PEOPLE. THAT WAS AN ERROR, I PROMISE; THE FIC ISN'T DONE.
Fireworks (Ji-Yeong fic) isn't done yet, that was an error, the wifi of my apartment had some troubles when i was editing the fic and it accidentally sent it when i was supposed to save it, forgive me for the disappointment! But the fic is coming i promise
synopsis: College is hell—but it gets worse when your ex is scheming, your sister just wants to date, and the only guy bold enough to flirt with you might be doing it for a bet. Sukuna is cocky, tattooed, and impossible to ignore. What starts as a setup spirals into something real: a kiss at a paintball park, a night you can’t forget, and a truth that ruins everything.
content warnings: 18+, college au, alcohol consumption, tipsy sex, semi-public sex, morally grey characters, manipulation, betrayal, cheating (implied), emotionally charged sex, lying for personal gain, heartbreak, swearing, slutshaming, emotionally neglectful behavior, public confrontation, yelling, one slap, characters being hot and toxic, unresolved family dynamics, loud party scenes, academic pressure (light), emotionally vulnerable confession in a poem, a little nanami slander, inspired by the titular movie.
word count: 8.0k - art belongs to @/to00fu on tumblr
People didn’t avoid you because you were scary. They avoided you because you made it clear you didn’t want to be spoken to.
No fake smiles. No nodding along. No “haha, yeah” in the hallway. You weren’t mean—you were efficient. Quiet when you could be. Sharp when you had to be. Your sister said it was a defence mechanism. Your last boyfriend said it was unattractive.
You said nothing. And they all took it personally.
So it wasn’t shocking that Gojo Satoru, of all people, took it as a challenge.
He dropped into the seat next to you five minutes before class, sunglasses still on despite being inside, iced coffee in hand like he wasn’t already vibrating out of his skin.
“Okay,” he said, way too casually, “hypothetical for you.”
You didn’t look up.
“What would it take for someone to date you?”
You blinked once. Turned the page of your book. “A lobotomy.”
Gojo laughed like you were joking. “Nice. So you’re saying there’s a chance.”
You finally glanced at him. He was grinning. Bright, smug, stupid.
You went back to your book. “Whatever plan you’re working on,” you said flatly, “leave me out of it.”
“Can’t,” he said. “Your sister’s dating life depends on it.”
That made you pause. Just a little.
Of course it did.
✧✧✧
Gojo said your sister’s dating life depended on you like it were some minor inconvenience. Like you were the problem, and not, say, your parents’ medieval take on dating logistics.
You didn’t respond. You didn’t have to. He took your silence as permission.
“So—” he leaned in, like you were co-conspirators and not two people who’d had a total of three conversations ever, “just out of curiosity, are you into guys? Girls? Hot RAs with emotionally complicated backstories?”
You stared at him. He winked.
Thankfully, the professor walked in, saving you from felony assault.
But Gojo wasn’t done.
Later that day, you found Utahime sitting on the quad lawn, phone in hand, surrounded by three empty bubble tea cups and a stack of psych readings she was pretending to highlight.
She didn’t look up when you dropped onto the grass beside her.
“Gojo’s bothering me again,” you said.
“You bother yourself,” she muttered. “I just get collateral damage.”
You raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She looked at you. Actually looked. Her face was too pretty to pull off annoyed, but she tried anyway.
“It means,” she said slowly, like you were a particularly stupid lab rat, “I’ve been asked out twice this week. I had to say no both times.”
You blinked. “...why?”
She stared.
“Oh,” you said.
“Yeah. Oh.”
The silence stretched between you.
“I told them you didn’t care if I dated,” she said, half-hopeful. “That you weren’t, like, emotionally invested or anything.”
“I’m not.”
“Then why won’t they believe me?”
Because once, when you were seventeen, you told your mom that if she let Utahime date some slimy little theatre kid named Kento, you’d report them both to CPS. She’d laughed. But apparently the rule stuck.
No dating for Utahime until her older brother—the one who allegedly told his ex to choke on a thesaurus—started dating again.
Flawless system.
“I'm going to die alone,” she said. “And it’s going to be your fault.”
You tipped your head back and closed your eyes. “Tell Mom and Dad I’m gay. Maybe they’ll make an exception.”
Utahime huffed. “You’re not gay. You’re just emotionally unavailable.”
“Same difference.”
There was a beat of silence. Long enough for you to hear the quiet buzz of her phone screen lighting up.
She didn’t say anything, but her tone shifted.
“I’m not giving up,” she said, almost to herself.
You cracked one eye open. “On dating?”
“On you.”
You frowned. “What the hell does that mean?”
But Utahime was already standing up, gathering her notes and shoving a half-drunk boba into your hand.
“Drink this,” she said. “You need sugar or something. You’ve been looking extra feral lately.”
You watched her walk off, phone already to her ear. She was smiling. Strategically.
You narrowed your eyes.
That couldn’t be good.
✧✧✧
Naoya didn’t usually come to this café. It wasn’t his scene. Too many broke kids and philosophy majors pretending they were deep because they ordered their lattes with oat milk and wore Doc Martens like they invented rebellion. But today, he made an exception. He had a plan, and it needed someone very specific. Someone fucked-up enough to say yes.
Sukuna sat in the corner, back to the wall, hood up, earbuds in—but not playing anything. Just a signal: don’t talk to me unless you want problems. Naoya talked to him anyway.
He didn’t bother with greetings. Just slid into the seat across from him, like they were equals. Like Sukuna wasn’t already deciding if he wanted to walk out or throw his drink in Naoya’s face.
“You’re bored, right?” Naoya said. “You walk around like nothing matters. Like you’re above it all.”
Sukuna didn’t look up. “You’ve got five seconds to stop wasting my time.”
Naoya smirked. “You know Ijichi, yeah? The older one. Poetry kid. Looks like he hates everyone.”
Now, Sukuna looked at him. Not surprised—just interested enough to pause.
Naoya kept going, casual like he wasn’t holding a knife under the table. “He’s my ex. And he’s been going around acting like he’s too good for everyone now. Like he dumped me. Like I’m the joke.”
Sukuna raised an eyebrow. “...didn’t he?”
Naoya ignored that. “I want you to date him.”
That made Sukuna smile. Or something like it. Barely there. Sharp. “You want me to fuck your ex?”
“No. I want you to make him fall for you. Properly. The whole show. Make him trust you. Think you care.” Naoya leaned in. “Then you dump him. Publicly. Leave him the way he left me. Let everyone see it.”
Sukuna studied him like he was a puzzle with missing pieces. “You want revenge.”
“I want to win.”
There was a long silence. Sukuna tilted his head, just slightly. “What’s in it for me?”
Naoya smiled. “If you pull it off, I’ll owe you. I’ve got connections. People who look the other way. Professors. Admin. You’re smart, but your grades are shit. I can fix that.” He paused. “Or—if you’re more into humiliation—I’ll read one of Gojo’s poems at open mic night. Dead serious.”
That got an actual laugh out of Sukuna. Soft. Cruel.
He leaned back in his seat and cracked his knuckles, slow and deliberate. “You think your ex is dumb enough to fall for me?”
Naoya’s grin curled like a cigarette being lit. “I think you’re pretty enough to make it happen.”
Sukuna tilted his head like the whole thing was beneath him—but maybe still worth his time.
He grabbed his drink, stood slowly, and gave Naoya a look that didn’t say yes or no—just, watch me.
“Sure,” he muttered, turning to leave. “Could use something to do.”
He didn’t wait for Naoya’s reply. Didn’t care.
Because the truth was—he’d already seen you around. And maybe, just maybe, he’d been waiting for an excuse.
✧✧✧
The campus bookstore was one of your favourite places to be ignored.
Not the main one—too many screaming first-years buying overpriced highlighters. No, this one was tucked into the corner of an old side street, half-forgotten and dimly lit. Records lined one wall, poetry chapbooks on the other. The kind of place where no one asked questions if you sat on the floor and read for an hour without buying anything.
You were thumbing through the “melancholy bastard” section—Leonard Cohen, Elliott Smith, the usual suspects—when someone moved into your peripheral vision. Slow. Purposeful. Close enough to make it obvious, not close enough to say hi.
You glanced up. Froze.
He was taller than you expected. Sharper, too. Hair pulled back in a lazy knot, a black hoodie stretched across broad shoulders, sleeves shoved up to the elbow. You recognised him instantly. Everyone did. Sukuna Ryomen wasn’t a person so much as a rumour with cheekbones.
He didn’t say anything. Just flipped through records two rows over like he wasn’t fully aware of your existence—like he wasn’t performing not noticing you.
So you ignored him right back. Or tried to. Until he spoke.
“Pretty sure you already read that one.”
You glanced at the book in your hand. Sylvia Plath.
“Maybe I like rereading things,” you said.
Sukuna’s mouth curled into the ghost of a smile. “Sure. Or maybe you just like being sad on purpose.”
You turned fully to face him. “You following me, or are you just naturally this annoying?”
“Neither,” he said, stepping closer now, not even pretending anymore. “You’re just loud for someone who pretends not to want attention.”
Your jaw clenched. “I’m not loud.”
“You are,” he said, so casually it felt surgical. “But it’s fine. I like loud.”
You stared at him. He stared back, lazy and unbothered, like this entire conversation was just a thing he was trying on for size.
Then he held up a record—slowly, deliberately—like an offering. The Smiths. Of course.
“Not my type,” you said.
He grinned. “Good thing I didn’t ask.”
And then he turned and walked out.
No name. No number. Just static, and you're holding a book that you suddenly can’t read anymore.
✧✧✧
He didn’t come up to you again the next day. Or the one after that. Which would’ve been fine, except now you were aware of him. Aware in the way a body is aware of a bruise: a low ache, something you’d keep accidentally brushing up against.
You told yourself it didn’t matter. That the record store thing was nothing. That you weren’t flattered, weren’t intrigued, weren’t still thinking about the way he looked at you like he already knew how the story would end. But then he started showing up.
Once in the library, at the table across from yours. Once in the dining hall, passing close enough to brush shoulders. And once—most irritatingly—in your creative writing elective, which you were sure he hadn’t been enrolled in the week before.
He didn’t say anything for a while. Just… hovered. Orbiting your schedule like it was gravitational. Always on the edge of your attention. Never too obvious. But you weren’t stupid. You’d seen this game before. Some guys flirted with flowers. Others with sarcasm. Sukuna, apparently, flirted with proximity and smirks.
The next time he spoke to you, it was after class, some Thursday afternoon that already felt like a headache. You were halfway down the hallway when he fell into step beside you, calm like you’d invited him.
“You free tonight?” he asked, like you were mid-conversation.
You didn’t even look at him. “Do I look like I am?”
He hummed. “Hard to tell. You’ve got the kind of face that always looks annoyed.”
You stopped walking. Turned to face him. “Are you flirting with me, or just bored?”
Sukuna shrugged, unbothered. “Why can’t it be both?”
You stared at him. He stared back. There was something maddening about the way he held eye contact—like he wasn’t afraid of anything you could say. Like he didn’t believe you could hurt him.
“Look,” you said flatly, “whatever this is? You can stop. I’m not interested.”
He tilted his head. “You sure?”
“Positive.”
He smiled, soft and slow. “Alright.” Then, almost like it was nothing: “You’ll change your mind.”
And then he walked off. No argument. No doubling down. Just that fucking smugness trailing after him like cigarette smoke.
You watched him go, jaw tight, heart doing something it shouldn’t have been doing. You hated people like that. People who were too confident, too casual. The kind of confidence that meant they never really got rejected, only delayed.
Still, you told yourself it was over. That he got the message. That someone like Ryomen Sukuna—someone cold, magnetic, and clearly a walking disaster—wouldn’t waste time chasing someone who wasn’t biting.
You were wrong, obviously.
✧✧✧
Utahime wasn’t sure what annoyed her more—the fact that Gojo had somehow gotten into her French class halfway through the semester, or the fact that he kept insisting it was fate. Not like “divine intervention” fate. More like “we made eye contact one time outside the dining hall and now we have to get married” fate. Which, for Gojo Satoru, was probably the same thing.
Today, he’d positioned himself at the desk next to hers with all the subtlety of a hurricane. Notebook open, sleeve rolled up just enough to show the faint tan line from a friendship bracelet someone had clearly made for him. Probably Utahime’s roommate. Or her professor. Or both.
“Je veux du café,” he said smoothly, pencil twirling between his fingers. “I want coffee. Which I do. Right now. With you.”
Utahime stared at him. “I want a lobotomy.”
Gojo grinned. “How do you say that in French?”
She didn’t answer. Mostly because she didn’t know, and partly because answering would be giving him exactly what he wanted—attention, reaction, eye contact that lingered a second too long.
Which she gave him anyway.
Because she was weak. And he was pretty. And she hated that about herself.
“I cry during movies,” Gojo added, like that would help. “And I recycle. I’m, like, morally irresistible.”
Before she could threaten him with physical harm, Naoya dropped into the seat on her other side like a glitch in the matrix. She hadn’t even seen him come in.
“Utahime,” he said, voice dipped in manufactured charm, “you’re looking…”
“Don’t,” she cut in. “Don’t finish that sentence.”
He smirked. “Feisty.”
Gojo leaned back in his seat, letting his arm drape casually behind Utahime’s chair. “We’re doing adjectives now? I can play. She’s radiant. Intelligent. Dangerously under-caffeinated.”
Naoya scowled at him. “Aren’t you supposed to be gay?”
Gojo’s grin sharpened. “I’m supposed to be a lot of things.”
Utahime sighed, grabbing her books. “I’m getting coffee.”
“Alone or fake-alone?” Gojo asked, already rising with her.
“You’re following me.”
“I’m practising immersion.”
Naoya frowned. “I could come, too.”
Utahime didn’t answer. She just walked off with Gojo trailing behind her like a heatwave. Naoya watched them leave, something bitter flickering behind his eyes.
Across the room, Geto—Gojo’s longtime friend and reluctant enabler—looked up from his sandwich.
“You’re losing,” he said helpfully.
Naoya turned to him. “Who even are you?”
Geto shrugged. “A prophet, apparently.”
And then he went back to eating like nothing had happened.
✧✧✧
You’d always hated group work. It was academic Tinder—awkward pairings, fake small talk, and someone inevitably doing all the work while the other coasted on vibes and a vaguely tragic backstory. You’d perfected the art of preemptively claiming a seat at the edge of the classroom, angled just far enough to be left out of any “everyone find a partner!” moments.
So when Professor Yaga said, “Pair off for today’s workshop,” you didn’t even flinch. You just opened your notebook and waited for some poor idiot to make eye contact with you long enough to get guilted into joining.
What you did not expect was Sukuna Ryomen to slide into the chair next to you like he’d been assigned to you by the devil himself.
“You’re late,” you said flatly, not looking up.
He shrugged. “I’m unpredictable.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“And yet,” he said, folding his arms behind his head, “here I am. Partnered with you. Fate’s weird like that.”
You didn’t reply. If you didn’t give him attention, maybe he’d get bored and go haunt someone else.
No such luck.
Sukuna leaned over like he was actually going to read your notes, which would’ve been hilarious if it weren’t also extremely annoying. “So… what are we doing?”
You side-eyed him. “I’m doing the assignment. You’re vibing.”
He grinned. “I like your handwriting.”
“Thanks. I use it exclusively to write insults.”
“Write one for me.”
You turned to him, finally, incredulous. “You want me to insult you?”
“Sure. Most people just talk behind my back.”
You blinked. For half a second, you caught something real in his voice. But then he smiled again, lazy and crooked, like he’d flipped a switch and gone back to whatever version of himself he thought you wanted to see.
You looked away. “I don’t know what your deal is,” you said. “But it’s not working.”
“What’s not working?”
“This.” You gestured vaguely. “The whole dark-and-mysterious routine. The sudden interest in me. The flirting that’s somehow also condescending. Whatever game you’re playing—it’s boring.”
Sukuna was quiet for a beat too long. Then: “Damn. Tell me how you really feel.”
You turned back to your notes. “I did.”
He didn’t say anything for the rest of the class. Didn’t lean in. Didn’t smirk. Just sat there, too still. Too quiet. Like maybe—for once—you’d actually surprised him.
And you told yourself that was the end of it. That you’d won. That this weird little game had finally hit a wall he couldn’t smooth-talk his way around.
But later that day, when you opened your locker, there was a Post-it stuck inside. Black ink. Slanted handwriting.
“I’m not flirting. I just like the way you look when you hate me.” —S.R.
You crumpled it and threw it away.
Then stood there for another twenty seconds, staring at the empty space where it had been.
✧✧✧
You were already regretting everything by the time you got to the front steps of the frat house. The music was so loud it vibrated through your shoes, some bastard remix of a pop song you didn’t recognise, drowning out your thoughts. You tugged at your sleeves, scowled at the flashing lights, and turned toward Utahime. “We’re not staying long.”
She rolled her eyes. “You say that like I didn’t blackmail you into coming.”
“I’m still not sure how you did that.”
“I know what happened in freshman year with that T.A.,” she said sweetly. “And I still have the screenshots.”
You glared. “You are the worst.”
“And yet,” she smiled, “you’re here.”
The house was packed. Someone was already puking into the hedge. Inside, it smelled like cheap beer, weed, and something tragically floral—like a Bath & Body Works exploded. You manoeuvred your way through the crowd, ignoring every attempt at conversation, every accidental brush of arms. You were just here to babysit. To make sure Utahime didn’t end up locked in a bathroom crying because Naoya said something gross about astrology.
And of course Naoya was here. Centre of attention, glittering in that way only rich, boring people knew how to do. He spotted Utahime instantly and made a beeline for her, offering a drink and a smirk that probably worked on freshmen with low standards.
You watched from the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, mood already circling the drain. And that’s when you felt it—his presence. Like a shift in pressure, a temperature drop, the back of your neck prickling for no good reason.
Sukuna.
Leaning against the hallway wall, red solo cup dangling from his fingers, eyes on you. Not on the party. Not on the crowd. You.
He didn’t wave. Didn’t smile. Just watched you like he was waiting for something. You looked away fast, heart doing something stupid in your chest. You hated that he got under your skin so easily. Hated even more that he knew it.
Time blurred. The music got louder. You ended up with a drink you didn’t ask for and downed it faster than necessary. It burned. You didn’t care.
Another cup. Another burn.
And then—somewhere between your third drink and Utahime yelling “YOLO is dead, stop saying that” at Naoya—you found yourself in the living room, lights flashing, bodies moving around you like smoke, and someone yelling for you to “get on the table if you’re hot.”
You didn’t remember climbing up. Didn’t remember deciding that dancing was a good idea. All you remembered was the heat in your face, the weightlessness in your limbs, and the absolutely feral look Sukuna gave you from across the room.
His expression didn’t change, but his posture did. He stood straighter. The cup disappeared from his hand. His eyes followed you like you were a threat he wanted to keep close.
You moved to the music, loose and loud and lit up with the kind of recklessness you usually buried under sarcasm and disdain. People were cheering. Someone whistled. You didn’t care.
Sukuna was at the base of the table now. Right below you. Watching. Waiting.
You dropped into a crouch, leaned forward, close enough to speak into his ear if you wanted to.
You didn’t.
But you almost did.
Instead, you held his gaze for one beat too long. The kind of look that felt like a dare.
You jumped down off the table, blood hot and your head swimming with smoke and sugar. The crowd swallowed you whole, but your eyes found him instantly, leaning against the wall like he owned it, red cup in hand, lip caught between his teeth.
Sukuna.
His eyes were locked on you. Sharp. Starved.
You didn’t even think—just pushed through the bodies, grabbed his shirt, and muttered something like “upstairs, now.”
He followed.
Didn’t say a word. Just pressed a hand to your lower back and let you drag him through the chaos, up the stairs, into the nearest room with a door you could slam shut behind you.
The lock clicked.
And then your mouth was on his.
It was messy, clumsy at first, all teeth and breath and too many hands trying to touch at once. He groaned into the kiss when you pushed him up against the wall, his fingers tightening on your hips like he’d been waiting for this all damn semester.
Your shirt came off first. His followed. Then yours again, because he wanted to see. Touch. Explore the heat under your skin and the way your breath hitched when his mouth dragged down your throat.
“Fuck,” he whispered, against your collarbone, like you were something sacred and ruined all at once.
You backed toward the bed, pulling him with you. Fell into the mattress, legs tangled, teeth clashing, laughing into his mouth when he groaned your name like it hurt.
When he settled between your thighs, grinding down just hard enough to make your spine arch, you gasped. Grabbed at him. Let your head fall back with a choked sound you didn’t mean to let slip.
“Still hate me?” he asked, breath hot against your jaw.
“Shut the fuck up,” you muttered, pulling him closer.
You didn’t stop touching him. Didn’t stop moving. Your bodies slid together like they’d done this before—like they needed it. Your fingers digging into his back. His mouth on your throat, your chest, your stomach. The way he kissed you after every gasp—like he wanted to savour it. Make sure you never forgot.
And you wouldn’t.
Not the way he whispered your name right before you came. Not the way he held your face when you did. Not the way he kissed you after, slow and reverent, like he hadn’t just destroyed you.
You lay there in silence, bodies warm and wrecked and too tangled to pretend it meant nothing.
And you knew, even then: This wasn’t just a party hookup.
This was the moment you’d remember tomorrow—when it all came crashing down.
✧✧✧
You woke up with the kind of hangover that made you question every life decision from age seven onward. Your mouth tasted like regret. Your head pulsed like there was a rave happening behind your eyes. You blinked at the ceiling for a full minute before sitting up and immediately regretting that too.
Your phone had five missed texts from Utahime, two from unknown numbers, and one photo you had to squint at to realise was you, on a table, mid-dance. Shirt ridden up. Face flushed. Sukuna—barely in frame—standing below, half-shadowed, looking up at you like you were some kind of puzzle he was deciding not to solve.
You deleted the photo. Then deleted the delete.
You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. People danced at parties. People got drunk. People flirted with dangerous men and almost fucked them in front of fifty witnesses. It was fine.
You were halfway across the quad, hoodie up, headphones in with no music playing, when you saw him again.
Sukuna.
Sitting under one of the older trees near the main lecture hall, legs stretched out, notebook open on one knee. Writing. Or pretending to. His eyes flicked up the moment you got close.
“Morning,” he said, like nothing had happened. No sarcasm. No smirk. Just… the word.
You stopped. Against your better judgment. “Are you stalking me?”
He shrugged. “I was here first.”
“You’re always ‘here first.’ That’s weird.”
He didn’t look at you when he answered. Just kept flipping the stupid lighter in his hand like it might say something for him. “Or maybe,” he said, calm as anything, “we just hang out in the same places.”
You snorted. “We don’t hang out.”
“Tell that to the version of you dancing on the kitchen table last night.”
Your stomach turned. Too fast. Too hard. Like it had been waiting for that line, and now it didn’t know what to do with it.
“You’re not funny,” you said. Too sharp. Too flat.
“I’m kind of hilarious, actually.”
But he didn’t smile when he said it. Not really. He wasn’t doing that thing he usually did—leaning in too close, voice dipped just low enough to make you feel it. He wasn’t smirking. Wasn’t pushing. He just looked tired. Quiet. Like he was standing on the other side of something you couldn’t see yet.
You folded your arms across your chest. “I don’t remember much,” you said. Which wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the truth either.
He nodded once. No judgment. No sarcasm. Just—“Cool. Then we’ll say nothing happened.”
That landed harder than it should have. You blinked. “You’re not gonna be annoying about it?”
“Nope.”
And he meant it. That was the worst part. No smug grin. No smug anything. He was offering you an out. A clean break. Like he’d already accepted whatever version of this you were willing to give him.
You scoffed, because it felt safer than silence. “Fine. Nothing happened.”
“Exactly.”
You turned to walk away. Fast. Too fast. Like you could outpace the heat still lingering on your skin or the phantom feel of his hands on your waist.
But then, just as the door creaked behind you, you heard him say it.
Soft. Almost like he didn’t mean for you to hear it at all.
“But it could’ve.”
You didn’t stop.
But you felt it.
All the way down.
✧✧✧
You were halfway up the metal bleachers when you realised something was off.
It was supposed to be a quiet practice. The field was open, sun bleeding through low clouds, a few students jogging the track, the campus radio playing somewhere in the background. You’d come out here to clear your head, not to be witnessed. Definitely not to be ambushed.
And yet.
The radio cut out mid-song. A pause. Then: feedback. And then—his voice.
“This is probably a bad idea,” said Sukuna, crackling through the speakers like an accidental god.
You froze.
“But you’re ignoring me, and I’m not built for being ignored. So here we are.”
Heads turned. The girl stretching two rows down looked up, confused. A guy on the field pointed toward the press box, where the campus radio station was housed.
You turned slowly.
There he was.
Sukuna, leaning into the mic, half-laughing, one arm resting on the desk like he owned the place. A little breathless. Hair pulled back. That same damn look in his eye.
“You don’t like me. I get it. You think I’m an asshole—which is fair. But you also think I don’t notice things. That I’m not paying attention. And you’re wrong.”
You felt your heartbeat in your teeth.
“You always start your notes on the bottom line of the page. You mouth the words when you read. You don’t laugh out loud unless it’s mean or unexpected. You’re mean when you’re scared. You’re scared when you like someone.”
You were going to kill him.
Not immediately. Not in front of witnesses. But soon.
“So if you’re listening—and I know you are—just know this: I’m not asking for anything. I’m just saying I see you. And I’m still here.”
Then static. Silence. Someone started clapping. A few others joined. The moment cracked open like a dropped plate.
You stood up.
Walked down the bleachers.
And made sure not to look at anyone until you were off the field and back inside.
You didn’t text him.
But that night, you couldn’t stop thinking about the way his voice had sounded through the speaker.
A little unsure.
A little real.
Too real.
✧✧✧
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” you muttered, climbing into the passenger seat of his beat-up car.
“Sure you can,” Sukuna said, sliding into the driver’s side like this wasn’t the biggest win of his month. “You’re dying to hang out with me.”
“I’m skipping class, not confessing my feelings.”
“Same thing,” he smirked, revving the engine.
You rolled your eyes and refused to smile.
He didn’t tell you where you were going, but you didn’t ask. You just watched the trees blur past the window and tried not to think about how your chest still ached from hearing his voice on the radio yesterday. Or how he hadn’t pushed you afterwards. No smug comments. No, “so, you like me now?” Just a nod across the quad, like he knew what he’d done and wasn’t going to ruin it.
And then, suddenly—you were here.
It was an abandoned paintball park just off the edge of campus, tucked behind a shuttered rec centre and a forest that hadn’t been trimmed in years. Half the inflatables were sun-bleached. The other half looked like they were waiting to be condemned. It was perfect.
“Is this trespassing?” you asked.
He looked at you. “Do you care?”
“No.”
“Good.”
He pulled two masks and a backpack full of old paintball gear from the trunk and tossed you one.
“Winner gets to ask one question,” he said, already loading his gun.
“What if I win?”
“You won’t.”
You hit him first. Right in the ribs. Yellow paint exploded across his hoodie, and he staggered back, laughing—really laughing—and called you a bitch through the mask. You didn’t stop grinning for ten whole seconds.
It went like that for a while. Running. Hiding. Hitting each other with sharp, wet bursts of colour. At one point, you tripped and rolled behind a bunker, breathing hard. Sukuna slid in after you, tackled you with just enough force to knock the wind out of your lungs, and pinned you there.
You froze.
Paint smeared between you. His mask was off now. So was yours. His eyes were close, wild and bright. His breath hit your face in fast bursts.
Neither of you said anything.
Then—just like that—he kissed you.
Quick. Hard. Like he hadn’t meant to do it until it was already happening.
You didn’t stop him.
You kissed him back.
Your hands fisted in his hoodie, and his mouth tilted against yours, hungry, like he’d been waiting for this moment since the second you told him to fuck off during class that first week.
When he finally pulled away, he looked wrecked. Not from the game. From you.
You swallowed. “I still hate you.”
He grinned. “Sure you do.”
And then he kissed you again.
✧✧✧
It was supposed to be a quick stop. Sukuna had followed you downtown because you wanted “real food, not vending machine garbage,” and somehow that turned into ducking into a cramped little music shop just off the main strip. Guitars lined the walls like trophies, faded band posters tacked behind the counter. The whole place smelled like old wood and warm metal.
You didn’t say anything when you picked one up.
Just grabbed the pair of beat-up studio headphones from the display, plugged in, and sat down on the little stool in the back.
Sukuna watched from a distance, pretending to be interested in a rack of bass picks. But his eyes kept sliding back to you.
The way your fingers moved—confident, casual, muscle memory kicking in like it had never left. Your eyes were half-lidded, head tilted just slightly, as you plucked out something low and slow. Not a song he recognised. Maybe not even a full melody. Just sound. Easy. Yours.
You looked so fucking calm.
So quietly happy.
When you noticed him watching, you smirked and pulled the headphones off.
“Didn’t peg you as the lingering type,” you said.
“Didn’t peg you as the secretly talented type,” he shot back.
You shrugged. “Used to play. Can’t afford one anymore. Not like I’d have time anyway.”
Then you set the guitar back on the wall, careful, like it mattered.
And walked out like none of it had meant anything.
Sukuna stayed behind a second longer.
Long enough to memorise the make. The colour. The way your eyes had gone soft when you played.
He didn’t say anything about it then.
But he remembered.
✧✧✧
Naoya wasn’t a genius, but he wasn’t stupid either.
And something was definitely going on.
He watched them from across the quad—Utahime, Gojo, and that stupid little spiral of tension they tried to play off as banter. Gojo leaning in just a bit too close, Utahime swatting him away, but never really moving. Her eyes lingered. His hands were always busy—spinning a pen, adjusting his sunglasses, reaching for a piece of her attention like it was second nature.
They weren’t dating. Not officially. But it was obvious. Everyone could feel it.
And it pissed Naoya off more than he cared to admit.
He’d asked Utahime to prom in the most low-effort way possible—half a smile and a “You’re free Saturday, right?” by the vending machines. She’d paused for a second, then shrugged. “Sure.” No exclamation point. No heart emoji. Just sure.
Still, he considered it a win. Until later that week, when he overheard Gojo asking her what colour she was wearing so he could “match his tie to her aura.” And the worst part? She laughed. Laughed. The kind of laugh you didn’t fake for social survival. The kind that lived in your throat when someone actually got under your skin—in a good way.
Naoya stared from a distance, fuming silently as Gojo offered Utahime a bite of whatever overpriced pastry he was eating. She took it. Didn’t even hesitate.
That’s when it hit him.
Gojo didn’t care about prom. He cared about winning.
And Utahime? She wasn’t even pretending anymore. Not even a little.
Naoya didn’t say anything. Just watched them walk off, their shadows overlapping on the pavement.
He had a date to the prom.
But he was starting to wonder if he was the only one who didn’t know it was a joke.
✧✧✧
You didn’t expect him to ask.
You’d already decided you weren’t going. Told Utahime you hated crowds, loud music, the idea of putting effort into something that would end with people puking in bushes and fake glitter in your underwear. She didn’t believe you, but she knew better than to push.
And then Sukuna showed up.
At your dorm door. Leaning against the frame like he hadn’t just jogged up four flights of stairs, hair a little messy, a half-wrinkle in his shirt like he’d slept in it and didn’t care. Like always.
“You going to prom?” he asked.
You blinked. “Why?”
He shrugged, eyes scanning your face like he was trying to read a language he hadn’t studied enough. “Figured if I have to suffer through a school event, you should too.”
You scoffed. “Is this your version of asking nicely?”
“It’s my version of asking at all.”
You should’ve said no.
Should’ve shut the door in his face, curled up in bed, and watched something violent while pretending you didn’t care. But the problem was—you did. And the way he was looking at you? Not smug. Not teasing. Just… waiting.
So you said yes.
Quietly. Grudgingly.
And two days later, he picked you up for suit shopping like this was just a thing you did now. Like the two of you had rules. Traditions. Somewhere between enemies and not-quite-lovers.
The shop was tucked behind a row of old bookstores, with mirrors that made you look taller and music that felt like static. You tried on three suits before settling on one that didn’t make you want to punch yourself. Sukuna lounged in the corner chair the whole time, pretending not to watch you adjust the collar, the cuffs, the shoulders.
“You clean up,” he said eventually, like it was a fact. Like it didn’t mean anything.
“You’re staring,” you replied.
He smiled. “Can you blame me?”
You didn’t answer. Just turned back to the mirror, trying not to imagine his hands on your waist again. Trying not to remember the way he kissed you behind that bunker, like he didn’t care who saw. Like he’d been waiting to do it since day one.
Later, you sat cross-legged on your bed while Utahime painted a line of dark eyeliner under your lashes. Her fingers were steady. She didn’t ask you anything, didn’t tease you about your date or your nerves. Just hummed under her breath, like this was something she knew you needed.
Gojo texted her mid-mascara. Something about his tie.
She smiled when she read it. Soft. The kind of smile you used to wear around people you didn’t think could hurt you.
And for the first time in weeks, your stomach sank.
Something about all of this felt too good. Too smooth.
And when things felt this good, something always broke.
✧✧✧
The gym didn’t look like a gym. Not tonight.
String lights dripped from the rafters like stars trying too hard. The floor had been covered in some kind of black satin tarp, and the punch had actual fruit in it, which meant some overworked student council member was probably passed out backstage from exhaustion.
You stood in the doorway, fingers curling into the cuffs of your sleeves, breath caught somewhere between dread and disbelief.
And then you saw him.
Sukuna.
Leaning against the back wall in a suit that looked criminal on him. Shirt half-open. Tie loose. Hair swept back like he’d tried, then gave up halfway. He looked bored. Dangerous. Stupidly hot.
But the second his eyes found you, he stared. Like you were gravity.
“Damn,” he said when you reached him, voice a little rough. “You clean up scary good.”
“You look like you lost a bet with fashion,” you shot back, but your voice was softer than usual.
His grin cracked something in your chest.
You danced. Eventually. Not because you wanted to, but because the song was slow and the room had started to spin, and Sukuna held out his hand like it wasn’t a question. His palm was warm. His fingers were steady. One hand on your waist, one on your wrist, like he was grounding you and holding you hostage all at once.
“I don’t do this,” you murmured.
“Dance?”
“Let people in.”
His grip tightened just a little. “Maybe you should.”
You didn’t pull away.
Across the room, Utahime was laughing at something Gojo said, a crumpled corsage in her hand. Gojo looked so smug that you wanted to throw something, but she looked happy. Like… happy.
Then Naoya showed up.
Lurking on the edge of the crowd like a shadow that hadn’t been invited. Eyes sharp. Smile sharper.
You felt it before you saw him approach—Sukuna going tense, his posture shifting just slightly, like he’d spotted a crack in the floor and knew what was coming.
Naoya didn’t say hello.
Didn’t greet you.
Just looked at Sukuna and said, loudly enough to turn heads:
“So, how’s it feel? Winning the bet?”
The music didn’t stop. But everything else did.
You blinked. “What bet?”
Naoya’s smile widened. “Oh, you didn’t tell him? Thought that was part of the game.”
You looked at Sukuna.
He didn’t answer.
Didn’t deny it.
Just stood there. Still. Silent.
And that—that—was all it took.
You stepped back. Out of his reach. Out of his orbit.
He tried to speak—tried to explain—but you were already walking away, mouth dry, vision tunnelling.
Utahime caught up to you in the hallway. “What happened?”
And then behind you: a smack.
Loud. Sharp. Clean.
You turned just in time to see Utahime’s hand drop from Naoya’s face.
“Don’t ever talk to me again,” she said.
Naoya stood there, stunned, cheek blooming red.
Gojo looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh.
And Sukuna? He was still in the doorway. Still staring after you. Still not moving.
Like maybe if he stayed still long enough, you’d turn around.
You didn’t.
✧✧✧
You stopped answering texts.
Not just Sukuna’s. Everyone’s. Utahime. Gojo. That one guy from chem who always sent you TikToks you never watched. Your phone became a thing that buzzed and blinked and begged for attention, and you left it facedown every time. Like ignoring it could make everything disappear.
The campus felt smaller after that night.
Every hallway echoed. Every classroom felt like a spotlight. Every glance from people who’d heard about the scene at prom—because of course they had—made your skin itch.
And Sukuna?
He didn’t vanish. That would’ve been easier. Instead, he showed up.
Everywhere.
Leaning against the locker outside your lecture hall. Sitting on the bench across from your favourite coffee place. Lingering by the library entrance like he didn’t know where else to go.
Sometimes, he tried to talk.
Not loudly. Not the way he used to. He didn’t yell or chase or beg. Just stood there, voice low, hands in his pockets, eyes rimmed red like he hadn’t slept in days.
“I didn’t think it would matter,” he’d said once. “Until it did.”
You didn’t respond.
Another time: “It wasn’t about the bet. Not after I got to know you. I swear to god.”
You walked away before he finished.
He never pushed. Never grabbed your wrist or blocked your path or made a scene.
And that, somehow, was worse.
Because he meant it.
Because if he’d laughed in your face, you could’ve hated him clean. Sharp. Easy.
But he stood there instead—like he’d been gutted. Like you were the one who’d broken him.
It would’ve been poetic if it hadn’t hurt so much.
The worst part was: you missed him.
You missed the stupid smirk. The way he leaned too close when you talked, like he couldn’t hear you unless you were touching. You missed the quiet moments. The half-finished thoughts. The way he said your name, like it was something earned.
But every time you remembered the gym lights, Naoya’s voice, and the way Sukuna didn’t deny it, you wanted to scream.
So you didn’t say anything.
You didn’t say anything.
And Sukuna stood in your silence like it was a cage he built himself.
✧✧✧
Sukuna had never really been afraid of silence. He’d lived in it, grown up in it, learned to weaponise it. But this? This wasn’t silence. This was absence.
A blank space where laughter used to live.
No more text messages with half-spelt insults. No more boots scuffing the tile next to his. No more eyes burning into the side of his face when he said something stupid just to get a reaction.
It was like he’d imagined the whole thing.
And he was losing his mind because of it.
He hadn’t been eating. Barely sleeping. His classes were background noise, the campus a grayscale blur he wandered through in a haze. Every corner reminded him of something. A smirk. A comment. That look—the one from the paintball park, all flushed cheeks and fire.
Gone.
He was in the quad when they found him.
Gojo and Geto. The human embodiment of chaos and judgment. The worst tag team in existence.
“You look like shit,” Gojo said, flopping down next to him on the bench. “Like, more than usual.”
“Thanks,” Sukuna muttered.
Geto sat on the other side. Calm. Calculated. “So. You ruined it.”
Sukuna didn’t answer.
Gojo leaned forward, elbows on knees. “I’m just trying to understand how you managed to fumble that hard. Was the bet worth it? Huh?”
“It wasn’t like that,” Sukuna said, voice low. “Not really.”
“But it was, at first,” Geto said, no venom—just facts.
Sukuna stared at the ground.
Gojo exhaled sharply. “Look. I don’t care how it started. I care that you meant it by the end. And that you let him walk away without a fight.”
“What do you want me to do?” Sukuna snapped. “I already told him it wasn’t about the bet. I told him I was sorry. He doesn’t want to hear it.”
“Of course he doesn’t,” Gojo said. “Not yet.”
“So what then? I keep showing up and making an idiot of myself until he forgives me?”
“Maybe,” Geto said. “Or maybe you show him something real. Something that proves it wasn’t just a game to you.”
Sukuna scoffed. “Like what? A fucking song? A love letter?”
Gojo grinned. “Oh my god. Please write him a love letter. I’ll frame it.”
“Be serious.”
“I am,” Gojo said. “You’re in love with him, Sukuna. Do something about it before it’s too late.”
That shut him up.
Because it was the truth.
He was. He was in love.
And he was going to lose you for good if he didn’t stop sulking and start trying.
✧✧✧
The assignment was simple: write a poem. Present it aloud. Be vulnerable. The professor’s words, not yours.
You weren’t going to do it.
But then you sat up the night before, fingers clenched around a pen, and the words came out like teeth.
So now you're standing here.
In front of half the class, with Sukuna sitting somewhere behind you, quiet for once, his presence like static behind your ribs.
You clear your throat.
Your hands don’t shake.
But your voice does.
“I hate the way you look at me,” you begin, tone flat, eyes locked just above everyone’s heads. “Like you’re already in on the joke. Like I’m something you’re about to ruin.”
Someone chuckles. You don’t stop.
“I hate the way you laugh when you’re nervous. Hate how it still sounds good anyway. I hate that I notice that.”
You breathe through your nose.
Don’t look at him.
“I hate the way you sit next to me like we’re not still pretending. I hate that you said it wasn’t about the bet. I hate that I believed you.”
The room is quiet now.
No laughter. No shifting chairs.
Just silence.
You swallow.
“I hate that I miss you when I shouldn't. I hate how you looked at me that night, like I meant something. I hate the paint on my old hoodie because it still smells like you. I hate that I can’t forget you. I hate that I don’t want to.”
Your voice catches.
You let it.
“I hate that I still look for you in crowds. I hate that I still love you.”
You fold the paper. Calm. Controlled.
And walk back to your seat without looking up—without looking at him.
Because if you did?
You might not survive it.
✧✧✧
A guitar was sitting in your passenger seat like it had always belonged there.
You stared at it through the open car door, heart pounding so hard it hurt. Your mouth was dry. Your hands were shaking. You didn’t know whether to scream or cry or smash it over someone's head, and honestly? That was on brand.
“Hey.”
You turned fast, shoulders tense.
Sukuna was standing a few feet behind you. Hoodie pulled over his head. Eyes soft. Like he’d been waiting hours to catch you alone.
“You broke into my car?” you said, because of course that’s what you said.
He lifted both hands in mock surrender. “Spare key. Utahime gave it to me. Under threat of bodily harm, for the record.”
You looked back at the guitar. Then at him.
“I meant it,” he said, before you could fire another round. “What I said. What I didn’t say. I was a dumbass. You know that already. But I meant everything. Every second.”
You exhaled, slow and shaky.
“I hate you,” you said, and you weren’t sure if it was true or not anymore.
“I know.”
“I still hate you.”
He stepped closer.
“I still want you.”
You didn’t think. You just moved.
Your hand fisted in the collar of his hoodie, yanked him forward, and kissed him like you were trying to kill the version of yourself that ever gave a shit about pride.
It was messy. Breathless. A little desperate. The kind of kiss that made up for all the ones you’d missed and then some.
He kissed you back like his life depended on it.
Like he’d been waiting.
When you finally pulled away, both of you dazed and a little stunned, he whispered, “Does this mean I can ride shotgun?”
You rolled your eyes. “Only if you shut the hell up.”
He grinned.
You tossed your bag in the back seat, slammed the door shut, and jerked your chin toward the car.
— Summary: The heir for the Evergardens, an absolute nightmare since your childhood was filled by nothing but your parents' "love". But now they're gone, the citizens hoped at least, you're better than them and they asked you to capture a thief that had been a problem for years. But oh, how funny that fate made you fall in love with him.
— Warnings/Tags: Reader's last name is "Evergarden", Mentions of child abuse, Non-con Drugging, Use of Aphrodisiac, Masturbating, Mutual Masturbating, Age gap (Hector is 4 years older).
— Words: 3.2k
— A/N: tbh, the making of Hector is inspired by Cipher from HSR, yeah... since I revealed Ji-Yeong, I'll delay the opening request, since you guys interested in him... i hope you don't mind. i don't really have much to say, therefore; i hope you enjoyed this fic !!
— Pairing: Oc!Hector x Male!Reader
Being a king inside of a magical world, filled by fantasy where teenagers fantasize about being a mage, having royal blood, and romance. But this isn’t a novel book. This is what you had to face in full highest quality.
People fantasize having royal blood, but you’d do anything to not avoid it in your second life. Yes—you’re rich but in the other hand, your life meant nothing other then control. Magic was also a thing, obviously. Even if you can technically used magic, but you simply refused. Why use something weak when blades are useable? That alone made conflict in the palace.
Being the future heir for the kingdom was supposed to learn magic and not disappoint their family, that was what your parents would feed you every single day during dinner. But that never you put to ear, blades kept you entertained besides those lectures about how to be a good future ruler for the Kingdom had to learn magic. Still, it never interested you to learn such thing.
Rebellious to the palace’s eyes, but seen as interesting and a possible good ruler to the people in your kingdom. You where known to often run away from the palace during your supposed “training” to play with the kids of the citizens, punishment was what they would use on you, hitting, getting slapped and many more. But does it work? Never!
You remember being sat down as your father angrily lecture you about every action you made—it’s unacceptable especially for the crown prince. It’s boring… so you often gazed at the window inside of the study, your eyes always met with lighting—a zoom so fast it often caught you off guard. The screams of people saying one thing as they chase that lighting; “THEIF!”.
Your father paused mid lecture when you were completely distracted by the lighting. “Evergarden [Name].” Your father called coldly but you didn’t look at him. “Did you even listen to your father!? Are you seriously expecting the kingdom to have a ruler like you? A failure! Absolutely failure!”
“Better off you shut that mouth of yours before you died from old age, old man,” you spoke back, it’s normal for you to do so. You glanced at your father who’s face was red, boiled by anger. “I’m leaving.”
You didn’t even look back as you slammed the study room’s doors. The palace was gloomy as it usually be, you sighed. But that lighting kept replayed on your head, it was fast… and fascinating. You replayed it to keep that imagine on your head; the gold and orange lighting coming from that figure and with a blink, they were gone.
Thieves are bad people… but that scene was cool for your young naïve brain. You don’t know who they might be, but how bad can they be, right? You skipped around the corridors, as the moon shined bright. Even so, you failed to notice that a shadow of a boy creeping to the dark night looking at your figure.
“What a naïve cute little heir…”
Even after years of so called “punishments” that’s just straight up abuse, both of your parents—the king and queen was found assassinated. Honestly? You don’t know what to reach, neither to be happy, sad, or even don’t care at this point. Yes, they both wanted nothing but you to be a good king when they passed, but the things they do to achieve such goal is inhuman.
Everyone thought you’d cry the day they announced their deaths. Truthfully, you don’t feel anything. However, for the sake of reputation. You pulled out your fake tears just to satisfied the kingdom.
The morning of the kingdom was gloomy, sad and empty. That’s what people say, most of your family members mourn your parents’ death, the two coffin was placed closely to each other. You kept shifting on your sit uncomfortably, their faces was mourning. Mourning. Mourning to those two people who had left those marks that’s hard to go, you kept adjusting your black cloth hoping someone wouldn’t noticed quickly that you felt uncomfortable or whatever this is suffocates you.
When the ceremony was over, nobles gave you their sorries for your lost, now. With you sitting on the age of 23 and being the only child, of course you were seen as the next ruler. What else? Their voices haunts you even after you hold a stoic expression during the ceremony; “Don’t disappoint your mother, [Name]. What king cries when they can’t do something!?” “Tsk, what? Crying when I hit your arm? I’ve experience worst! I’m kind enough to go easy on you.” “Failure! You had potential. [Name]. Why did you throw it away just to play with blades!?”
“Hey,” a voice right beside you made you snapped to reality, you turned your head to find a man wearing a hood. “Something in your mind?”
You titled your head, someone asking you about what’s going on in your mind? “You can say… so.”
“Hah, being a heir for this kingdom? This? You serious wanted that?” He laughed, the people around you also doesn’t seemed to care, but his words stuck with you; do you even want to be a king? “Y’know, behind close doors… sooo many nobles are corrupt, and yet. They rather see a man who just wants coins to be executed.”
You just look at this man, absolutely dumbfounded under your stoic expression. He shook his head amusingly as he tossed a coin with his thumb, your eyes followed the gold until it lands on his second hand. He tapped your hand, fisted and on your lap. As if he asked you to open it, you did. And find that same coin on your hand.
“That’s called magic, handsome.” You almost wanted to laugh—but you pressed your lips as you look at the coin. The man stood up as he about to walk away.
“…May I ask your name?” You asked when he then turned at you, a grin spread on his face.
“Hector.”
Inside of your room, your mind lingers to that name. You don’t know what’s up with him, nor even you know how he looked like. But he entertained you, even enough to make you wanted to laugh. It felt nice to feel that after you had to bottle it to a stoic face. Just imagine where you and Hector being actual friends and not just for the kingdom… oh, imagine you two can be more then friends! Just imagine—
—You should stop daydreaming… it wouldn’t happened. That reality slapping you. Life sucks, being a noble sucks, just in a few days you’ll be a ruler for this kingdom. Filled by corrupt minds, who wanted nothing but money… who wanted nothing but power. But thanks to your own parents who’s corrupt, they ran away without consequences. You rubbed your temples, you’ve know this but you can’t do much about it back then, but now… you could. Well, the later you could.
[Hector’s P.O.V…]
“Hey, thief, what’s with you and that heir?” Hector’s friend, Albert sipped the glass of beer in hand. His face was slightly red from being somewhat drunk. “He might look capable, but he’s weak. Can’t learn magic… he—hiccup—he’s pathetic under that stupid face…”
Hector chuckled as he put his leg on top his knee, twirling his own beer. “That’s a bonus! Don’t you think?” He leaned his glass forward, admiring the golden color fizz. “Oh poor Evergarden [Name]… he really faced those shits alone, his parents are dead now. But, does he able to be a better king that stupid old man?”
Albert puts down his glass, Hector rolled his eyes when his friend continued to hiccup. He pulled his glass and practically drank everything in a single go, he pulled his glass up, the reflection of Albert came. But that wasn’t what he was looking for, Hector grumbled as he put his glass down. Maybe looking for the Evergarden heir would be a good idea, he thought as he stood up from his chair.
“The bill is on you.” Hector laughed to himself, he turned to Albert who’s drunken dumb before he speed up—trail of gold and orange soon gone when Hector wasn’t around.
What a poor end to get kicked out by the bar for not paying and getting drunk, and Hector ran away like he didn’t do anything… poor Albert.
“What’s with that face, your highness?” Your eyes flickered to the voice that came from entrance of the study, the same study your eyes met that gold lighting. A servant of yours, Oscar. Loyal to serve your father.
Everything during the ceremony of you becoming king went oddly enough, smoothly. Too smoothly. You remembered everyone—nobles, citizens, and the royal servants all clapped at you the moment the crown was placed on your head. Your face remain unchanged as you gave your speech and everything else you honestly wanted to forget since for the past few days stressed you out.
You sat on your seat, Oscar made his way beside you as he hold a glass of water in hand which bring you suspicion. But you kept your calm demeanor, keeping that unreadable face as he placed the water on your desk, which you barely gave attention to.
“Ah, focused aren’t you?” He teased, You gave Oscar a light glare before focusing back to your papers that’s mostly empty. “How about a glass of water to calm yourself from that cold—face?” Oscar took another glass seemed out of no where. But that’s his magic stuff... you sighed.
“I don’t need your bullshit.” Your words were harsh, but your hand was polite, slowly declining the fancy glass in Oscar’s hand. “Please, leave.”
Oscar looked at you, almost not amused. “Ah, but your father wanted me to make sure his “son” would be a good heir. And not a failure, your highness.” He said, your fingers twitched. Almost as if you ready to punch him in the face.
“Fine, I’ll drink your stupid water.” You took the glass out of Oscar’s hand, without thinking, you just drank the liquid without thinking of the consequences. It’s something that’s in your vein at this point. Your saw him smiling, but his smile didn’t reached his eyes.
After you finish, Oscar was nowhere in sight. You shifted from your seat and gaze to the papers in front of you and get to work. Paper after paper, is life this boring? You didn’t know either asked. What you knew, your father bottled his emotions and finally pour it to his son, you.
The candle across the room was the only thing company you as continued your endlessly amount of work, that. Until a knock came from the window of the study, a pigeon—possibly from someone or some sort. You rose from your seat and opened the window as the bird gave you an envelope, but it didn’t seem to disappear immediately. Strange, since it was a shadow and you expect I’d just go away. Instead, it leaned to your shoulder.
“I don’t have much,” you muttered quietly as you walked to your desk, opening a drawer to take a small amount of safflower seeds and gave it to the pigeon that eagerly ate them. “Is there something going on during my work hours?”
The pigeon looked at you, shaking it’s head as it continues to eat slowly. You chuckled to yourself as you opened the envelope, wrapped in brown paper and a crimson colored stamp. At first glance, you expect it might be a neighboured kingdom. Instead, it was a letter from a citizen. A women under the name “Silvana”.
︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵
ㅤㅤ For our dear King [Name] Evergarden…
Your highness, you may have heard this from word and word… there’s a thief roaming around the kingdom! He had stole many… food, clothes, and many more that we citizens lost.
We hope you’re able to capture him, from the suspects who had saw him told that he had a dark brown hair… we don’t know his eyes but he had a super power. It’s popular to be known as super speed, but they suspected it could be more. Unfortunately, he don’t know his name... We’ll inform you again, your highness.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤFrom:
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤSilvana Gunnhildr.
︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵
You stare at the paper for longer then you’d thought you’d do. The pigeon was already gone, is it? You didn’t even care to noticed. You already pulled out an empty sheet of paper, trying to break the plans for capturing this thief you knew it’s probably the same one from your childhood. But you wrote the multiple ways you could possibly capture him, even if, he had powers you yourself cannot do.
Papers scattered around the room when you finally noticed the first tall candle was on its way before it died. Tired as fuck is what your body would say, you don’t know how long have you spend juggling both those stacks of paper work and your plan of hunting down this thief. You stood from your chair just to feel a weird feeling that twirling inside of your stomach.
You ignored it, well. That’s what you wanted to do. But you felt your body getting warmer, you clasped your hand to your mouth, your breath was slow but it was hot. A low whimper escaped your lips, it sounds… pathetic. Very pathetic. You don’t know what was in your mind, but you immediately touched your crotch.
Fuck it… you said to yourself as you sink at your chair once more, you shamelessly opened your pants. Your erect cock was already twitching—you felt your body getting hotter and hotter. It’s indeed shamelessly and unethical, but who cares at this point. You grabbed your now weeping cock and stroke it gently.
But no matter what you do, your cock just doesn’t want to cum. Frustration boiled you when you cried out, whining inside of the empty study, you gritted your teeth when you used your second hand to find your asshole almost like it was an instinct. You slowly inserted your digit, stroking your dick and playing with your hole both at once sure is difficult, but you can’t deny that the pleasure was good.
“Enjoying yourself aren’t you?”
You nodded. “Fuck, I can’t cum—” you paused whatever you’re going with the speed of light, you snapped your head to find the man just like the envelope describe; dark brown hair. However, you saw he had golden eyes that just straight up staring at your soul and his voice sounded… familiar too?
“Hello there, handsom—” You didn’t even think twice as you throw your sword at him then stabbed the wall, blood running from the man’s cheek, he stumbled back where the same cheek which bled was close to your blade.
With your right leg, you quickly pinned the man. You use your hands to held your sword, despite the heat still pooling inside of you, the fact that you can still act quick enough to someone disturbing you was scary. But hot—
“…Hector?” That name rolled off your tongue, your guard melted for a split second before your eyes set gaze harder.
Hector was that thief. That thief your people hate. Despised, you… actually liked him? No, stay focus. The thief looked at you, even if you’re the same height, he looked amused as he saw your chest raising slowly, your hot breath clasping with his own, a smirk played along his face. You raised and eyebrow and didn’t even tried to lower your guard.
“You’re red…” He commented, you bit your lip to held back a sound that made you pathetic when Hector’s palm moving down towards your crotch that’s already damped. “…And wet, guess that servant of yours really gave out a strong one. Huh~?”
“How about this,” Hector licked his upper lip the moment your stoic expression slowly melted after you unsuccessfully held back your sweet—sweet whiny voice. “You can’t cum, right? How about a hand, hmm?”
And now, what king wanted to agree to that? Unfortunately you did.
Well, there’s no choice really. You remembered that you had an event going later, and if you can’t cum now, how much of a mess would it be later? Definitely it’s not because you liked Hector.
Hector’s cock if compared to you sure is a difference, it’s scary that for something like Hector needed a cock that big. You bite in to the edge of your gown, Hector’s hand wrapped around your cock and his as he then carefully moved his hand, it was slow. Painfully slow. But you didn’t dare to complain, the whines and low moans was enough to made you sounded pathetic. Asking Hector, a literal wanted thief to go faster would absolutely be shameless.
You can’t see him in the face. Not like this, not with the fact your eyes were watery the moment his thumb rubbing against the slit of your glan. Hector was the one who kept his eyes on you, it was filled by mischief, when his hand was on the very bottom, he used his powers—his stupidly fast hand to go rougher on you.
It didn’t even take a second for you finally cummed—it was everywhere. White spilling to the sofa of your study as you continued to whine. Hector’s hand didn’t stop, even if you cummed. You saw it again; that lighting that mesmerized you even until this point on, even making you failed to realize that you already cummed the second time with a loud moan. That’s where Hector’s hand finally stopped, as his own cum sprout out.
Your legs trembled as you collapsed into Hector, your gown was covered by white so as the sofa. But hey, bonus points since you aren’t horny ask much. And maybe—the
“Your highness~? Hellooo?” Hector’s thumb circled around your cheek that’s still red, you wanted to slap him so much but you didn’t had much energy left. He chuckled at your weak form.
“Shut it…”
“Oh? What’s with that? I thought you’d be submissive longer~” Hector teased you, almost as if he wanted to grilled you so much.
You sighed as you straighten up, but the moment you about to slap him. A low creak came from the door and there it was, a female maid came to your study. Seeing your shocked face, she hesitant to even speak with you.
“You highness, the ball will be held in thirty more minutes. Some mages and other important people are on their way.” She explained, her tone was almost sounded deadpan. You were confused, Hector was with you… why doesn't she react?
Answer; Hector already ran out. The speed of light. You stood up, too fast that your legs trembled, you turned to your maid when you remembered again that you didn’t cleaned everything up.
“G–get… please, give me a moment!” You closed the door, fast. That was… embarrassing. You leaned to the door as you dropped to the floor. Hidding yourself on your knees. Hector… that asshole!!
“Don’t you think you’re a bit too much on him, thief?” Albert, somehow was beside Hector who sat on the grass hill where the Evergarden palace could be seen.
He laughed—a laugh that sounded rich as he stood up. “Noope, ah… such a shame I didn’t get to take anything in that palace,” Hector whined, Albert who didn’t look amused instead walked passed him. “Should I fuck him so—”
Hello I'm transgender but I was wondering what transmac? Means
to put it simply; Transmac (or transmasculine) is someone that's AFAB (assigned female at birth) whose gender identity and/or an expression of masculinity but not 100% a male
the simplest difference between transman and transmac is, transmac can be used for transman, AFAB who identify with masculinity, and some non-binary people. transman is some that's afab that identifies as a male
i hope that helps ! let me know if you have more questions
pairing: perfect student! male OC x male reader [faceclaim]
synopsis: No one’s ever ranked higher than Haruki Mikage—until you do. You’re new, unsettlingly smart, and partnered with him for a major project. Haruki’s trying to stay composed, but your odd habits, offhanded comments, and freakish talent in the kitchen are messing with his head. He should’ve ignored you. He doesn’t.
content warnings : 18+, academic rivals to something else, reader is creepy-smart and says weird shit unprovoked, golden boy Haruki smokes under pressure, slow burn with freaky tension, blowjob at the end of ch1 (reader giving), reader’s thoughts are not normal, shared trauma over academic excellence, high-school setting, light humiliation kink energy, some bullying, borderline-obsessive chemistry, they’re both unwell but in different fonts. also: the project does get submitted on time. barely.
word count: 3.4k
The paper wasn’t even all the way up on the board before someone in the hallway let out a low whistle.
“Yo, he’s not first anymore.”
The teacher pressed the last corner of the sheet flat against the corkboard with her palm, used a pin to anchor it in place. She stepped back. The crowd surged forward.
Haruki Mikage didn’t move from his desk.
He didn’t have to. He already knew what it said.
He’d been top-ranked every semester since middle school—longer, if you counted the city-wide assessments and mock entrance exams his mother used to post on the fridge like they were participation ribbons. Everyone knew his name. They whispered it before exams, hated him for it after. Professors adored him. Classmates tolerated him. His grades were a forgone conclusion.
But still, there was that whistle.
That murmur again.
The skin between his shoulder blades prickled with something unfamiliar.
He’s not first anymore.
He set his pen down.
Someone pressed a palm to the open door. “Mikage.”
Haruki looked up.
It was Kinoshita from 2-A. Always too loud, always too nosey.
“There’s a new name up there,” Kinoshita said, eyes wide, half in disbelief and half in that messy kind of glee people reserved for perfect students slipping. “You’re second.”
Haruki blinked once.
Kinoshita grinned. “They only wrote the family name. No one knows who it is yet.”
Haruki didn’t answer. He just turned back to his notebook and wrote the date in the top right corner. Kinoshita lingered in the doorway a second longer, waiting for something. A reaction. A twitch. Even a shrug.
He got nothing.
Haruki didn’t even look bothered.
But the tip of his pen was pressed too hard into the paper. Ink pooling.
∘₊✧
He didn’t go look at the list.
Not during lunch, not after school. Everyone else swarmed the board. The hall smelled like shoe rubber and shampoo and stress. A few people snapped photos. One girl squealed. Someone muttered your last name and said, “It has to be a mistake.”
It wasn’t.
Your name was written in blocky black print above Haruki’s, the gap between your scores barely two digits wide—but it was enough. It was real.
You weren’t in his class last year. No one knew who you were. You didn’t even have a photo in the club yearbook. No whispers, no rumors, no posts online. Just a name no one recognized and a score too high to ignore.
That should’ve been the end of it.
One test. One fluke.
People were curious, but curiosity burned out fast here. Unless you were someone interesting, someone visible, someone like Haruki—nobody lasted more than a few weeks before fading back into academic noise.
Except you didn’t fade. You didn’t do anything. You just existed in the background.
Quiet. Distant. Present. Like static. Like a blank space on a page that never stopped drawing the eye.
He should’ve forgotten it.
But your name kept coming up—softly, between other people’s conversations. No one knew where you were from. Or why your name was never on any club roster. Or what kind of person beat Haruki Mikage and then refused to show their face.
Someone in class said you were weird. That you mumbled to yourself. That you drew creepy shit in the corners of your worksheet margins and then never turned them in.
Another said you laughed in the middle of a chemistry lecture, and no one knew why.
Someone else said they saw you eating cold rice balls under the gym stairs, headphones on, eyes closed, mouthing the words to something that didn’t exist.
None of that made sense.
None of it matched the clean, precise writing next to the top score on the midterm report.
But Haruki remembered it anyway.
∘₊✧
The first time he saw you was two weeks later.
There was no grand entrance. You just walked in a little after the second bell, half-zipped jacket, hair a mess, notebooks clutched to your chest like a bribe.
Haruki was already seated. Already organised. Already done with the warm-up quiz.
You didn’t look at him.
You walked past him, past everyone, and sat in the back corner of the room by the window. The only desk that hadn’t been claimed.
You slumped down. Dropped your bag. Took out a pencil that had bite marks in it and started copying notes from the board with a half-lidded stare.
Haruki stared. He couldn’t help it.
There were no rumours about how you looked—no pictures online, no Instagram stories. But this wasn’t what he expected.
You weren’t particularly neat. Or polished. Your uniform didn’t fit right, like it had been ironed two days ago and then slept in. Your fingers were ink-stained. Your collar slightly crooked.
You were pretty. But in a way that felt… accidental. Or wrong. Like a painting flipped upside down.
There was something strange about your face. Or maybe your mouth. It looked like it wanted to smile, but didn’t know how.
You looked up once during the lecture. Your eyes met his.
Then you winked.
Haruki turned back to his textbook immediately, his throat dry.
He didn’t look at you again for the rest of the period.
But he felt you looking.
∘₊✧
The class project was announced the next week.
“Pairs of two,” the teacher said, holding up a glass bowl with folded slips inside. “We’re going to assign them randomly. You’ll have three weeks to put your presentations together. Graded on both content and performance.”
She walked between rows with the bowl.
Haruki reached in, pulled a number: 9.
He waited patiently while the others filed through their slips. Then your name was called.
You pulled yours out. Paused. Tapped it twice against your palm.
You looked right at him when you said, “Nine.”
Haruki’s fingers twitched around his pen.
∘₊✧
He didn’t say anything until after class.
You were still packing up, slow and disorganised. You dropped your folder and didn’t bother to pick up half the papers that slid out. A few had doodles in the margins. They looked like vines. Or veins.
“Haruki Mikage,” he said.
You blinked up at him, surprised. “Yeah?”
He stared. Then, “That’s my name.”
You tilted your head.
“I know,” you said. “You're the guy with the stupidly perfect eyebrows.”
He stared harder.
You reached for your bag, smiling faintly. “Are we gonna start working on this project, or are you gonna keep staring at me like I just spit in your bento?”
Haruki didn’t respond.
You laughed softly—barely audible. Like you hadn’t meant to do it.
Then you leaned forward and whispered, “You always look like you’re trying not to judge me. It’s okay. You can. It makes your mouth look sharper.”
His stomach twisted. He stepped back.
You turned and walked off like nothing happened.
Like you hadn’t just said the first thing that’s ever made him lose his breath.
∘₊✧
The two of you met for the first study session in the back corner of the library, because, of course, you suggested it, and of course, Haruki said yes, even though it went against his better judgment, instincts, and every fibre of his tightly-wound existence.
“This is where the ghosts live,” you said, dropping your bag to the floor and immediately sitting cross-legged on the chair. “They’re chill, though. As long as you don’t read anything out loud in Latin.”
Haruki blinked at you over the top of his textbook. “I don’t read Latin,” he said flatly.
You grinned. “That’s good. You’ve got exorcism hands, not summoning hands.”
“What does that even mean?”
“It’s a compliment.” It didn’t sound like one. But also—it kind of did?
You kicked your leg a little, humming under your breath. Then you reached over and grabbed his pen. Didn’t even ask. Just took it. Twirled it between your fingers like a wand and said, “Alright, Harvard. Let’s get this nerd orgy started.”
“…Excuse me?”
You looked at him innocently. “You’re telling me you don’t think studying is a group kink?”
Haruki did not dignify that with a response.
You leaned back in your seat and tilted your head, staring at him like you were taking inventory of something beneath his skin. Then:
“Have you always been like this?”
“…Like what?”
“Like a boy who was genetically engineered to be the president of every club. Like a human version of whatever’s in those vitamin gummies for your brain.”
Haruki frowned, flipping to the next page of the syllabus. “And you’ve always been like this?”
“Unfortunately,” you replied, deadpan. “I tried being normal once. Got a nosebleed.”
He didn’t believe a single word out of your mouth.
He also couldn’t stop looking at you.
Not in the overt, obvious way. Just… his eyes kept landing on the curve of your neck when you tilted your head back to think. Or the way your lips moved when you mouthed words to yourself under your breath. You chewed your pen sometimes, distractedly.
You had a pretty mouth. Haruki wondered what it would feel like around his fingers.
You tapped your fingers against your leg in a rhythm he couldn’t decipher. You made references he didn’t understand.
“Did you know Freud had a raging thing for eels?”
“…What?”
“He dissected like so many of them. Never found the testes. Drove him insane. I feel like you’re my eel.”
Haruki slowly set his pen down.
“I’m… what.”
“I don’t get you,” you said, voice lighter. Not teasing now. Just honest. “You’re like this shiny, polished, student council-approved perfection android. But then you make these tiny expressions when no one’s looking. Like you’re pissed. Or bored. Or like you wanna scream into a pillow for eight hours.”
He stared. Speechless.
You tilted your head again. “Have you ever screamed into a pillow?”
“No,” he said slowly, carefully. “Have you?”
You smiled. “Only when someone's on top of me.”
Haruki’s brain short-circuited for a second.
You opened your notebook like you hadn’t just dropped a sentence that would require him to pray afterwards. “Okay, let’s start with the thesis breakdown. We can decide if you wanna present or I wanna present, but either way, I get to say the weird part.”
“There’s… a weird part?”
“There’s always a weird part,” you said, eyes sparkling. “It’s the whole point of writing anything. Gotta add the bite.”
He didn’t know what you meant, but his pulse ticked up anyway.
You worked surprisingly well together.
You were smart. Not just academically, but weird smart. You pulled random quotes from obscure films, recalled footnotes Haruki had skimmed past, and made connections he hadn’t even considered. And the worst part was—your instincts were always right.
You were completely unserious about your own reputation, but deadly serious about the work. Which meant that Haruki—perfectionist, ruthless, prideful Haruki—couldn’t even hate you for beating him.
All he could do was sit across from you while you explained why you thought the author used soil erosion as a metaphor for emotional decay and pretend his leg wasn’t bouncing under the table.
When the session ended, you leaned over his side of the desk to grab your drink—and stayed there.
You were too close.
Too casual.
Your hair was a little messy. Your breath smelled like melon soda and mints. And when you pulled away, you laughed like you knew exactly what you were doing.
“I’ll text you,” you said, swinging your bag over one shoulder. “Unless you’d prefer I send smoke signals from the roof.”
“I don’t have your number.”
You blinked.
“Oh. Right.”
You held your hand out. Palm up. Waiting.
Haruki hesitated. Then handed over his phone.
You typed something fast, then handed it back.
The name you saved in his contacts wasn’t your name.
It just said: [threat level: weirdly hot]
He didn’t correct it.
∘₊✧
Haruki stepped out onto the rooftop with his blazer slung over his shoulder, tie loosened just enough not to look sloppy. He didn’t really care if people saw the cigarette between his fingers — nobody ever said anything. Not to him. It was the kind of privilege that came with being him.
Top grades. National mock test finalist. MVP of the volleyball team. Editor of the student journal. The golden boy. Your mother’s favorite. Your teacher’s pride. The one who always knew the answer but never rubbed it in.
And here he was, burning through his second cigarette of the afternoon, hoping it would quiet the spinning in his head.
He hated that it didn’t.
The shouting started before he even made it down the last step.
“Why don’t you just eat somewhere else?” someone hissed.
“I’m not in the mood to deal with this freak show today—seriously, you always pick the corner seat like it’s your kingdom or something.”
Haruki’s foot hit the bottom stair.
He knew that voice. Loud. Entitled. A second-year student from the basketball team who walked around like he owned the school just because he had abs and rich parents. The group around him laughed, but it sounded more like barking.
You were sitting alone, lunch in your lap, face unreadable. Picking at your rice like you couldn’t hear them.
You didn’t flinch. Didn’t look up. But your hands had gone still.
Haruki’s voice cut in before he could think about it.
“You talk a lot for someone that far below average,” he said flatly.
Silence.
The air shifted.
The guy whipped around, only to pale when he saw Haruki standing there, jacket off, sleeves rolled, cigarette still burning between his fingers.
Haruki didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.
“Keep walking,” he added.
The group scattered. No one apologised. No one even made eye contact. They just fled, like hyenas realising the lion hadn’t left after all.
You glanced up at him with a half-smile. “Wow. My hero.”
“You shouldn’t let them get to you.”
“I don’t.” You popped a cherry tomato into your mouth. “I just added them to the list.”
“…What list.”
You didn’t answer. You just chewed and smiled.
∘₊✧
Later that week.
You opened the door in a loose black T-shirt and grey sweatpants, hair wet from a shower and sticking to your forehead in damp, clinging strands. You looked cosy in a way that made Haruki’s lungs feel too tight.
“You made it,” you said, stepping aside to let him in. “Wanna see something cool?”
Haruki followed you in, expecting weird posters, weird books, and maybe an Ouija board or something.
What he didn’t expect was—
The kitchen.
Clean. Lived-in. There was a wooden cutting board already dusted with flour. Soy sauce, mirin, and sesame oil lined up neatly on the counter. A cast iron pot simmering quietly on the stove, steam curling like the first exhale of a ghost.
You tied an apron around your waist and turned slightly. “Sit.”
He did.
The scent was unreal.
Rich and savoury. Ginger and garlic blooming in oil, followed by a splash of sake and the quiet crackle of meat hitting the pan. Chicken thighs, if he wasn’t mistaken—bone-in, skin crisping in real time as you basted it with soy and sugar.
The sauce thickened into a lacquered glaze, caramel-dark and glistening. You flipped the pieces with casual precision, face calm in a way he’d never seen in class. Focused. Almost elegant.
You weren’t speaking. Just humming. A low, tuneless little rhythm under your breath.
He watched the way your fingers moved—quick and practised as you sliced scallions into fine curls, sprinkled furikake over the steaming rice. You moved like you lived in the kitchen, like it wasn’t a performance.
The food was simple, but the kind of simple that only comes from knowing what you're doing. Like you’d made this a hundred times for someone you cared about.
No one had ever cooked for Haruki before.
He didn’t realise how tightly he was gripping the edge of the chair until you set the plate in front of him and the smell hit him like a memory he didn’t have.
He blinked. “This is…”
“Chicken nanban,” you said. “I made the tartar sauce from scratch.”
Haruki picked up his chopsticks, swallowed something thick in his throat, and took a bite.
The chicken cracked at the surface, still hot enough to burn, still sweet from the soy and vinegar glaze. The homemade tartar had bits of pickles and onion, just sharp enough to cut through the richness. The rice underneath had soaked up some of the sauce, sticky and warm.
It was stupidly good.
He kept eating quietly. You sat down beside him with your own plate and started scrolling through your phone, legs tucked up under you.
“Why do you know how to cook like this?” he asked finally.
You shrugged. “I like taking care of things.”
“…People?”
“Depends,” you said, tone lazy. “You wanna be taken care of?”
He looked at you. You didn’t look up.
The silence between you stretched like sugar—warm, sticky, slow.
He put his chopsticks down.
You turned to him.
And smiled.
Haruki wasn’t sure what he expected your room to look like, but it wasn’t this.
Simple, mostly. Clean. A little lived-in. The walls were bare except for a stack of books pushed into a crooked shelf, a futon folded neatly in one corner, and a secondhand desk with a few pens left uncapped. A soft hum filled the silence — maybe a fan from the hall or the fridge ticking quietly through the wall.
You tossed your bag down and sat on the floor like you didn’t feel the shift in the air. Haruki did. His skin felt too tight. The space between your bodies suddenly felt loaded.
“So this is where you hide,” he said, trying to sound casual.
You looked at him. Really looked at him. Then shrugged.
“I like quiet,” you murmured. “It’s hard to find in school.”
Haruki didn’t know what to say to that, so he didn’t say anything at all.
You watched him for a long beat, then patted the space in front of you.
“C’mere.”
He hesitated. You raised a brow. And then he moved — sat down across from you with crossed legs and a heart that wouldn’t stop thudding.
You didn’t touch him at first. Just stared. Haruki stared back. He wasn’t used to that, either — being looked at like he was something to be read, not admired. It made him feel strange. Exposed.
“Haruki,” you said, voice softer now, almost uncertain. “Do you ever stop thinking?”
His mouth opened — then closed. He didn’t have an answer.
You leaned in, slow like a question. Gave him time to stop it.
He didn’t.
So you kissed him.
Just once, at first — a slow press, the kind that didn’t demand anything. Then again, this time deeper. Haruki inhaled sharply, hands hovering like he wasn’t sure where to put them. You pulled back only slightly.
“You can touch me.”
The words were soft. Not teasing. Just an offer.
Haruki’s fingers found your shoulders, then your jaw, then finally threaded into your hair like it made sense.
You kissed him again.
And again.
Until you shifted, pushed gently at his chest. He leaned back onto his elbows, lips parted, breath shaky. You sank to your knees in front of him, palms brushing the hem of his shirt.
He watched, stunned, as your hands moved with practised ease — unbuttoning, unzipping, until he was bare from the waist down. The air was cool against his erection. Your breath was warm.
“Wait—” he managed, voice a little broken. “Are you… sure?”
You looked up at him with the faintest smile.
“Very.”
And then you lowered your head.
The first touch of your mouth on his cock made his breath stutter. He’d never—no one had ever—
He clutched at the sheets beneath him, back arching slightly. You didn’t rush. Just took him in slow, deep, unhurried. Your hands on his thighs kept him steady, kept him grounded.
Haruki didn’t know where to look. Your lips, your eyelashes, the ceiling — nothing helped. His brain was static.
You hummed against him, the vibration sending a full-body shiver up his spine.
“Fuck,” he gasped, hands fisting the blanket. “That—wait—don’t—”
But he didn’t want you to stop. Not really. And you knew that.
You pulled back just long enough to whisper, “It’s okay. You can let go.”
And when he did, it was quiet.
His jaw went slack. His head tipped back. Your name curled off his tongue like something reverent. He was shaking.
You swallowed, slow and clean, and wiped the corner of your mouth with your thumb.
Then you looked up at him.
Smiled like it was just another Tuesday.
“You taste like stress and bad decisions.”
Haruki lay there, bare and ruined, heartbeat in his throat.
You stood, grabbed your water bottle, and stretched like a cat.
🎭 — an idea of an oc... so both of them are in highschool. so it's an innocent reader & pervy class president, ah... let's not forget it's doomed. :) (this idea suddenly came when I listen to おつかれSUMMER, the meaning for the song is different from the plot but hear me out)
Oc name ; Min Ji-Yeong
angst + smut
translate:
halmeoni (할머니) : A formal way to call grandmother
People say high school was the best time. But you dare to disagree. It's absolute hell.
Working multiple odd jobs to help with halmeoni's medical bills. Your parents just straight up abandoned you for drinking and drugs, helping halmeoni with house work and then during a supposedly happy January, she was now in the hospital fighting her life. It doesn't matter how much she scolded you for leaving school for her, she's the only one who waited for you.
School was hell... since your grades dropped significantly, many kids bullied you for having such low grades. Their words haunt you when you wait for halmeoni in the hospital... only a 50? you're an embarrassment, [Name]! our average is 95... you're pathetic huh?
Now, since summer is coming. You can spend more time with halmeoni! But the problem? You failed your exam. The lowest at 43... you're tired. You wanted to cry... everything hurts, those insults and how they physically bully you and the teachers made no effort to help? Ah... shit. But you can't cry now, you sat alone in the empty classroom... many kids were already home. The red mark of 43 taunted you, the door of your class then opened the moment you were about to rip the paper.
Min Ji-Yeong.
Class president? Student Council? Smart? Rich as fuck? He stole everything. He's basically what girls are looking for, you remembered the girls of your class were circling to his desk during Valentine's day, being nosy and gossiping about everything. Ji-Yeong walked to the desk in front of you, he turned back—your eyes met with his. You expected he'd maybe mock you or something similar to that, instead. You saw concern in his eyes.
"Everything good at home?" He asked, you lied by nodding. But Ji-Yeong hated that answer. With one hand, he cupped your cheeks. "I hate liars, [Name]."
He was genuinely mad, and he cared. Why? You're nothing but just a so-called "troublemaker" because of your horrible grades. "I'll tutor you."
You looked dumbfounded at this statement. But you sighed, as if you brushed his concern. "Ji-Yeong, summer is coming... There's no such need as a tutoring session—" "I insisted."
His words sounded firm, making you shut up for a few good minutes. But when you're about to deny him—he shook his head. The class president shook his head. He looked pissed off by the passing second...
"You can pay me in other ways." Ji-Yeong sighed, he leaned back from his desk. You look at him dumbfounded, until Ji-Yeong points at his pants, you see a tent forming. You just look at him with a dumber expression.
"...What do you want me to do?" You asked, Ji-Yeong slapped himself in the face, dumb but cute... he had to learn self-control. Ji-Yeong pointed you to knee down, his hand slowly made its way to the back of your head. Pulling you forward as he used his free hand to unzip his pants.
His dick—cock—whatever it was called was in front of you, its shadow hovering over your face before it slapped down to your face. So many emotions mixed into you, well. Specifically; what highschooler need a dick this big?? But Ji-Yeong tapped his thighs, you jolted and used your mouth to give him a blowjob. You're a virgin... absolutely zero shit on what you're doing. But Ji-Yeong seems to enjoy it.
Since you don't know anything about the world of sex, you gagged by handling his cock. But Ji-Yeong pushed your head until you felt his tip was on your throat, where you then felt warmth, you immediately pulled out from his shaft as you coughed. You coughed out white liquid. Ji-Yeong and you both looked down at the substance, you gagged while he looked almost amused.
"Can you give me another—" "N–No!"
Since that day, you and Ji-Yeong got closer, even if the summer came and you took more of your time taking care of your halmeoni, he seemed like often helped you even though he didn't have to... you often find some of her treatments were already paid by an anonymous person you automatically guess is Ji-Yeong.
He also often came to some of your jobs to keep an eye on you, even after the many times you told him you'd be fine... but there's something in his eyes that said something; he isn't just waiting for you until your work is over. It's almost like he was trying to spend his final moments with you, but why? You don't really know. Ji-Yeong might as well be lonely at home, right? He sometimes vented to you during your tutoring sessions about loneliness...
It doesn't matter how popular he was, he'll always be lonely. But you kept insuring him that you are still with him! That, until he invited you to go on a beach together after you took care of halmeoni, Ji-Yeong somehow already told her that he will bring you to go out to the beach. It's late but he insisted... so you just go with it. Going to the beach at night felt weird, since you barely felt such experience. But it still felt nice!
Ji-Yeong gave you a firework, a sparkler. Even if the beach was mostly empty, the sparkler from you and Ji-Yeong light up the dark world. You grinned as the sparkler lit up, the sparkler's shape was on your eyes, it's beautiful... chaotic but amazing to look up close. Oh, how much he wanted to watch this until the fate of death intertwined him, but there's something he forgot...
He's going to leave soon. He'll have to leave you for the sake of his parents' work. But just how would he solve it? Ji-Yeong can't just... leave you.
thank you very much for everyone's support ! (i didn't expect to get 600 on my day off too, help?) i wouldn't have reached this limit without all of you, and i'm grateful for this !! thank you to everyone who reads and reblog my works !!
hi i just read your recent sukuna fic [ King of Curse's bride ] and noticed many grammatical errors 😭 assuming that english isn't your first language, i'd advise you to proof read your fics or have someone with a better understanding of english to proof read you work for you, it would make it easier for readers!
i'm not trying to hate, just offering some constructive criticism so i hope you won't take this to heart. but i really enjoyed the plot and understood the vision of your story!
thank you!
no, seriously. if there's any errors in my works feel free to correct me ! yes—english isn't my first language so i really don't mind if people see grammar mistakes, therefore. thank you for the reminder !
— Summary: Being nothing other than a servant for the Ishikawa clan, even though they treated you horribly. You took care of their heirs. Even if the king of curses came. Ryomen Sukuna's first plan was to kill everyone in the clan... But he found a bride instead!
— Warnings/Tags: Smut + Fluff + Angst, Mentioned of Violence, Blood, Reader died (I'm sorry not sorry), Feminization, Sukuna has Two Dicks, Jealous Sukuna, Nipple Play, BDSM (Shibari), Double Penetration, Degradation (?). Belly Bulge, Self-insert Reader.
— Words: 3.5k
— A/N: tbh i haven't thought of this idea but shout out to @carnalcrows for asking this to be a fic. [here's the idea if you're curious -> 🎭] there's new shits i add because why not, this in semi-rushed. i'm not really in the mood to do anything these past few days... but i promised I'll deliver the Thief x King reader idea. welp, that's it from me. i hope you enjoyed this fic !!!
— Pairing: Heain Era!Ryomen Sukuna x Male!Reader
Being a servant for the Ishikawa clan sure is a work. How couldn't be?
You work for the rest of your days. Not to mentioned, the people of the clan were assholes, morons… abandoning everything and anyone if they had power, extremely thirst for power. You often avoid handling with the older folks, so you mainly dealing with the kids—heirs. You teach them humanity, something their supposed “guardian” never gave them.
Even if you can’t use curse techniques yourself, you teach them swordsmanship. Giving them attention that they barely obtained other then told that they were just a tool. It was nice to know that they would still had a child heart even you knew when they got older—they were no different with the elders. Until, that day.
In the middle of the night, after an exhausting day of serving the elderly. You were somehow able to take a break. Even though it was a quick nap and nothing much, but it’s better then never. You slowly rosed from your sheets. Right as you about to tidy up, you heard a scream—a scream of horror and terror.
You glanced at the door that showed a glimpse of what happened, you saw a figure—210 cm tall. His eyes were four, that information alone was enough to think of one thing; Ryomen Sukuna. The kids of Ishikawa once told you about him, a blood thirsty sorcerer and his description matched.
You don’t know what’s going on inside your head. You just wanted to make sure that the kids would be alright—you didn’t care if they became a good heir or not. You just wanted them to be… save. You rushed to where the kids’ room was, holding a katana in hand. Thankfully, the king of curses was in his way—just in the right amount of time when you finally made it to the door, defending the wood with your left hand.
Sukuna looked down at you, well. He was abit too tall for an average male, he saw your right hand gripping the black tsuka. Your face somehow didn’t even show fear when your hand clearly trembled, but he doesn’t knew why. Sukuna’s four eyes were look down at you, his upper right arm slowly gripped blade of your katana—lowering it.
Confusion was written all over your face—Sukuna bore into you, with his lower arms grabbing your waist as he then throw you over his shoulder. Walking away from the door, where you saw the kids looked relieved and terrified.
“You damn—!” “Shut it, brat.” Sukuna spat, as he walk with a… white haired human?
That shut you up quickly, but you squirm. Hitting the back of the Sorcerer’s back, even if didn’t do much. You look forward to look for the kids, the adult there—you can’t see it clearly. But they seemed to have disgust written on their face, it’s not because of Sukuna.
But… you?
A frown form on your face, is it because of you just, didn’t try to fight back? Or what it because you spend too much time with the kids and they prefer you over their parents? You honestly had many questions. But thank to Sukuna’s large hand spanking your ass when you were on the gate of the Ishikawa clan.
“Stop thinking about them.” Sukuna said, as if he read your mind, you froze as you felt his hand rough fingers trying to sooth your cheeks.
Sukuna narrowed his eyes at your back, you turned your head in confusion by why did he stop moving. His lower arm grabbed your back knee, while the other on your back, trying to make you stable. Sukuna’s other lower hand was on your back, carrying you in bridal style, your arms were slowly and awkwardly wrapped around his neck.
“You’ll be my bride from now on.” Sukuna said, it’s not an ask. That’s a command.
The word “bride” was weird to you, but you were honestly too scared what would fate do to you if you didn’t agreed to what he said. So you nodded, hiding your face over the King of Curses' chest (what does this man even do to make it this big?). Sukuna, again. Look at you, making you squirm under his grasp. But he shrugged, continued to walk with the same white haired human.
Uraume.
That was their name. After your wedding with a few amounts of sorcerers which, you noted looked terrified most of the time during the ceremony. In your now home, for now, you spent most of your time with Uraume.
The minka you currently lived in is quite big, but average from an average sorcerer’s home. In the middle of the forest. But it had a small garden in the inside and in the back, it was close to a river with fishes swimming to the clear water, and some Baikamos, White lilies… it was surprising how clean the water was, Uraume would often company you when you admired the beauty of the waters in the river. They admitted; “He asked me to watch you.” Which you imagine it was Sukuna asking them to do so.
When Sukuna was home, Uraume will usually gone in the speed of light. You swore, they were beside you before the the king of curses came. Well, you don’t know if it’s normal or not. You already cleaned the house with Uraume, the sun was slowly loosed it’s shine as the moon rose. You saw him—he was in front of you, and weirdly enough. You didn’t find him scary in any sort of way. Just nervous.
“Is there… something wrong with me?” Sukuna heard your nervousness, he let out a sigh. Shaking your head, he saw you tilting your confusion. Until he finally grunted, his lower arm holding your wrist. “Let’s go out.”
His voice was sharp—but you somehow heard a softness in it, weird that someone like Ryomen Sukuna to be able to had a little softness, you sighed as you shook your head amusingly. Arguing with him seemed to lead to absolute nowhere. So, you followed along.
Your destination was lead to the same river behind the house. The flowers there were more then expected. Baikamo was blooming, white lilies looked like they’d shined the dark night. But your eyes landed on the Hasu flowers. You liked them, it’s white, pure and simply beautiful. Sukuna was watching you from a distant which you failed to realize because of your enthusiasm with flowers.
Sukuna’s four eyes looked at you, his arms crossed—the Hasu flowers and your face showed something that tugged some strings in his heart, in a good way.
The way you smiled kills him, the way you just happily looked at flowers like you never seen them in your existence, even if it's just a day after the wedding. He realizes something fast—instant. Ryomen Sukuna, a suppose special grade sorcerer, picked up a random man and decided to make him his bride, he thought you are the one falling for him hard. Instead, he was the one falling for you, harder.
“[Name]…” Sukuna muttered your name—as if he tested the waters, he saw you turning your head. Titling your head in confusion, but still, a smile played on your lips.
“…Yeah?” Fuck, your voice—sounds too good. If the Heain Era had something technological, he’d record that voice of yours and then listen to your voice and masturbate.
Sukuna stayed silent, his eyes flickered between the Hasu flowers and you. Pure, handsome, innocent… and it’s all for him. Forever.
Forever? You and me?
It had been weeks since that day, you now found Sukuna more often in the house. Therefore, making you cleaned the house while making sure it was nearly spotless. You knew Sukuna liked eating humans, once. You asked what he liked other then human’s flesh, which. His answer was straight to the point; “Figure it out yourself.”
It annoyed you with a burning passion. But you’d shrugged, leaving you asking for Uraume which they only said human flesh. Eventually, this leaving you by asking random sorcerers to hunt for random animals in the wild. Seeing their face turned to pale isn’t what you really thought of, but you often feel something—someone was watching you from a distance.
And after you asked a sorcerer to hunt form something—anything really. He never came back like how it suppose to be, it questioned you, but you can conclude that it may be caused of the harsh rain that suddenly came without a warning. Sitting on the engawa of the minka, the sound of thunder and rain echoed from the distance. The sky was covered by gray and waters already dropping from the gray clouds.
“[Name].” Uraume called, you watched as they stood in front of the door. “Sukuna is looking for you.”
You gave Uraume and polite nod as you walked your way to your room, well. Eyeballing that you thought Sukuna was in your room, and you were right. You saw a hand—Sukuna’s exact hand coming from the wooden door, you walked right in front of the door as that hand dragged you in—thr door behind you immediately closed shut without a way out.
Sukuna stood in front of you menacingly—you studied him, his very expression and movements. Sure, he looks bigger up close, but you never seen him so close before. The mouth on his stomach gritting it’s teeth, the urge to just punch his stomach was unreal—“Why did you ask those sorcerers to do those things?”
“…Those things?” You echoed, genuinely confused by Sukuna’s question. “Ah, asking those sorcerers to hunt for—”
Sukuna huffed, his expression hardened, his upper arm—its hand wrapped tightly around your wrist. “Can’t you asked for your husband’s help, at the very least!?” He snapped, his voice was loud enough to made you shut up. “I let you walk in this world still alive, I’m here now more often, can’t you just ask me for help? What? You scared?”
His face was actually showing anger. You? Ah, dumbfounded. Honestly, you motives of doing so is because of wanting to surprised Sukuna—not to get him angry, but you found out something new that’s a mixed of something laughable, stupid somewhat concerning.
The king of curses? Jealous of other sorcerers? You held back a laugh by bitting your lip, you raised your hand up to a fist. With a light force, you hit Sukuna’s head with your hand. Like those arcade games where you had to hit animals to get scores, Sukuna didn’t looked amused when you finally laughed your ass off. Crying over the fact he was jealous over humans—sorcerers he can beat without even doing much.
“[Name], it’s unacceptable,” Sukuna said firmly, his grip over your wrist tightened. “I hope it’s not considered rushing to do this.
“I hope it’s not considered rushing to do this.”
Sukuna’s voice—that exact words of his echoed in your head as you were tied by Uraume themselves. They didn’t looked surprised or in any some sort of embarrassment as red ropes circling your naked body. The texture was rough… it felt somewhat comfortable, but it didn’t really hurt your skin as much. Not for now.
When you came out from the next room, in ropes, your arms on your back, it felt fucking uncomfortable. But Uraume said earlier it was Sukuna who requested it and it’s his idea. Not theirs, your dick flopped down sadly. Sukuna, who was sitting comfortably on the bed, he uncrossed his upper arm, using his fingers. Sukuna called you forward with a simple command, you stood between the king of curses’ thighs. His fucking huge thighs.
Sukuna didn’t looked up, his fingers found their to your bare chest he soon enough called tits. He didn’t even hesitate to pulled the bud, making you gasp out of Sukuna’s boldness. His fingers then circled your areola, before gently switching your nipples.
“You humans are sensitive when it comes to this,” Sukuna spat out, he then leaned forward, his teeth catching your already hard buds. “It’s embarrassing.”
His tongue went all in to your left nipple, his slimy tongue was circling your nipple again… rougher. Sukuna left a bite over your bud, your whimpers was music to his ears. He seems to be neutral about it, but deep down. He knew he was a stupid freak under the title “King of Curses”.
His lower hand mover their way down—rubbing your ass, you looked back to then flinched feeling Sukuna’s thumb rubbing your entrance, how big was that? You don’t know neither wanting to know. Your hands grabbed his shoulder when Sukuna inserted his middle finger—soon his index. It hurts if you can be honest, does sex feel like this? Really you don’t now, but it slightly feel good. That’s a plus, right?
Two fingers fucking you wide—Sukuna’s tongue moved to your other nipple. Both sensation made your dick erect and legs trembling. Hot breaths escaped your lips that reached to Sukuna’s ears, he then brushed over your prostate which let out a loud gasp out of you, he pulled his fingers out, you whined by the lost. You finally looked back at Sukuna who didn’t seemed to look impress at your expression; a whiny bitch who just begged to be breed.
Sukuna flicked his tongue as he made you sat in his thighs, he opened up a bottle and poured something similar to a voice like oil, you about to turned your head but Sukuna smashed your face against his chest. You felt something rubbing against your hole before something huge was slammed inside of you.
Guess Sukuna’s fingers did something…
Your eyes were watery—he didn’t even moved. Not yet, but you felt so full. Sukuna ignored your whines, he simply slammed his hips up, a whimper escaped your throat. Soon, that one slam turned into many thrusted. Your hands clawed his back, Sukuna’s lower arms captured your waist. While his upper hand kept playing with your red erect nipples.
“What? Does it hurt?” Sukuna faked a cooed, your hole tightened. He laughed at your pathetic state. “It’s just one cock. You haven’t feel both of them.”
You grit your teeth, Sukuna entered his thumb, forcefully letting his second cock in. But he’s kind enough to stop his pace and letting you adjust. Yeah, you’re too full for this. One was making you full, but both? Yeah…
Sukuna gripped your waist—right as he tried to thrust his hips, cum filled your tight puffy hole. He couldn’t like, it caught him off guard to reached his climax early, but he’ll definitely deny that it’s because your hole feel good. Sukuna looked down to your stomach, the visible bulge amused him. The fact that you can still take both of his dicks cumming inside of you sure made him interested.
He studied your expression—your fucked up face, his hand gently touching the tip of your cock, making pre-cums. Sukuna dragged his upper right hand, gently taking your own hand to intertwined your fingers together, like blood and heart. Unable to be separated. Sukuna didn’t say much, but he simply leaving kisses all over your jaw as he now gently thrust his hips upwards.
He isn’t satisfied… Fuck. Poor hole.
Now Sukuna insisted of brining you everywhere…
Even if Sukuna met other sorcerers, he’ll always bring you. Leaving you often helping him while Sukuna himself tried to not go insane when you’re next to him, neither him trying to kill the other sorcerers who linger their gaze at you. Well, that’s most on your part to hold him back to do so.
And you, being his wife—husband. Usually got your payment too! Eating… asking Sukuna to do the work instead, and most importantly, the river. Sukuna was now more often beside you as you admire the waters, it’s honestly a reason for him to loved everything about you, worship you, loving you, really. Just about everything. Thanks to that too, he now barely killed clans for food, And till now. You questioned yourself neither it was a bad thing or good thing.
But everything doesn’t last forever. That, was what Sukuna always forget to remember.
Mornings was always filled by you and Sukuna walking together for a morning walk, it was calming. The birds are singing and the air was fresh, everything was perfect. Since, today. Sukuna doesn’t had anything busy going on, spending time with his husband sounds like a good idea. Isn’t it? Walking together inside of a forest side by side, your face was the only thing that kept Sukuna entertained.
“Sukuna,” the name owner turned his head directly at you. The way his name runs on your lips nearly made his heart stopped. You then pointed at a bird that was singing happily. “It looked pretty, don’t you think?”
Sukuna stared at the bird that’s in front of his very own eyes. He’d just kill the poor fellow on the spot, but the way you looked at it with those lively eyes, he nodded. “Indeed…”
“Can we… have it?” You looked at him with a grin on your lips. “Please~?”
He didn’t seemed to be amused, rather. Sukuna pinched your cheek. “[Name], there’s already many wild creatures at home.”
His answer isn’t enough, you grabbed his palm. With such innocent and… sex eyes, you begged Sukuna. It was a silent beg which usually doesn’t work, but seems like he can’t take it anymore. Sukuna rubbed his face, looking at you as a sigh of defeat escaped from his lips. Giving you an approving nod, your eyes lit up as you carelessly run to the tree where the bird still hummed.
Sukuna kept his eyes on you from a distance, as the bird laid at your finger, you brought it close to your cheek, it happily snuggled at your cheek. The bird’s ear coverts was rubbing against your cheek, it trickled but doesn’t really hurt. You looked at Sukuna, the distance isn’t far, just a few steps and he’ll able to carry you. But what he didn’t calculate is a blade coming at you with the speed of light.
It was fast—and definitely uncalled for. A blade—a katana strike perfectly through your heart, it’s almost impossible but there it was. It hurts like wild. Not to mentioned that there’s a weird feeling of something was blooming inside of you like a flower during spring, blood slowly came from your mouth like a vampire eating their first target. But they aren’t eating their target, you were the target.
“Fuck… ‘kuna—” you coughed—more blood came out, your eyes widened as you used your palm to hold the blood—the crimson from your insides. Sukuna was staring down at your, he was in front of you. You forced yourself to look up, why does he looked… blurry?
“Suku—” “Keep that mouth shut.” Sukuna’s voice was firm, you could hear the urgency within in. You wanted to tell him—wanted to cry and ask why does he look so blurry… until then, you saw black.
Black… everything was gone insight. Sukuna, who was blindingly looked around for some sort of clue, saw you on the ground—even more blood now coming from your mouth which you can’t even feel. Sukuna… lost you? He couldn’t be… right? Why… does it hurt? His heart arched with someone he can’t explain. Sukuna kneed down, using his hand to moved your body as if he was trying to see if a cat died nor not.
Fuck, he may lost you now.
Sukuna looked down at your corpse. He lost everything, his favorite smile, what makes him genuinely happy, what filled the empty useless gaps… now it’s all gone with a blink. The king of curses lost someone special to him…
Special?
He threw the katana that pearced your heart, his arms wrapped around your body, making sure you were in a comfortable position even if you can’t feel it anymore. Your head resting against his chest, Sukuna carried you like the day where you two meet. He doesn’t know what to do now, but he just walk to the now gloomy forest until he reached where… ah you know it.
The river looks more… gloomy now, everything felt empty, at least. That’s what Sukuna saw, he sat down—his hand gently touching your paled mouth, where the blood already tried out. His eyes met with the white hasu that now resembles you even more. Sukuna doesn’t know neither to be happy or sad about it, he reached out to the clear mineral to wiped the blood from your lips.
He stared at you, and for a moment. He realizes something. He loved you. He fucking loved you so much.
Sukuna knew he loved you, but he never expected to feel such lost. A human—something that’s not eternal. But here he was, grieving to his husband, his forever love life. Since you weren’t here anymore… killing that piece of shit who killed you wouldn’t end with a scolding.
“I hope we can meet again, someday [Name].”
last minute note; i legit uploaded this in my office... welp. thief oc coming up ! be a lil patient here :). curious, since both @carnalcrows and @sooniebby did a face claim for their ocs... are you guys interested for me to do it next?
I know the Thief x King reader isn't out yet ... TT but I'm curious ! Since Xiangli had his bio.. how about others ? with the thief oc too... spoilers for his name ? ⊙﹏⊙
spoilers ahead for those who are waiting for the thief oc
pariring: gangster! male OC x male reader [profile]
summary: You're a single dad, drowning in debt, barely holding it together for your daughter. But when loan collectors come knocking a little too hard, you find out your debt belongs to someone far more dangerous: Felix Marino, the quiet but infamous head of one of the most powerful mafia syndicates in the world. He makes you a deal—your freedom, for a job. One job. But nothing is ever that simple in his world. Especially when you're not sure what terrifies you more: the blood on your hands, or the way Felix looks at you like you belong to him.
content warnings: 18+, bottom male reader, explicit violence, blood and trauma aftermath, mild panic attack / dissociation, threats and coercion, organized crime themes, single parenthood under duress, mild sexual content, handjob (reader receiving), power imbalance, emotional manipulation, PTSD-like symptoms.
word count: 4.9k
The knocks came hard and fast.
They rattled the apartment door like gunfire—three hits, pause, two more, and a final slam that made the hinges groan. You froze mid-step, a half-unpacked grocery bag dangling from your fingers. Inside it, a bruised apple rolled to the floor.
Not again.
You scanned the room automatically, as if the act of tidying clutter might somehow soften the blow of reality. But the apartment was already bare. Sparse. Clean, in that way that says we don’t have much, but we’re trying.
A soft voice drifted from the hallway behind you. “Papa?”
You turned. There she was—your daughter. Four years old, hair mussed from a post-nap world, her favourite stuffed rabbit trailing from one hand. She rubbed her eyes with the other, blinking at you.
Your heart clenched.
“It’s okay, baby,” you said quietly. “Go back to your room, yeah? I’ll be right there.”
“But who—”
“Just the mailman,” you lied, kneeling down to smooth her hair. “He’s loud today.”
She stared up at you for a beat longer than usual, as if her tiny brain could already tell something wasn’t quite right. Then she nodded solemnly and padded back down the hallway, the rabbit dragging behind her like a weary soldier.
The knocking came again. Louder this time.
You straightened up, set the bag on the counter, and took a breath.
When you opened the door, the two men standing on the other side looked like they'd been born in leather jackets—one tall, one squat. Neither looked thrilled to be here, but they sure weren’t leaving empty-handed.
“Morning,” said the taller one, stepping forward without waiting for an invitation. “Nice day, huh?”
You didn’t respond. He took that as agreement.
“Mr. [Last Name],” said the shorter one. “We’re here about the debt.”
“I know.”
“Good.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Then you also know your payment was due four days ago.”
“I told you,” you said. “I’m working extra shifts. I’m doing what I can.”
The taller man walked a slow circle around your living room, peering at the cheap furniture like it offended him. “A place like this, I’m surprised you haven’t sold the kid’s toys yet.”
Your jaw tensed. “She’s four.”
The shorter man clucked his tongue. “And if you don’t have something by Friday, you’re going to be explaining that to the Boss in person. You know how he feels about delays.”
“I’m trying—”
“Try harder.”
They left without another word. The taller one flicked a crumpled cigarette onto your doormat and stomped it out as a parting gift.
You shut the door. Locked it. Then leaned against it with your eyes closed.
⋆｡°✩
The silence in the apartment returned slowly, broken only by the faint hum of the refrigerator and the soft patter of small feet against tile.
“Papa?”
You opened your eyes and looked down. She was back, rabbit in hand.
“Are you okay?”
You nodded. “Yeah. Just tired.”
She wrapped her little arms around your leg, hugging you as best she could. Her cheek pressed against your jeans. “You’re not sad?”
You knelt again and pulled her into your arms properly, breathing in the smell of strawberry shampoo and comfort.
“I’m okay now,” you whispered into her hair. “Because I have you.”
⋆｡°✩
You made pancakes for dinner.
It wasn’t your best work. The batter was too thin, the pan unevenly heated, and the only syrup left was the cheap, knockoff kind that smelled more like corn than maple. But she still grinned when you put the plate in front of her, legs swinging from the dining chair as she kicked at nothing in particular.
“Can I put peanut butter on it too?” she asked, already reaching for the jar.
“Only if you save a piece for Mr. Bun.”
“I always do,” she said with a solemn nod, as if it were some sacred pact between her and the stuffed rabbit.
You watched her eat, chewing slower than usual, trying to stall the moment. The kitchen light flickered overhead. The stack of unpaid bills on the counter seemed to grow by the day, and rent was due in less than a week. You didn’t know how you were going to pay off the collectors by Friday, let alone face the man behind them— the one they called their boss, in hushed, clipped tones.
A name you’d never heard until two weeks ago. A name that now haunted every idle moment.
You’d tried not to ask too many questions, but the way the others spoke about him made your skin crawl. Not loud, not showy — but dangerous. Not because of violence, but because of how controlled he was. And how rarely he needed to raise his voice to get things done.
You only owed him money because your original lender sold the debt off.
It wasn’t supposed to get this far.
“Papa?”
You blinked out of it. “Yeah, bug?”
She looked at you with peanut butter smeared on her chin. “Can we read the owl book again tonight?”
You smiled, even if it felt thin on your face. “Of course.”
⋆｡°✩
She fell asleep curled beside you on the couch, mid-sentence, head tucked against your arm. The copy of The Owl Who Wasn’t Afraid of the Dark lay open in your lap, thumb still pressed to the page.
You didn’t dare move her. Not yet.
The room was quiet now, except for the muffled hum of the hallway outside. You could still hear footsteps every now and then—neighbours coming home, doors opening and shutting. It was the kind of rundown apartment block where the walls had ears, but no one cared enough to listen.
You leaned your head back and stared at the ceiling, one hand gently smoothing your daughter’s hair.
Then came the buzz of your phone.
You fumbled for it quietly, careful not to wake her.
Unknown Number
You stared at it. A second buzz followed — a text.
[ The Boss would like a word. You’ll want to make yourself available.
Tomorrow. 10 PM. Zia’s Diner. Come alone. ]
You didn’t answer.
Didn’t need to. Whoever sent it would already know you’d be there.
⋆｡°✩
Zia’s Diner looked like it hadn’t changed since the '80s. Flickering neon sign. Red leather booths dulled from wear. Grease-stained menus laminated so many times the corners curled like dying leaves. It was the kind of place that smelled like burnt coffee and fried onions no matter what time of day you walked in. The kind of place where someone like you belonged.
Someone like the one you owe money to? Not so much.
You got there ten minutes early. Sat in the back corner booth, facing the entrance like you’d seen people do in mob movies. Ridiculous, really — like knowing who sat where would make any of this easier.
The waitress came by once, chewing gum and offering you a tired, sceptical look. “You ordering, or you waiting?”
“Just coffee,” you muttered, and she poured you a cup without a word.
You kept checking the time.
10:00 PM sharp, the bell above the door jingled.
He didn’t walk in with an entourage. No theatrics. No broad-shouldered bodyguards or gaudy suits. Just a man in a black wool coat, collar turned up against the wind, dark hair swept back with the ease of someone who didn’t need to try.
He didn’t look like a loan shark. He looked like he could be an architect. Or maybe a violinist. His features were clean-cut but strangely gentle, like someone who hadn’t always belonged to a world like this.
And then he looked at you.
A quick once-over. Not judgmental. Just... observant.
He made his way over with unhurried steps, slid into the booth across from you, and removed his gloves one finger at a time. The silence stretched, thick and taut.
“I’m glad you came,” he said at last. His voice was low, smooth, but not performative. Not like someone trying to play a role. “I didn’t want this to become unpleasant.”
You swallowed hard. “I figured it already was.”
He tilted his head slightly, almost like he was considering you. “It doesn’t have to be.”
You didn’t answer.
The waitress reappeared, looking more alert this time. “Coffee?”
“Tea,” he said, without looking at her. “Chamomile, if you have it.”
You blinked. Tea?
Once she left, he turned his gaze back to you. “You’re a difficult man to track down, considering you haven’t left your apartment in three days.”
Your jaw clenched. “I’ve been with my daughter.”
“I know.” His tone didn’t change, but there was something in his eyes now. Not softness — but interest. “She’s the one who likes the owl book, right?”
You stiffened. “You’ve been watching us?”
“I have people. They were concerned. It’s their job.”
“Concerned about what?”
He paused. Then: “About how a man ends up this deep in debt when he’s clearly not reckless.”
You didn’t know how to respond to that. Because the worst part was— he wasn’t wrong.
He leaned back, resting his hands on the table. His fingers were long, elegant— with tattoos running across them.
“I didn’t call you here to threaten you,” he said calmly. “If I wanted to scare you, I’d have sent someone else.”
“So why did you call me here?”
His lips parted slightly, like he was about to answer. But then the tea arrived. He thanked the waitress with a quiet nod, waited until she was gone again.
And then he said:
“Because I don’t think you belong in this mess. And I’m interested in seeing how you get out of it.”
You stared at him, not sure if it was a trap. A test. Some kind of manipulation.
“Why?” you asked, voice quiet now. Honest.
He stirred a packet of honey into his tea. No rush. No tension. “You remind me of someone.”
That shut you up.
Not because you knew what it meant, but because of how he said it. Like it hurt to say. Like the memory was still raw, even if the delivery wasn’t.
He took a sip of his tea, eyes never leaving yours.
“Let’s talk about your debt,” he said.
⋆｡°✩
You tried to read him. Failed.
Everything about him was composed — the measured way he spoke, the way he held his tea with both hands like it was a habit rather than a choice. His voice was quiet but sure, like he’d never once had to raise it to be heard.
He didn’t move like a man used to violence, but you knew better than to trust that.
“You said you wanted to talk about my debt,” you said after a beat, keeping your voice steady. “So talk.”
He gave a soft hum, almost amused. “Alright.”
From the inside pocket of his coat, he pulled out a thin leather folio and opened it on the table. You caught your name on one of the papers. Your signature on another. A string of numbers you didn’t want to look too closely at.
“I assume you know how much you owe.”
You nodded once. “Too much.”
“You’re not wrong.” He tapped a finger against the paper, not unkindly. “You took out the first loan eighteen months ago. Medical bills, yes?”
You stiffened. “My daughter was in the hospital. Pneumonia. We didn’t have insurance.”
He nodded like he already knew, which he probably did.
“And the second loan,” he continued, “was for rent, food, and utilities. You were out of work.”
“My hours got cut,” you muttered.
“And the third?”
You looked away. “Funeral expenses.”
Silence settled again. Not judgmental. Just quiet.
He closed the folder gently and folded his hands on top of it. “There are… less generous men you could’ve borrowed from. Men who would’ve already left a message on your doorstep. Or through your window.”
“I didn’t exactly get a choice in where the loans came from,” you snapped, sharper than you meant to.
He didn’t react. Didn’t flinch. Just watched you like he’d been expecting that edge to come out eventually.
“You’re right,” he said. “You didn’t. But you have one now.”
That gave you pause. “…What’s that supposed to mean?”
He leaned back, eyes steady.
“It means I’m offering to restructure your debt. Reduce the interest. Extend the timeline. Provide resources, if you need them.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Why?”
He didn’t smile — but his mouth twitched, like he almost did.
“I told you. You remind me of someone.”
“That’s not a reason.”
“It is to me.”
You didn’t know what to do with that. Couldn’t decide if this was some twisted act of pity or a long con. But you weren’t used to people giving you anything. Especially not someone with this much power—with hands that clean, a gaze that calm, and a reputation like his.
He took another sip of his tea.
“I don’t expect you to trust me,” he said, almost kindly. “I wouldn’t, if I were you. But I want you to understand— I’m not doing this to trap you.”
“Then what do you want?”
His fingers paused on the edge of the cup.
“I want you to keep your daughter,” he said simply. “I want her to grow up safe. With her father.”
Something in your chest twisted. You looked down, jaw tight.
“That’s not your business.”
“Maybe not. But I’ve made it mine.”
You looked up again, and this time, there was no softness in your voice. “What do you get out of it?”
A longer pause.
He studied you, not like a man considering what to say, but like he was wondering how much you could handle. Like he’d already made up his mind.
“I’m not the villain you think I am,” he said finally. “But I’ve been one before. I know what it takes to get out.”
You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
Your hands curled around your coffee cup, suddenly aware of the chipped ceramic, the cool air from the vents brushing your neck. A waitress refilled a glass of soda at another table. The world kept moving.
He stood slowly, gathering the folder and slipping it back into his coat.
“You don’t have to decide anything tonight,” he said. “But I’ll have someone drop off the new terms tomorrow. Look them over. Think about your kid.”
He turned to leave, then paused and glanced back at you one last time.
“And think about who you want to be when she looks back on this.”
And then he was gone.
Just like that.
⋆｡°✩
You didn’t expect it to come in an envelope.
White. Thick. No return address.
It was on your doorstep when you got home from picking Nora up from daycare — tucked under the welcome mat like some dead thing left by a cat. You stared at it for a full minute before bending to pick it up, heart low in your chest.
She tugged on your sleeve. “What’s that, Daddy?”
“Nothing, bug.” You smiled, but your voice didn’t rise with it. “Go on in. I’ll be right there.”
She slipped past you with a squeal, barreling into the apartment and tossing her little backpack onto the floor. You shut the door behind her, thumb tracing the edge of the envelope as you walked to the kitchen. The light through the window was already fading to that washed-out grey of too-late afternoons. You tore it open without ceremony.
Inside: four pages, paper thick enough to feel expensive. No header, no signature — but you recognised the same smooth, sparse formatting from the mans’s folder at Zia’s—the new terms.
You skimmed.
Then read slower.
Then stopped.
He was serious.
— Outstanding balance: reduced by 40%. — Interest: frozen, pending further review. — Monthly payments: deferred for 3 months. — Conditions:
That last part made your stomach twist.
1. You will be reachable at all times. 2. You will submit proof of employment weekly. 3. You will meet with Mr. Marino in person at a time and place of his choosing. Frequency: open. 4. You will not attempt to renegotiate through any party other than Mr. Marino himself. 5. You will not disappear.
Regards,
Felix Marino
That last line wasn’t underlined. But it didn’t need to be.
You sat down, the chair scraping across the tile.
It was clean. Too clean. He’d carved out the brutality and left behind something you could stomach — just enough rope to pull yourself up. Or hang yourself with.
In the distance, you heard Nora humming a song from her cartoons.
And you realised: you were already considering it.
⋆｡°✩
The house is quiet after Nora falls asleep, sprawled out in her tiny bed with her stuffed rabbit tucked under her chin. You'd cleaned the chocolate from her face, tucked her in, and kissed her forehead like always. Pretended like nothing was wrong. Like there wasn’t a folded letter in your coat pocket that felt like it weighed more than your whole damn life.
You sit at the kitchen table, hands steepled, staring down at it again.
Felix Marino’s terms are clear:
Six months of contracted work
Weekly check-ins at a private location downtown
No outside contact with “competing interests”
No questions asked about the nature of the work.
Nora is off-limits. Her name isn’t even mentioned.
That part almost makes it worse.
Because you don’t think Felix left her out of the contract out of kindness.
You think it’s because he sees her as yours. And what belongs to you, by extension, belongs to him now.
You grip the paper until the crease deepens. This is a deal with the devil, no matter how cleanly it’s written. Still, you’ve seen worse. You’ve lived worse. And if this means keeping Nora safe—keeping your home, your job, your sanity—then what choice do you really have?
You’ll meet his terms. But you won’t let him sink his claws in.
You won’t let him think he has you.
Your phone buzzes on the table. A message. Just a location, a time.
You stare at the screen for a while before flipping it over and standing up. You clean the counter. Rinse the mugs. Check the locks on the doors twice. It’s routine, but you do it slower tonight.
[ Tomorrow, 11 AM.
Wear something decent. ]
Just before bed, you peek in on Nora one more time.
Her tiny chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm. There’s drool on her pillow. You swallow the knot in your throat.
You hope to god she never has to know how close you came to losing everything.
⋆｡°✩
The address Felix gave leads to a storefront with blackout windows and no signage. Inside, it's cleaner than expected. Sleek. Minimal. You’re greeted by a man in a tailored suit who doesn’t ask your name — just waves you through with a nod like you’re already known here.
You are, apparently.
A hallway. A door. A quiet room with a view of the city skyline. Felix is seated behind a polished desk, flipping lazily through a folder.
He doesn’t look up when he says, “You came.”
“Not like I had a choice.”
“Sure you did. You just didn’t like the alternatives.”
He gestures to the chair across from him. You sit, tense.
He finally lifts his gaze, eyes still unreadable. “How’s Nora?”
You narrow your eyes. “Fine. And she’s not part of this.”
“I never said she was.” He leans back, steepling his fingers. “Though you should know, this isn’t charity. You’ll work. I’ll watch. If I don’t like what I see, the terms change.”
“And if I don’t like what I see?”
“Then I’ll be disappointed,” Felix says, smooth as silk. “And trust me — you don’t want that.”
There’s a pause. You hate how calm he is. Like this is all part of some carefully laid plan. Maybe it is.
“You always recruit desperate dads into your service?”
“Only the interesting ones.”
You clench your jaw. “Why me?”
Felix shrugs, almost too casually. “Doesn’t matter.”
But it does matter. You can feel it.
The way he looks at you sometimes. Like he’s trying to find someone else in your face. Like you’re unfinished business.
You stand. “I’ll do what you asked. But keep the personal shit out of it.”
Felix watches you with that same unreadable gaze. “Whatever you say.”
But you can tell he’s already rewriting the rules.
⋆｡°✩
You’d expected something bloodier.
Maybe it was the envelope. Maybe it was Felix’s eyes, the way he looked at you like you were already halfway his. Or maybe it was just the way his name lingered like a shadow behind every line of those new “terms.” Whatever it was, you thought there’d be blood. Screaming. A pipe wrench. Something straight out of a bad movie.
Instead, you’re standing outside a warehouse that looks too clean to be dangerous, which somehow makes it worse.
You glance down at the slip of paper again. One name. One address. Gallo. That’s all he gave you. No instructions. No backup. Just the duffel bag in your hand and a phone in your pocket that vibrated exactly once with a location pin and then went dead silent.
You should walk away. You should. But you think of Nora. Think of the groceries on the table this morning — not from your wallet. Think of the sharp suits you saw at your building’s entrance yesterday. Men who didn’t belong there. Men who made eye contact just long enough to remind you that you were being watched.
So you step inside.
The warehouse isn’t abandoned, but it’s not busy either. The air smells like oil and dust, and the lights overhead buzz faintly with age. You follow the sound of metal scraping across concrete until you see him — mid-40s, thick arms, cigarette tucked into the side of his mouth like it’s permanent.
“You Gallo?” you ask.
He looks up, unimpressed. “Who’s asking?”
You don’t answer. Just unzip the duffel and pull out the envelope inside — thick, sealed, and marked with the same insignia that was embossed into Felix’s letterhead.
He snorts. “About time.”
You hand it over. He rips it open, eyes scanning quickly. You can’t see the paper, but whatever’s written on it makes his jaw twitch.
“I paid last week,” he mutters, more to himself than to you.
You don’t move. Felix never said what to do after delivering the message. But you know better than to leave right away.
Gallo crumples the paper. “Son of a bitch,” he mutters. Then louder, “Tell Marino if he wants more outta me, he can come collect it himself.”
You exhale slowly. “I don’t think that’s how this works.”
He steps forward, chest puffed. “No? Then how does it work, ragazzo di merda?”
There’s a tension now — heavy and tight, like the moment before thunder. You don’t flinch, even when he gets close enough for you to smell the smoke on his breath. But your fingers twitch.
This isn’t a test of violence. It’s a test of restraint.
And you’re not sure which you’re worse at.
He laughs like he’s already won. Then, just when the silence threatens to stretch too far, he spits — right at your shoes.
You move fast. Maybe too fast. You don’t pull the knife, don’t throw a punch, but your hands are around his throat in a blink, and you shove him back hard enough that he slams against a shelf with a clang. A box of screws topples somewhere behind him.
“Try it again,” you say, low and even. “See what happens.”
You don’t remember drawing the knife.
All you remember is the way the air changed — thick, metallic, sharp with panic. One moment, Gallo’s guys were just shouting, posturing like men with too much testosterone and not enough brains. The next one of them rushed you. Pulled a gun. A warning shot, maybe. But it grazed your arm, and that was all it took to tip something inside you.
The rest is a blur. Screaming. A crash. A warm spray across your face that wasn’t your own.
You’re not trained for this.
You’re not supposed to be the guy standing in a warehouse full of broken bones and gasping, bloodied men, clutching a blade that’s slippery in your hand. You were a barista three years ago. A father. A husband, once.
But right now, you’re just a wreck. Shaking, breath jagged, body slick with sweat and blood — most of it not yours. The knife hits the floor with a metallic clatter. Your legs feel like paper.
The phone in your pocket buzzes once.
A location pin.
No words.
Your hands are still trembling as you stumble out into the alley, back pressed to the cool brick wall as your knees threaten to buckle. You press your palm to the wound on your arm, but you can’t even tell if it’s deep. All you can feel is the adrenaline, burning like acid through your veins.
The car pulls up exactly two minutes later.
Sleek. Black. Expensive in the quiet, menacing kind of way.
The passenger door opens, and Felix is already waiting inside.
You hesitate. Just for a second.
Then you climb in, dragging the bloodied duffel with you. You don’t speak. You can’t.
He says nothing at first. Just watches. His gaze skims your face, your hands, the splotches on your shirt. His nostrils flare, faintly. His jaw clenches.
Then his voice comes, low and velvety.
“You did well.”
You flinch.
Well?
Is this what “well” looks like?
You open your mouth to say something — anything — but it all dies on your tongue. You feel like you're floating outside yourself, like your body isn’t quite yours. Like you're going to pass out.
Felix notices. Of course he does.
He leans in, slow and deliberate. His hand moves to your jaw— firm, and tilts your face toward him.
“You’re shaking.”
No shit. You laugh — a broken, awful sound that doesn’t feel real.
Felix hums, then shifts in his seat. The partition behind you slides up without a sound, cloaking the two of you in soft shadows.
“I told you I wanted to see what you could handle,” he murmurs. “You didn’t disappoint.”
“I almost died,” you manage to whisper.
“Mm,” he says, thumb brushing along your cheek. “But you didn’t.”
You don’t realise your hands are clenched in your lap until he notices. He undoes your seatbelt. Leans down.
“I can help,” he says softly, fingers already trailing down your thigh. “Let me.”
You’re still bloodstained. You still feel sick. But your cock betrays you — twitching in your jeans under his touch like it doesn’t care that you’re half-feral from adrenaline and trauma.
He smiles faintly. Like he expected that.
“Poor thing,” Felix says, voice thick with amusement and something deeper. “All wound up. All that fear. All that pressure.”
His hand slides over the bulge in your pants, slow and possessive. Your breath catches.
“You’re shaking so much,” he murmurs. “You need to calm down. Just relax.”
You don’t. Can’t. But your hips twitch anyway.
Felix is patient. Cruel in his gentleness. His fingers undo your jeans with practised ease, and the second he wraps his hand around your cock— warm, firm, steady— you nearly choke on a gasp. The pleasure spikes sharply and fast, edged with guilt and something darker.
You shouldn’t want this. Not now. Not here. Not after—
“Don’t think,” he says quietly. “Just feel.”
Your head hits the seat behind you. Your hands tremble uselessly in your lap as he strokes you—not fast, not slow, just right. His thumb circles the head on every upward pull, milking soft, breathless moans out of you.
“You’ve been good,” he whispers, voice like velvet steel. “Brave. I take care of what’s mine.”
You don’t know when that happened — when you became his. But it’s too late now. His hand keeps working you through it, coaxing you toward a high you didn’t ask for but can’t stop chasing. Heat pools low in your belly. Your eyes squeeze shut. You’re going to—
“Come for me,” he breathes, leaning in. “That’s it. Let go.”
And you do.
It rips out of you like a sob. Messy. Shuddering. You curl in on yourself as your body wracks with release, nerves flayed raw.
Felix doesn’t flinch at the mess. He just wipes his hand, then guides your head down to rest against his shoulder. You’re still panting, still dazed, blood drying on your clothes — and he strokes your hair like you’re something precious.
Like you're his favourite broken thing.
⋆｡°✩
You leave the bathroom light on.
Not because Nora’s scared of the dark anymore. She’s been sleeping through the night since she was three. It’s for you.
You’re the one who wakes up in cold sweats now. You’re the one who flinches at door hinges creaking and cars idling too long outside the window. You’re the one staring at the nursery monitor like something might crawl through it.
There’s no crying. Just the soft hum of static.
She’s curled up on her side, one arm flung above her head, mouth open in that completely unselfconscious way only kids manage. Her stuffed bear is trapped beneath her chest like a casualty, and you don’t dare move it. You don’t dare move anything.
You sit on the edge of your bed, clothes still crusted in spots with things you scrubbed off hours ago. You’re not sure how you’re still breathing. Or why you are.
Your hands shake. Not like before—this is quieter. Numb.
The monitor hisses softly, then goes silent. You keep watching it anyway.
Your phone buzzes once on the nightstand. You don’t check it. You already know who it is.
You already know what he’ll say. Good work. I told you you could handle it. You’re not sure if that’s supposed to be a compliment or a warning.
first of all, ur violinist post was OUT OF THIS WORLDDD
one suggestion tho, between the content warnings and where the fic starts, its advisable to add a :readmore: (theres usually a button for that in both ur pc and phone i think)
as that can give a compact version of ur post, so the reader will be able to scroll past them to the next post (especially if they find it in the tags)
have a great day/night!!
hello to you too, Nikhil !
and for everything, i thanked you many. tbh i don't really know that thing existed, 😭 but seriously. thanks for the suggestion ! (bro is a life saver)
i'm slowly getting interested in writing the Thief x Royalty reader (can be depicted as king). I've already thought of his name and plot. Are you guys interested? Here's the idea ! [ 🎭 ]
Thoughts?
HELL YEAHHH
hm... maybe next time !
Voting ended onJun 2, 2025
if it's a yes, after I finished the Sukuna fic + this. requests will be opened (since, i don't really have writing ideas. heh)
