadn’t been confused.
She had been waiting.
He stepped away quietly. Gently. Too gently.
She reframed the story to protect herself. Talked about bonds beyond rules. Intimacy beyond labels. Love that didn’t need boundaries.
Yuji didn’t argue. He never did.
He carried the guilt longer than he should have.
Eventually, he learned something simple.
Kindness did not require self-erasure.
Some people mistook his warmth for permission.
He stopped letting them.
Yuji chose solitude not because he feared being alone, but because living with something inside him had taught him exactly what safety cost—and what it was worth protecting.
RYOMEN SUKUNA × Y/N
Sukuna had met two Y/Ns in his lifetime.
The first one, she approached him intentionally.
That alone marked her as stupid.
She laughed at nothing. She touched his sleeve. She told him he looked “intimidating but in a hot way.”
Sukuna stared at her like one examines a poorly built toy.
He let her talk. He wanted to see how far she would go.
Very far, it turned out.
She leaned closer. Whispered. Made herself small. Made herself clumsy. Dropped her phone at his feet on purpose.
He did not pick it up.
“Do you think you’re disarming,” he asked, “or invisible?”
She giggled. Wrong answer.
Sukuna killed her quickly.
Later, when someone asked if he had seen her, he said no.
He meant it. By the time he was done, there was nothing left to see.
Second Y/N existed in extremes. She was either defiant to the point of parody or submissive to the point of erasure.
This version thought she was the exception.
She talked back. Smirked. Made jokes at his expense. Framed herself as fearless, as if arrogance were bravery.
Sukuna tolerated it briefly, out of curiosity.
Then she shifted. Softened. Became quieter. More yielding. Waiting to be chosen.
The transition disgusted him.
She wanted to be conquered. Or worshipped. Or destroyed romantically.
She did not want to be real.
Sukuna despised fantasy that mistook itself for strength.
He killed her without ceremony.
Not because she was annoying.
Because she believed proximity to power was a substitute for substance.
A/N: This series was not about hating characters, ships, or readers. It’s about patterns—specifically, the ways fandom romance sometimes confuses access with intimacy, projection with understanding, and endurance with love. These were written from the perspective of the characters as adults with boundaries, histories, and agency. They are not fix-it fantasies, redemption arcs, or comfort narratives. Some of the dynamics depicted are intentionally uncomfortable because they mirror real behaviors that are often normalized or romanticized.
Header is made by yours truly. Dividers by @cursed-carmine & @saradika-graphics.
Hygiene: Don’t repost without permission, lift, or 'AI remix' my works.
synopsis: you thought your silly hobby can be hidden from your boyfriend, tsukishima.
pairing: tsukishima kei x reader
content: gender neutral reader, fluff fluff fluff, domestic, short drabble, just a little tsukki headcanon because i love him, self-indulgence.
Everyone can agree that Tsukishima Kei isn’t the flowery, poetic words kind of guy.
Even the man himself accord to that perception.
He is, though, a man of gestures. Not the grand kind — but the kind that makes you feel stable and at ease.
Achingly so, he’s consistent with it as well that by all means, you feel guilty for hiding a particular interest.
You were afraid of what he’ll say if he finds out you have a childish hobby for collecting blind boxes, toys, or whatever you may call it.
Thus, you tried your best to hide your whole box of trinkets from him as you two unpack in your new shared home.
You were so careful, lest your trinkets make a noise. So quiet, that only the slow droplets from the faucet — that needs to be replaced — echoes through the walls.
But he’d notice.
He would always notice before you can even utter a word about it.
Hence a few days after, as not to arouse suspicion, he made an excuse saying, “I’m heading out to buy a new faucet for our bathroom.”
When he came back, he wasn’t holding a metallic water tap.
Instead, he was holding a small box — a blind box — and you take a peak as you hide behind the door, eager to pounce at him and open the blind box yourself.
“Oh,” Tsukishima says casually, “It’s the rare one.”
You inhale sharply and with a thud, your boyfriend looks up at you.
“Can I…” You hesitate for a moment, “Take a look..?”
He walks towards you without saying anything, and he hands you the trinket.
You didn’t even notice the way both edges of your lips turned upwards, and the way your eyes sparkled as you admire the trinket on your hand.
But Tsukishima noticed.
As you were about to give it back, he shrugged. When you looked at him with confusion, he just said, “What? It’s yours.”
And moments later as you got out of the bathroom after your shower, you noticed your collection of trinkets were already organized on the shelf. They were placed carefully as though they were something sacred — something special.
More so, the trinket that Tsukishima got you? It’s placed beside his dinosaur figurine.
He didn’t tease you. He didn’t question it.
You smile — because you realized you didn’t have to hide or explain yourself to him; and because you knew that being who you are is something Tsukishima had already chosen.
He soon became your assistant who follows you around the shop whilst carrying your shopping basket full of blind boxes — and he’d secretly look for one as well to match trinkets with you while he’s at it.
note: back to writing fluff & i need a six-foot tall volleyball player with glasses named tsukishima kei to support me in my hobby of collecting useless, expensive trinkets <3.
a/n: this was sm fun to do i lowkey love smaus. Thank you so much for all the love i can’t believe it !! I will probably do more smaus in the future if people enjoy this one 💗
a/n — I know I said I’d post 5 times over he weekend and I’ve only done 3 but I’ve trained over 13 hours in two days so I’ve been tired, sorry! 😅 I also really enjoyed making this one!
TW: descriptions of alcohol usage and withdrawals,
Note: This is a very personal topic to me. All of these are things I've seen or experienced myself. I requested some headcanons from an author, and before they replied, I got inspired and decided to make this smau as a really personal and maybe a bit cathartic thing. Will I make this into a series or a running theme in more SMAUs? Possibly. I'm not sure yet. It's good to be writing again even though it's not anything long or drawn out. I'm still taking requests, and have plans for more SMAUs, but this felt right to post now
Yandere Gojo who likes oblivious reader. Reader is not a sorcerer student just a normal civilian. She’s always free no curses clinging to her cuz the strongest is protecting her just yandere Gojo who’s obsessively in love with you.
Following you around to keep you safe he can’t lose another one who’s important to him after all.
Thirst ask — 55
|| Yandere!Gojou crushing on non-sorcerer student reader.
The following content will contain themes that may upset some reader, read the warnings carefully and by scrolling further, you have given your consent to read these content.
warnings: TEACHER/STUDENT, adult/minor, underage reader, age gap, stalking, yandere
notes: Big brain anon 🤲
*reader is not a sorcerer
How you two met was completely random but definitely k-drama worthy. He was on the train on his way to meet up with the first-years to supervise their mission and he happen to sit beside you.
Nothing out of the ordinary, right? You were just a regular schoolgirl on her way home after school—or tuition, perhaps?—and a stranger, until he saw what was in your hands.
It’s the limited candy that is currently the talk of the town, so popular that even Gojou Satoru couldn’t get his hands on. It was sold out too quickly and Gojou blamed the stupid mission he had that day for not knowing the news of it getting restocked.
Even with his blindfold on, you could feel him staring at you— or more like the bag of candy in your hands.
Kind, innocent and naive you turn to the white haired (attractive) stranger, pulling one out of the beautifully decorated bag and tilted your head (very cutely so).
“Do you want one, mister?”
Look, you know offering a candy to a complete stranger, an adult even, was a little odd, but you were sure he was drooling and ogling the candy in your hands that you couldn’t bear to ignore him.
“Huh? Really? Thank you!!!”
He said excitedly before taking the candy from your hand, fingers unintentionally brushing with yours and Gojou finds it amusing how you gulped and the very small tint of blush on cheeks. Hah, his charms really are irresistible.
He carefully pealed the plastic packaging, talking about how he needs to put it in a glass box for display because it’s so rare to get your hands on one, this successfully made you laugh at his antics. He’s like a child.
Before you part ways, you even gave him a couple more because he said that he’s meeting up with a few of his students to tutor them—he decided to save the explanations and just lied—saying that he could share it with them.
Gojou knew he was supposed to share the candies you gave him with his students, but he finds himself shoving them in his pocket, safe and sound in his possessions when he finally saw the three first-years.
I mean, those are rare candies, right? Of course Gojou would want them all to himself when it comes to candies. He’s a selfish, selfish man, after all.
He’s intrigued at such a naive girl, you don’t just give out candies to strangers you met on a train. He brushed it off as pure curiosity when he searches up online about your uniform, finding which school you go to.
Then he just…stalks you, to put it frankly. Whenever he has time— screw it, he makes time to stroll around the area you would possibly be in, hoping to catch a glimpse of his favorite girl. After following you for days, he got a hold of your routine. Heck, he even knew where you lived! Now isn’t this just amazing?
Of course, whenever there are any pesky curses trying to ruin his time stalking with you, he would exorcise them without so much as a flick of his wrist, guaranteeing your safety.
He watches you go to school, watches you board the fated train that brought the two of you together, watches you buy groceries, watches you stop to pet some stray animals on the streets, watches you debate with yourself whether you should treat yourself and buy the takoyaki you’ve been craving for so long or not with your limited allowance, oh, sweetheart, he’d buy all the takoyakis you want if you just ask, watches you go back to the safety of your home.
Such an adorable girl.
Ah…he can’t wait to speak to you and get to have skin contact with you again.
Guess he’ll have to accidentally bump into you on the streets to have a talk, huh?
I love this so much for no reason (⁎⁍̴̆Ɛ⁍̴̆⁎) the thought of Gojou getting interested in a non-sorcerer student does things to me ♡
Also…now I’m just thinking about Gojou pulling strings and ends up meeting your parents (he’s Gojou Satoru he can do anything) and your parents end up liking him a lot…wonder how you’ll react to having your gold digger parents bring up the topic of engagement with Satoru?
warnings: TEACHER/STUDENT, adult/minor, age gap, bad teacher Gojou, he’s mean to you, no curses au
We all love Gojou-sensei who favors student reader and makes it blatantly obvious that he’d choose you over anyone anytime, but what about mean Gojou-sensei who treats you horribly and singles you out from the other students? Gojou-sensei who laughs and have fun with all students except you. You don’t get it, why does every other kid your age get to exit class and live their youths while you’re stuck in detention nearly every day?
He always manage to find reasons to give you detention. Kids on the back row are literally having a meal in class, but you asking your seat mate questions regarding homework deserves to get punished?
Extra schoolwork he had given specially for you made you get less sleep than you should, resulting in difficulty in focusing and occasionally dozing off in class. Detention.
Humiliating you in front of class, pointing out every little mistake you made and announcing it to everyone of how bad of a girl you are. And you’re so young, too. How are you gonna survive in the outside world with this attitude, hm?
Your friends no longer wished to spend time with such a bad student anymore, it’d ruin their reputations. Besides, Gojou-sensei is so charming. Attractive, funny, absolutely gorgeous. They wouldn’t want him to get the wrong idea by sticking with you, do they? They don’t wish to get on Gojou-sensei’s bad side, like how you did.
Whenever Gojou-sensei have fun talking casually to the students, the moment you entered the classroom their laughter would die down. Students clearing their throat awkwardly and looking away, nothing too much. But Gojou-sensei, however, decided to show his absolute distaste for you, making his point across by giving you an uninterested look, sharp eyes scanning your figure as if you were trash and worthless, letting out a sigh before standing from his desk and getting ready for class to start.
It hurts. Of course it would. When someone who’s all smiles and laughs with people suddenly becomes cold to only a certain person, you would question what was wrong with yourself? What did you do to make Gojou-sensei pick on you? What grave sin did you commit that deprives you of Gojou-sensei’s affection?
Envy and jealousy would bubble in the pit of your stomach as you watch him praise and congratulate other students. Watch him wave goodbye with charming smiles to your classmates. And when all students finally got out of his classroom, Gojou-sensei would shut the door and turn to head back to his desk. He gave you a cold glance, void of any positive emotion and unlike how he was literally seconds ago.
“What are you doing sitting there looking dumb like that?”
His words were always harsh with you. Your gaze immediately cast down on your lap as your lips quivered at his tone.
“Do your homework. Get them done before detention ends or I’ll extend the next one.”
Next one, probably tomorrow. How are you going to finish all? You have more school work than others, simply because he thinks you deserved it.
You hate him, you hate him with every fiber of your being but, you always wish for him to treat you the same as he treats other students.
You can’t help it, you were just a young teen, after all. Of course you would seek praise and attention, you wanted him to pat your head and tell you that you did a good job.
So when you finally broke down, questioning Gojou-sensei what you did wrong through sobs and hiccups, he wasn’t surprised. In fact, he was delighted. Finally, your hard facade cracked under his power.
Now, with just some sweet whispers he’ll have you in his arms immediately. Gojou-sensei always get what he wants.
summary: snippets of yours and aizawa’s relationship over time. quiet yearning, love, and a little bit of toxicity.
warnings: major age gap (aizawa is like 35 & reader is around 20). teacher/student relationship. nsfw (v small smut at the end).
a/n: this has been in my drafts for almost 3 years now. paragraph here & there within those years so if the writing is off it’s bc i’m rusty as hell i’m sorry y’all this is just word vomit.
if anybody were to ask shota aizawa if he’s ever been loved — he would say no, mainly because the concept of love has always been foreign to him — he had never thought of himself as someone you’d choose to fall in love with.
his class? they’d have a different answer.
because there’s you — you who has been silently screaming your love to him for years.
it’s in the way you’d bring a cup of coffee for him on your early morning training sessions — you had engraved the sight of him brewing a cup the last time he visited your dorm and subconsciously memorized his order.
your classmates would call you insane when they spot you in the kitchen — with sugar, coffee beans, and measuring utensils splayed all out on the counter. you hovering over the measurements as if an unneeded speck of sugar falling into his cup would lead to your demise.
to you, it would.
aizawa, oblivious to it all, accepts your coffee graciously every time. a small smile gracing his lips as his palm clasps around the mug. a soft thank you is muttered — voice still laced heavily with sleep but sincere.
and it’s his sincerity, his appreciation for you going out of your way to make him this every morning — that gets you through your training every time.
mornings to you, with him — always feels like possibility and hope, the day still untinged — so many things can happen.
and as you take your first sip of coffee, your heart goes warm — but there’s a bitterness on your tongue — a reminder, as you lose yourself in this pitiful fantasy every morning, that this small gesture — is one he doesn’t understand and probably will never.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯✦
it’s in the way you go above and beyond — doing things you’ve never done before just for him. you heard through the grapevine that aizawa shota likes cookies.
you have never baked in your life.
sato, is as kind as ever to indulge you when you bring up the subject of baking cookies just for fun — he ends up giving you his most prized recipe and wishes you luck.
and you have to wonder to yourself, how hard can it be?
it takes you two hours to bake an edible batch.
it’s 11pm and you’re in the dorm’s kitchen — counter littered with parchment paper, sugar, butter, eggs — and god, there’s flour everywhere.
everything’s a mess.
you’ve made almost six batches so far — some either too burnt or not baked enough. shoto, who has been sitting in the living room the entire time, has smelt the distasteful scent of burnt chocolate too many times tonight.
“are you sure you’re following the recipe correctly?” he chirps from afar one time, and the frustrated glare you give him shuts him up for the night.
the seventh batch in the oven right now holds all your hopes and dreams — if it ends up being inedible, you’re quite sure you’d break down.
surprisingly (to you and shoto), it is a success.
it’s thick and chewy — a golden brown color adorning the edges whilst the center remains soft. and shoto, in all his childlike stupor, gobbles down a few immediately.
“good job. i didn’t think you could do it.” he says earnestly whilst chewing.
you roll your eyes at him as you clean the kitchen, packing away the ingredients used and ridding the counters of flour stains — you’re exhausted but absolutely thrilled at your mediocre baking skills.
now, all that’s left to do is deliver it to him.
after making sure the mess you made is thoroughly cleaned up, you grab a small brown paper bag and gently place the cookies inside — praying to god that none breaks or gets smushed.
you opt to write a small note for him — nothing borderline creepy but something sincere — but the only thing that’s in your mind right now is how you’d wish to be the one sweetening his thoughts rather than these cookies. how you wish you were the one to make him feel so light and warm with each taste, rather than these cookies.
you wish you never made them — they’re just a harsh reminder that shota aizawa is an unattainable person for you.
and gosh, you’re breaking down over fucking cookies now — you thank god shoto returned to his room when you were cleaning.
thanks for being a great teacher! xo
short, simple & sweet.
(it’s not even close to what you really wanted to say).
you know he’s awake right now, most likely correcting papers but, you’d rather remain anonymous — not wanting to get caught trespassing in the teachers’ dorm building at this ungodly hour.
plus, you don’t think you can handle explaining yourself to him right now.
cookies? out of the blue? to your teacher?
weird.
you know it’s fruitless doing all of this but — shota aizawa is your idealized daydream, and you are empty without this.
so alas, you leave them by his door — knocking gently then full-on sprinting out of the building.
unbeknownst to the fact that as soon as aizawa opens his door, he’s met with a handwriting he knows all too well.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯✦
it’s in the way you stay back after class on days when aizawa looks like he might pass out if he lifts his pen the wrong way.
the way a quiet adoration seeps through you as you help him tidy up his desk — placing pens and pencils back into his stationery holder, stacking his papers neatly in a corner, and throwing away crumpled-up paper into a dustbin nearby.
and aizawa indulges you — doesn’t have the energy to shoo you off as he’s too engrossed in the file he has been rereading for over ten minutes.
“wanna hear a joke about paper?”
his head rises — eyes locked on you as his eyebrows raise quizzically.
he motions for you to continue.
“nevermind, it’s tearable.”
and aizawa huffs, his distaste for the joke showing evidently — until he sees a small grin forming on your lips, and suddenly he’s mirroring your expression — a soft smile gifted to you.
he feels lighter now — after that lame joke cut through whatever tiredness he was feeling.
and you can tell by the way he straightens his posture just a bit — then flips the paper to the other side, eyes skimming through it quickly and snatching another paper from the stack you cleared up.
you’re relieved — already reaching for your bag and on your way out of the room, not wanting to disturb him anymore.
but before your two feet are out the door, a soft mutter is heard from behind.
“thank you.”
and it melts your heart.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯✦
and if anybody ever asked shota if he had ever loved someone before, he would say no — he’s never allowed himself to indulge in something like that.
hizashi? he’d have a different answer.
because there’s you.
you, who he has been quietly loving without even realizing it.
it’s in the way aizawa subconsciously shifts his schedule. he remembers the one time you mentioned, in passing, that you train alone at USJ after lunch on tuesdays. and suddenly, he’s found himself pacing his steps alongside yours every tuesday.
even though it’s out of his way and he knows he’s cutting it close to his next class.
he tells himself it’s nothing, just a change of scenery, a breath of fresh air until he’s locked between four walls. but there’s something in the way he lingers a bit longer than he should, his steps slowing as you near the training grounds.
you mutter a small thank you to him as usual, offering your kindest smile.
and aizawa revels in it each time, bidding you farewell with a nod before he locks eyes with hizashi atop the staircase.
and the blonde is thoroughly confused.
shota aizawa? walking?
with a student?
it has his gears turning, but it doesn’t take long for him to catch on.
it’s reoccurring, consistent. the look in his bestfriend’s eyes each time you smile at him, and it’s no mistake — since you’ve started to reside in his eyes, they seem to be brighter, more vibrant.
but he knows it’s something shota will never admit to himself.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯✦
it’s in the way aizawa pays attention to you — has learned your little quirks and habits unknowingly throughout the years, and knows how to satiate them.
the second he sees you walk through his door with your hair undone — tangled in minute knots — he knows you’re stressed — absolutely running yourself to the ground about something.
but he never pries, only offers a soft, “you’re doing great, kid,” before you exit his class — and the way your eyes light up at his small praise leaves his stomach in knots.
it’s the way he knows you always forget to bring your gloves when training on a monday — the way he watches you ruffle through your bag, brows furrowed as you search for them — and before you can even admit your blunder, he’s already tossing you one from his desk.
and it’s always brand new — as if he has a pack of gloves stashed in his drawer for this exact moment.
(he does).
“thank you,” you mutter sheepishly — eyes full of warmth and a hint of heat in your cheeks. aizawa brushes it off as usual, with no admonishment on his lips, just a small sense of pride.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯✦
it’s in the way shota’s a bit more protective of you, without realizing it.
he’s already on his feet the second the lights turn red — emergency drill? invader? — he’s not sure exactly what’s happening but the alarm blaring over the intercom has his teeth on edge.
his first instinct, unfortunately, is to look for you across the field.
and there you are, sitting on a bench, bottled water between your legs as you glance around confusedly.
shota shouts for everyone to stay calm and await instructions.
but he’s already bolting in your direction without realizing it, his focus narrowed in a way it shouldn’t be. something in his mind telling him that having you within his line of sight is better for you. that he’s just trying to keep his students safe.
the intercom crackles, something about a small fire in the main building and students should gather at the muster point — and aizawa’s shoulders loosen slightly, tension easing at the announcement.
no immediate threat.
but he can’t shake the feeling, the way his chest constricted — seeing you in a red hue. panic coursing through his veins, rivaling only the strongest rivers at the thought of you alone, vulnerable, left to your own devices.
and he shouldn’t feel this way. no — you’re a hero in training. you’re very much capable of handling yourself — he quite literally trained you so he knows you pack a punch.
so why does aizawa feel as if the thought of leaving you alone is synonymous with him giving away his breath?
something’s not right here — but that thought is buried deep, completely hidden.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯✦
three months after you graduated, shota receives an email that catches him off guard — the message is polite — simple, even. you’re just asking how things are and if he’d be able to grab a cup of coffee sometime to catch up.
it’s innocent, no harm in coffee — right?
wrong.
because the minute he enters the cafe, he knows you and him have begun to blur — that the world has shifted beneath his feet.
it’s hesitation oozing out of him as he makes his way towards your table, but not the kind that comes from doubt, the kind that comes from knowing.
from knowing that the minute he sits across from you, something will begin to unravel — something he isn’t sure he’ll be able to put back together.
his heart.
shota knows better than this — to wrap himself up in such forbidden affairs. regardless if you’re no longer his student — the age gap is huge.
but the second he locks eyes with you, nothing else matters. you’re different now, standing on your own, no longer his student. and yet, you’re still you.
you, who has been silently screaming your love for him for years.
“hi!” you chirp out, warmth radiating from the ceramic mug in your hands. you almost move to hug him, but he’s already settling into the seat across from you — eyes unreadable.
you take a sip of your drink before speaking again. “it’s been a while.”
aizawa nods, “around 3 months.”
you raise an eyebrow. “counting, are we?”
and a smirk tugs at his lips.
the conversation flows easily from there — updates about work, about your old classmates, about anything that isn’t this.
but there’s an undercurrent beneath it all, something unspoken lingering between each exchange, thickening the air.
and finally, you decide to address it.
you set your cup down, tracing the rim absentmindedly as you meet his gaze. “i wasn’t sure if you’d actually come.”
and aizawa stills, flexing his fingers around his cup — he feels like an angsty teenager. “i wouldn’t have come if I didn’t want to.” his voice is low, steady, but there's a hint of uncertainty laced within it.
your breath catches slightly.
“then, can i ask you something?” you lean forward just slightly, watching the way his eyes snap back to you.
he nods.
“can we date?”
and oh my god, aizawa has never thought he’d be in a situation like this — being asked out so directly by his former student.
he is stunned – but he’s not a fool, everything then had prepared him for the now.
his fingers tap against his cup, his jaw tightening. “you’re young.”
you tilt your head, challenging. “i’m not a kid.”
shota studies you carefully, as if weighing his next words. “no, you’re not.”
and that’s the problem, isn’t it? you’re not a child. you’re not his student. you’re standing in front of him as your own person, asking for something real.
asking for him.
aizawa leans back in his chair, rubbing a tired hand over his face. “you should want someone who-”
“don’t do that,” you cut him off, voice firm but not unkind. “don’t tell me what I should want.”
for years, you’ve known exactly what you wanted — never faltering once. it’s one thing to reject you but, deciding for you? that’s just cruel.
he exhales, long and slow. “this isn’t to be taken lightly,”
“i know.” because god, this is all you’ve ever wanted, something serious with him. not a daydream.
“if we do this,” he murmurs, voice lower now, rougher. “i’m not going to pretend there aren’t challenges.”
you nod your head. that’s obvious, but you’re willing to put in the effort.
“you might change your mind.”
“i won’t.”
aizawa watches you, searching, waiting for something — a flicker of hesitation, a sign that you don’t fully understand what you’re asking. but all he sees is certainty.
and maybe that’s what undoes him.
he looks defeated.
as if he’s wrestling against something in his mind, something that sprouts from his heart — but its vines constrict his throat. it’s almost as if he feels like he needs to disagree.
to say no.
that this isn’t right.
but how long will he fight with himself?
when will he allow himself some solace?
now.
and when he glances up to meet your eyes, he realizes that, yes — he has won over the whole world, but he’s lost himself to you.
the effect you have on him is so strong, something he has never felt before — it’s as if he takes your name with each breath he breathes.
what have you done to him?
his fingers tighten once more around his cup, a slow exhale leaving his lips. “sure.”
you blink at him, lips parting slightly, “sure?”
the corner of his mouth lifts, barely there. “you heard me.”
and just like that, the world shifts again.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯✦
and it was as if shota aizawa was made specifically for you.
from the way his calloused fingers grasp yours — the way you can trace constellations on them for days — to the way his clothes drown you with a warmth you’ve never felt before.
to the way he’s never stopped trying to woo you since you’ve both made it official.
“you’ve become my destiny and destination.”
stupid sappy words whispered between the two of you – as if it's your first time in love, and for the both of you, it is.
the minute he locked eyes with you, he’s everything you ever wanted — older, wiser, the kind of man who doesn’t let insecurity cloud his judgment, who doesn’t feel the need to mark his territory or stake his claim. he trusts you, respects you — and unwaveringly loves you.
something you’d never get with a man your age. he’s in check with his emotions. a mentally stable man. a walking green flag.
and god he’s perfect for you in every way, but sometimes you’d wish he’d just — show some type of reaction to things.
you’re young, generations apart, you get that but — sometimes you’d wish he’d be possessive, get a bit jealous — throw you up against a wall and ask you are you sure wanna wear that?
it’s your naivety that craves a bit of toxicity. a thrill. nothing huge, just a small bit of possessiveness is hot, it’s able to rile you up.
and so you try to do just that.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯✦
trial one.
you know he’s watching you.
observing as you gulp down not one, but three shots back to back — but he’s not watching for the right reasons. no, you know he’s only monitoring your alcohol intake, making sure you’re not overdoing it.
you know his gears aren’t turning, not wondering for a second why katsuki has his arm slung lazily around your shoulder, fingers interlocked with yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
no, your boyfriend sits quietly in the booth, fingers tracing the rim of his glass as hizashi yaps about something he isn’t the slightest interested in — but his eyes never leave you.
yet, they don’t narrow, his jaw doesn’t twitch, grip on his glass doesn’t get tighter when he sees his past student dropping his head just enough to murmur something low against your ear which makes you giggle.
and maybe that makes him swallow a bit hard but, it’s not enough for him to get up off his seat to break you both up.
and you let that thought fuck with your head as you down another shot — because why does he refuse to throw you a bone?
any normal boyfriend would not let another man casually lock fingers with their girlfriend — why is he always so composed? it’s boring.
you start to wonder if he’s just too secure. if he’s convinced you’ll never cheat, never stray — and while he’s right, couldn’t he at least pretend to worry?
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯✦
trial two.
that is not your jacket.
shota knows that, you know that.
and yet, he doesn’t budge when he sees todoroki shrug it off and drape it over your shoulders. doesn’t even blink when you slip it on like you’ve done a million times, and maybe you have — the way it fits you like a glove.
the moment is soft, nostalgic, oozes with familiarity. almost too gentle to interrupt.
it’s only natural, shota thinks — obviously you both have a bond, you literally grew up together. been through war together. but it’s all platonic, all brotherly-sisterly.
shoto tucks a few strands of hair behind your ear — no hesitation, no second thoughts, almost as if it was pure muscle memory. you don’t check for shota’s reaction. you already know it. neutral — stoic, not a hint of possessiveness in sight.
and it kills you.
because shouldn’t this rattle him? shouldn’t the idea of you wrapped in someone else’s jacket — his own former student’s jacket — be enough to spark something?
man, how hard is it to get a bit of toxicity here? just one glare, one shake of his head, some signal to tell you to take that shit off right now.
but it never comes — because the man you love isn’t like that.
he’s quiet. he’s patient. he has complete, unshakable trust in you — in your choices. you chose to be with him, and not the boy you stayed up numerous nights with to study for math.
no, you made your bed, and he knows you will sleep in it.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯✦
trial three.
midoriya is sentimental.
so, when he places a pair of earrings on your lap — muttering something along the lines of, oh this reminded me of you, you can’t help but burst into tears.
it’s too cute — everything about it, the thought, the earring, the boy you grew up with.
and next to you, shota remains quiet.
not because he’s seething, not because he’s pretending to keep it together, but because he truly isn’t threatened. in fact, his eyes are soft, as if he’s watching a memory play out that he’s not a part of — but respects nonetheless.
and maybe a part of you thinks you should count your blessings, that he’s just that type. any man your age would’ve flipped the entire table, start a fight, or even insult your friend.
thank god you got a good guy.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯✦
trial four.
and keigo is a breath of fresh air.
the minute he spots you at his gala, he makes a beeline your way — a warm smile, sharp eyes, and a voice like silk.
“so glad you made it,” a grin tugs at his lips as he pulls you into a hug, his cologne brushing your senses just before his voice dips closer to your ear. “you look stunning.”
and your breath hitches, cheeks colored in sacred hues of surrender — like a little girl absolutely smitten by your high-school crush. but reality dawns the second you feel his presence behind you — the air thickening with the weight of his aura. it’s silent, heavy.
a large hand presses to the small of your back, grounding, and anchoring you in place.
“oh, keigo — have you met mr. eraserhead?” you question, ignoring the way your voice jumps an octave higher.
shota thinks, what happened to boyfriend? when did you two become so well-acquainted?
and keigo’s smile doesn’t falter when he sees shota’s arm wrap around your waist — almost protectively, possessively. thumb rubbing circles absentmindedly into your side, like a warning.
“nice to meet you!” he says, extending his hand.
and shota shakes it.
but he doesn’t miss the way keigo’s eyes linger on you, nor the way you tuck your hair behind your ear — almost shy.
and then it starts clicking for him — you have a little crush, and it makes you look stupid.
“mr. eraserhead, huh?” shota murmurs, after keigo walks off to greet someone else.
shota is not dense. he knows when to be concerned and when not to be. his past students he will never be envious of — but keigo, who is just a few years older than you — young and talented and someone of your generation has shota straightening his back a bit, chest puffed.
almost like he has something to prove.
“hm? that’s your name,” you say matter-of-factly — eyes still loosely trained on keigo. effortless charm oozing out of him as he works the room. you’re starstruck.
“you might as well have called me aizawa-sensei.” he monotones, pulling you in closer to his side. you frown a little, “what do you mean?”
“you forgot a small title,” he mentions, giving you a pointed look. that’s when you glance up at him, and shota can see the cogs turning now — he knows you’re smart, sees you playing with the idea of acting coy or not.
“oh.”
“oh?” he repeats — he has to laugh.
shota thinks that little crush of yours has you forgetting who you belong to — has you thinking you’re still on the market, ready to be swooped away.
and maybe that’s when you see a sprinkle of jealousy on his features. the way his hand on your waist tightens, stance solid and eyes narrowed on the winged hero in a way that’s not friendly.
how fun — finally a reaction.
and when you murmur, “he’s so pretty, though.” your boyfriend doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink — but the look in his eye screams don’t test me.
his grip tightens almost imperceptibly, and his lips brush your ear, “keep playing with me, baby. see what happens.”
and that’s all you ever do.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯✦
and shota tries to be gentle, he always does. but the second the door clicks shut at home, his patience runs thin.
before you can even turn around, he’s on you — slamming you up against the wall — mouth claiming yours in a kiss that’s all give and take. muttering something along the lines of i fucking own you and it makes your pussy drip as he slides down — hands already discarding your underwear.
shota hikes your legs over his broad shoulders and wraps his arms around your upper thighs firmly. his tongue makes slow orbits around your pussy, teasing your clit and slipping sinuously into your cunt, repeatedly — and you can’t keep quiet.
“you think fucking keigo can get you wet like this? have you moaning like this?” it’s all rhetorical. you both know the answer to these questions.
shota knows you’ve been fucking with him all this time. knows you were just itching for a reaction from him, wanted him to stake his claim on you.
make you his.
he pulls back just enough to glare up at you — lips wet with your arousal, eyes dark and glittering. “look at you,” he rasps, breath hot against your folds. “dripping for me. only me.”
you whimper, one hand fisting the fabric of his shirt. and that’s all it takes — within seconds he’s up on his feet, throwing you over the sofa — legs spread wide, he has a couple of ideas on how he can mark you.
and the moment his dick slips into your cunt, he knows exactly how to remind you who you belong to — how to brand you forever.
“mine,” he hisses through gritted teeth, driving into you with bruising force. “say it.” and all you can manage is a soft whine, a plead, “y-yes yours!”
he smiles — something sinister in his grin as he slams into you harder, setting a brutal pace that leaves you sobbing into the cushions.
shota knows now that all you wanted was to be put in your place.
and now you know to stop fucking with him – you got what you wanted.
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