FroggyKarma

Weewoo

[froggykarma]

Hello I would like to say I have my account back so please ignore any messages you’ve received from me thank you

[warmfrequency]

hinge

captain john price x fem!reader

summary: the lads make john a hinge profile against his will, and to everyone’s surprise, he matches with you within ninety seconds

cw: mdni, fem!reader, age gap (30/43), idk how hinge actually works tbh, john price the feminist, alcohol, insecurities, fluff, smut, oral f rec, piv (14.4k)

John has been irritable for months and it's getting worse.

He knows it the way you know a tooth is starting to rot from the inside, tongue prodding at it every hour. 

On Wednesday, he reamed Johnny out for being three minutes late to the briefing. It was the kind of reaming that had everyone's eyes turned down into their coffees and files while Johnny stood in front at attention, toes squared, ears hot.

John went on and on, red-faced, telling him that his 'admin's a disgrace', and that he'd better 'get a fuckin' grip before you're explaining your timings to your old CO'.

Somewhere in the middle of it — around ‘disgrace’ — John heard himself.

He finished the dress-down anyway. Ending on a firm threat of a year-long inventory assignment.

It was rough enough to watch that when the room cleared out, Simon hung back. He stayed in his seat, leaning back with his arms folded, eyes following John as he aggressively organized his paperwork at the front of the room,squaring stacks that were already square.

"You need somethin', Riley?" John asked, never looking up.

Simon's mouth was twisted beneath his balaclava as he weighed his options. He wasn't especially eager to be John's second victim of the day, but it'd been miserable for weeks with no stop in sight. In the end, he decided to be straight—

"Y'need'a get laid, boss."

John's hands immediately froze.

That unyielding anger came up his chest right on schedule — insubordinate, out of line — and then couldn't quite find his footing in it because the truth was a trapdoor just under him.

His eyes flicked up and across the room, ears warming up just like Johnny's had an hour ago.

"Bloody ornery, you are," Simon went on. "'ave been."

Simon wasn't wrong, John knew that.

The work winds them all too tight — adrenaline that can't be spent, images that don't erase, choices made under duress that keep them questioning at three in the morning. And everyone's got a valve that lets the steam out. Johnny shouts his out at the football. Kyle has somewhere to be lately that he's cagey about, and Simon has whatever Simon has, no one asks.

And John drives home, shuts the door, and the house is quiet, his walls holding all the built-up pressure.

Ten months since his usual I'm-Home-Hookup found herself a steady bloke and stopped answering his calls. He'd told himself the whole time it was casual right up until it ended, when he learned it had actually been load-bearing.

And was that affecting his mood? Maybe.

His eyes narrowed on Simon and his jaw ticked at the hinge. He threw his chin toward the open door.

"Fuck off out've my briefin' room, Lieutenant."

Simon's chair scraped across the linoleum when he stood, sighing through the cloth over his face.

"I jus' think—"

"OUT."

The door clicked shut behind him, and John stood in the silence for a moment.

Then he squared the stacks again.

——

Johnny never volunteers to bring the beer, yet here he is at half seven with a box of glass bottles rattling on his shoulder, grinning under the porch light. Behind him, the headcount runs long by one. Three men when John only agreed to two. Kyle with a canvas bag full of crisps. Simon at the back, hands sunk in his pockets.

"Thought it was just you and Garrick?"

"Aye, well." Johnny shoulders past him into the hall, close enough that their shirts drag. "Simon heard there was football."

"Simon doesn't care about football," John retorts as the rest of them push their way inside.

"I care 'bout football," Simon lies through a simper no one can see, wiping his boots on the mat.

Unfortunately for John, his team is undoubtedly adept at what they've trained in and he doesn’t always catch when there’s fuckery afoot.

Under his nose, in his very own home, Johnny distracts him with talk about the match while Kyle lifts his phone from the side table just beside his elbow. Simon waits an appropriate amount of time before slipping away to the kitchen to guess the passcode, which he manages in one go.

"Gonna have to talk to him 'bout that…" Kyle mumbles as he swipes to the App Store.

"He textin' anyone?" Simon cranes his neck over Kyle's shoulder. "He used t’see tha’ one bird… wot was her name…?"

"Leah," Kyle answers flatly. "Laura?" he second-guesses as he thumbs in the passcode again to approve the install: Hinge Dating App. "M'not lookin' at his texts, mate. Be lucky he doesn't RTU us just for this. Plus, I think he said she started seeing some—"

"—y'know, Cap," Johnny's voice cuts through, a warning for the men in the kitchen. "I can get ye another beer, y'don't have…"

Simon and Kyle glance up from where they've leaned against the counter and freeze when John appears in the doorway, face screwed with suspicion. His eyes flick between the phone in Kyle's grasp and the faces lit behind it.

His initial thought is that the phone's got a nice, durable case, proper practical. His second thought is to start patting down his pockets with his free hand — which all turn up empty.

The room's gone still, a collective held breath to see which way the tension'll break.

"That's my phone."

"It is," Kyle agrees carefully.

Johnny appears at John's shoulder, squeezing past into the kitchen. "Cap, before you start—"

"When'd you nick it?" His eyes accurately settle on Kyle, the slickest of the bunch.

"Doesn't matter when, sir. We just—"

"It matters to me." John puts his empty beer bottle on the table and uses both hands now to pat down his pockets a second time, not quite believing his own team got the drop on him. "Professionally speakin',” he mumbles. 

"Wot really needs addressin' is your passcode," Simon grumbles. "0-0-0-6?"

"Christ," Johnny snickers.

John chooses to ignore them and holds his hand out, palm up. But Kyle doesn't fork it over. Instead, he looks back at the screen and watches the progress ring around the icon close in on itself.

"What're we doin' right now?" John presses, stepping closer.

"Jus' take a seat, boss," Simon suggests, gesturing to the kitchen table just as Johnny yanks a chair out, beaming something mischievous.

John looks at the chair, then looks at Johnny.

"Think I'll stand."

"Suit yourself," Johnny spins the chair around and drops into it, arms folding over the back.

Kyle checks the screen one more time before turning it around. A new little white icon sits on John's home screen, Kyle points at it. John squints to read the little letters beneath it.

"What's Hinge?"

"It's a dating app," Kyle answers and places the phone on the table.

A dating app….

Grown adults sorting through each other like they're shopping. Swipe, tap, Add to Cart. He's heard the lads chat about it for years — the 'ghosting', the games — and always thought: thank god that's not me.

Under the simmering contempt, the idea of typing hello to a stranger who might simply never reply (left on read, whatever ungodly hour of the soul that phrase was invented in) shoots something cold through him.

There's a beat of hesitation before his eyes snap to Simon, the scowl on his face carrying the weight of Wednesday's interaction.

"This is you, then?"

"Team effort," Simon corrects without a flicker of shame.

"It's no' the dodgy kind of app, it's for relationships," Johnny explains. "Says so in their slogan: 'designed to be deleted'. You make a profile, upload a few pics, answer some—"

"I know how online dating works, MacTavish."

Johnny squints. "Do ye, though?"

"You've been rank for months, sir." Kyle tells it plainly. "Whole teams sayin' it."

John feels like he’s been put on a rinse cycle in the wash. His nostrils flare as he snuffs his irritation back down his chest lest he prove them right in his own kitchen. 

"So that's what all this is? A Friday night welfare check?"

"It's no' a welfare check," Johnny defends poorly, voice cracking at a pitch too high.

"It's a bit of a welfare check," Kyle shrugs.

"Right." John reaches for his phone. "Well, thanks for the concern, lads. Truly. Warms the heart."

Kyle slides it just out of reach. "Just give it a shot, sir," he implores. "Try it for the weekend. If you still hate it, I'll delete it and we'll never bring it up again."

John's chin tucks to his chest and he glowers at him from under his deeply furrowed brow. "You'll delete it now," he orders, except these men have never listened to him off the field.

"I could," he agrees, wrestling a smirk. "And you can keep spending your Friday nights with us."

It's meant as a joke. It doesn't land as one.

Because John looks around at the three of them and knows in a few hours their engines will fade down the street and that hulking quiet will pour back in, the one he keeps calling peace. 

So… he pulls out a chair.

Simon pushes off the counter and Johnny's grin pulls wider.

"Go on," John surrenders, falling into the seat with a sigh. He does not look at any of their faces because whatever's on them’s going to make him cross. 

Chairs scrape and Kyle settles down at John’s arm, Simon looms over them from behind, all crowded around the one screen.

The basics go quick — name, age, pronouns. Kyle finds his rhythm working through the questions.

"Drinks? Socially. Smokes…?" Kyle seesaws his head a bit. "We'll say no."

"I smoke cigars," John protests.

"That's a personality trait, not a habit." Kyle scrolls. "Height?"

"Six-two," Johnny says immediately.

"He's six-foot," Simon corrects.

"Aye, and on the app he's six-two."

Kyle selects 6'. "Occupation?"

That one hangs in the air a bit longer than the rest, and John doesn't quite know why. His hands turn palm-up on the table with the question.

"Consultant," Simon offers.

"Civil servant," Kyle tries.

"Military," John answers irritably off the edge of a scoff.

Three sets of eyes come up off the phone — Johnny's eyebrows go high, Kyle's mouth opens to argue, Simon tilts his head just enough, as if to say: if you say so.

"It's not a state secret that I serve," John says, eyebrows pulling close with confusion.

Kyle types it despite whatever he's got hanging on the tip of his tongue. And in the little silence afterward, the obvious question finally comes to mind.

"What've you lot got on yours, then?"

The simple question sends a tidal wave of overlapping chatter and excuses over the table.

"Ah, well—" Johnny starts.

"I actually—" Kyle says, at the same time.

"Different app," Simon adds, under both of them.

"—see, it depends," Johnny goes on, trying to gain volume over the others, "I like to keep the profile fresh. Rotate the pics, the bio—"

"—don't have one," Kyle is saying over the top of him, "because me and Amara are— well, it's not official-official, but it's a thing, so—"

"Been usin' Feeld," Simon finishes.

When the wave recedes, the full picture comes into view: Johnny reinvents himself on a cycle, Kyle has Amara, mentioned now for the first time ever. And Simon—

"What's Feeld?" John asks.

"No," Kyle says before the question has its punctuation, quick and stern, head whipping back and forth. “Absolutely not. We'll talk about that another time."

"It's not for you," Simon adds.

"Right," he mumbles, taking a pull of his beer, settling back against the chair. He inhales and looks off at the window. "M'glad it's amateurs running my love life."

"Enthusiasts," Johnny corrects.

The rest goes quicker.

"What kind of connection?" Kyle reads. "Options are: Long-term. Short-term. Short-term, open to long. Long-term, open to short."

"Short, open to long," John answers without hesitation.

Johnny opens his mouth but Simon glares at him just as quickly through his ragged eyeholes, and he closes it without a word.

His profile photos have to come off the lads' phones since John's camera roll offers nothing but screenshots of maps, car parts, and three random pictures of the K9, Xena, from another unit on base (he’s been trying to snatch her for his own team for months).

He watches the photos of himself go by and it's a strange census, seeing a year of himself entirely through other people's eyes. Makes him queasy, so he takes another bitter gulp to wash the feeling out. 

There's a short argument about the proper order the pictures should be presented, Johnny wins.

After, Kyle starts explaining what a good prompt does, how to choose one. He hardly gets any words out before John's holding his hand out the same way he did half an hour ago.

"I'll do these myself."

This time, Kyle hands the phone over.

The lads drift to the far end of the table to finally give John the space they've neglected to all night. 

Fresh beers are cracked open and a bag of crisps demolished as they fold into their own conversations. The match they’ve been ignoring comes first, then Amara, whom Kyle spends five minutes refusing to elaborate on, and somewhere in there Simon mentions an oddities shop he’s been meaning to stop by.

John sits with his reading glasses on, typing slowly, brows low in concentration.

When he finally sets the phone down, all three of them quickly move behind him.

"So, their profile comes up on screen," Kyle reaches over to demonstrate. "Have a look, read the bio. If you wanna chat to her, tap the heart. If you don't, hit the X, and you'll never see her again. Simple."

The first woman is on a beach holding a cocktail the size of a fishbowl. X.

"Okaay," Kyle drawls, mouth pulling straight. "Sure. Was there a reason, or…"

"No."

The next woman is at a festival covered in glitter and feathers. X.

So is the one after. X.

A woman in her work scrubs. X.

A woman holding a child. X.

A woman in a bikini on a lake (his eyes linger). X.

It's not that they're not lovely. Some of them probably are. But every picture is a performance — arms out, teeth out, look how much fun I am. Advertisements.

"The fish," Johnny mourns as another goes down, a woman on a small boat holding a big trout up. "Cap, she was fishin'. You love fishin'!"

"Wasn't her fish," he grumbles under his breath.

"Whose fish d'you reckon, then?"

"Bloke she cropped out," Simon says, and John tips the neck of his beer toward him.

"Give me criteria," Kyle pleads, both hands on the back of John's chair, gripping with restraint. "I can work with criteria."

"He's calibratin'," Simon says. "Let 'im work it out."

Simon's giving him too much credit. He's not calibrating. He's not reading these women, he's not even really looking at them. Each X is just the whole premise being declined, proof accumulating that he was right about the app all along, and if the profiles run out, well, he tried. Right? The lads witnessed it. He can get back to his peace with a clear—

His thumb stops and hovers, then pulls back to the outer edge of the phone case.

Huh. 

There you are.

Up a trail somewhere, hills of green grass rolling behind you, hood half-blown off, one hand trying to catch it. You're laughing at whoever's taking the picture, smile wide.

John's not sure he's ever seen eyes twinkle before, but that must be what yours are doing, shimmering even under overcast.

You're very pretty.

For the first time, John taps the profile open.

30. Executive Assistant. 4 Miles Away. Short-Term, Open to Long-Term.

Executive Assistant, so you likely work too much. That's familiar to him, something he understands inside-out. 

There's a photo of you in office clothes at what looks like a retirement party, smile an edge more saccharine than the one on the hill.

Another of you criss-cross on the floor, a black and caramel cat stretched out and content in your lap, belly-up. Shirt low cut, cleavage to feast on. He is sixty percent gentleman about how long he looks at it.

And at the bottom:

The best way to ask me out is by: using words.

I recently discovered that: I'm better in person than I am on here.

John huffs an amusement through his nose. He spent more time on his profile than he thinks you spent on yours. Seems like you're tired of the same things he's already tired of, one night in.

Behind him, the lads have gone silent, holding their breath.

John taps the heart and his screen goes bright with a wash of confetti, both your photos ringed together:

IT'S A MATCH!

"Oh, shit, she already matched with you," Kyle cranes his neck closer to inspect.

"Gimme that." Johnny plucks the phone from John's hand. "No way," he scoffs. "Fuckin' fit. A bit young for you, Cap, aye?" He looks at John, then back at the screen like the two won't reconcile in his brain.

"Careful," John warns mildly.

Johnny hands the phone back, muttering something in Scots only Simon could translate.

John doesn't hear much of it anyway. He's already looking at your photo again.

Better in person.

Yeah. He'd bet you are.

"Right, sir," Kyle says. "Now we wait. Midday tomorrow the earliest. Message her any sooner and it reads keen."

"It'd be accurate," he deadpans.

"There's rules, Cap," Johnny says. "No messagin' straight away, no double-textin', keep a wee bit of mystery."

John turns in his chair with a scowl to look up at the three of them.

"So, you're tellin' me a woman says she's interested in you and you… make her wait?"

Silence.

"I mean, when you put it like that…"

"Yeah, s'a bit fuckin' rude, innit?" John derides, turning back around.

He's already typing, screen tipped away.

"Sir," Kyle pleads. "At least let us read it."

"This is a two person conversation, not a five piece."

He presses send and quickly pockets the phone.

——

Four miles away, a phone lights up…

——

Your windows are open to the last of a long evening, warm air breezing through the sheer curtains. You’re finally on the couch. Shower taken, its heat still damp in your skin. A glass of off-dry riesling teeters precariously on the arm, cold from the fridge and sweating through its stemless glass.

Twix is a puddled tortoiseshell furnace against your thigh, one paw twitching through a dream, her purr winding down as she drops deeper. And on the telly, Last Christmas is on. You've seen it a dozen times, that's why you leave it — it's mindless.

The second glass goes down easier than the first, tart on your tongue, blooming warm in your belly and over your cheeks.

Somewhere in the lull, your thumb opens Hinge, a reflex to being bored. You don't really expect anything from it anymore. 

A man holding a fish, sunglasses on. X.

A man whose photos are all group shots. X.

A man who is 6'2" and it's his entire personality. X.

Your thumb knows the rhythm without you.

The next profile slides into view and you pause, thumb hovering.

He's handsome in that sort of rugged, classic way. His beard is salted at the edges, lines beside his eyes creased deep, cheeks faintly rosy. He's mid-laugh at what looks like a Christmas party, red and green tinsel drooping off the beams behind him; head slightly tipped, one heavy hand flat on the table. He's not cackling, you can tell it's more reserved, but it's probably still more than he usually offers.

John. 43. Military. Four miles away. Short-Term, Open to Long-Term.

The one thing you should know about me is: I'm gone a lot for work. But when I'm home, I'm home.

Most men bury the catch in the fine print, but he's leading with it.

You don't know yet whether that's honesty or efficiency. You suspect that with him they might be the same thing.

His second photo is of him on the tailgate of some enormous vehicle, fatigues taut over his thighs, thumbs hooked through his bulky khaki plate carrier, looking up from under the brim of his hat.

Two truths and a lie: I've never seen Star Wars. I have a lie-in every Sunday. I've had tea with a warlord.

The sky is pink with the morning in his third picture. He's thigh-deep in a lake, turned away from the camera entirely. (You're noticing it's a common theme that he does not look at the camera for any photo.) The sunlight catches the breadth of his back and shoulders, cotton molded around muscle.

Don't hate me if I: call instead of text. It's quicker.

You giggle just enough that Twix's ear rotates toward you in reproach.

It's kinda cute when older men put more effort into their profiles.

But the alarm is already going off somewhere in the back of your skull — too good, probably old photos, probably has a wife — it has never once failed to ring. But you're two glasses in, and the heart really costs nothing even if the conversation seems off.

You tap it, and put the phone facedown on your thigh.

On the telly, Emilia Clarke is busy falling for a man you happen to know has been dead the entire film. You mouth one of his lines along with him, not really invested, wine warm in your chest, Twix breathing slow against your leg.

Then your phone buzzes against you once, and you ignore it, because you have rules about lunging for male attention. But then it buzzes again, and, well, you just turn it over to have a look. Maybe it's your mum, you don't know!

HINGE: You and John matched!

HINGE: 1 New Message

You open it.

Evening. Not much good at using the app, but I really wanted to chat to you. How's your Friday night?

You hum to yourself curiously. Not an innuendo or emoji in sight.

i actually volunteer helping the elderly with technology, happy to walk you through it.

friday's been average. wine and a movie on the couch. how's yours?

You put the phone back down and focus on the film, but his reply comes within the minute.

Ouch. Friday's alright. The lads invited themselves round for the match. Still here, unfortunately.

you're messaging me with guests in the house? terrible host.

They invited themselves. Hosting rules don't apply.

What movie are you watching?

You glance at the telly where a dead man is mid-song and weigh lying about it.

You could be watching anything. You could pick something more interesting, something with a deep lesson, educational, historical, something niche to come off cool and worldly.

you're not allowed to judge me.

Judging is sort of my life's work, but I'll do my best.

You snort. Twix relocates to the far cushion in protest.

it's called 'last christmas'. i don't know why it's on in july, but i've probably seen it twelve times. it's good background noise.

The reply takes slightly longer this time. You picture him all big hands, small phone, and then stop picturing him, because that's how it starts.

Twelve times? Must be decent.

it's objectively not. the love interest is dead the entire film lol

Dead?

it's a twist. it's festive!

You and I have very different definitions for "festive". I've got a few questions. But I'll save them.

You smile.

so, your lake photo. did you catch anything that day?

Not a thing.

hours in freezing water for zero fish?!

The fish aren't the point.

do tell, what's the point?

The mist off the water. The quiet. The no one expecting anything from you.

It's the first real answer a man has given you on this app in, like, six months. 

You feel oddly like you've been handed something and should keep your hands still so it doesn't spook.

that actually sounds really peaceful.

i've never been fishing, but i do love nature in the mornings. i have a trail by me that i like to trek early on weekends.

That the trail from your photo?

it is! my best friend actually made me go that day, i wasn't in the mood. complained the whole way.

Doesn't show.

Good photo of you.

Beautiful, actually.

You stare at the screen and feel warmth tickling your nape, sliding lower, molten and slow. 

Every instinct you have reaches for deflection.

oh! thank you. the wind did most of the work lol

No it didn't.

— and he just takes the deflection off you, like being returned something you've dropped. You press the cool curve of the wine glass against your cheek and remind yourself, sternly, that this is a stranger on the internet.

well, for the record your photo's not bad either. handsome smile.

Somewhere past ten, you notice the conversation keeps not ending. 

how long have you been on hinge?

It's my first night, actually.

first night???

Profile's about two hours old.

yikes, so i'm just the practice woman then, huh?

Practice implies I'm planning to do this again.

——

John's still at the kitchen table, reading glasses pushed up into his hair now, beer gone warm at his elbow. The lads have migrated to the living room doorway — close enough to monitor, far enough to pretend they aren't.

He knows they're watching, and he's been watched by better.

What he can't seem to manage is his fuckin' face — it keeps doing things beyond his control, and every time your reply comes he has to reel it back to neutral, and he can tell by the quality of the silence behind him that he's not reeling nearly fast enough.

"He's smilin' again," Johnny murmurs, elbowing Simon in the ribs.

"Shameless," John mumbles, without looking up. "All of you."

He's typing when the floor creaks jus to his left. When he glances up, Johnny has drifted to his shoulder under the pretense of collecting empties.

"Need another, Cap?"

"I need you three feet back, MacTavish," he replies, thumbs tapping away.

A minute later it's Kyle from the doorway, "If she asks about hobbies, don't lead with the cigars. They poll badly amongst females."

"'Females'?" John grimaces, face down, thumbs still at it. "Say it with me Garrick, 'women'."

Then Simon, who hasn't moved or spoken in twenty minutes, asks, "Wot's she sayin', then?"

John rolls his eyes and sets the phone face-down, pushing himself up out of the chair.

"Time to go, lads," he says with an obviously fake smile, gesturing his arm out towards his front door. "Goodnight."

"It's no' even eleven oclock!" Johnny complains.

"Then the night's still young. Go on, fuck off."

They go — bottles gathered, snacks cleaned up, Simon herding Johnny down the hall as he’s still negotiating.

Then their engines fade down the street, and the quiet pours back in, right on schedule. Except tonight it arrives and there's a phone lit on his kitchen table with your name on it, and the quiet — for the first time in a long while — has to wait.

He locks up, kills the TV, then drops into his armchair with the phone already unlocked.

did the football finish? who won?

He glances at the dead telly. Hasn't a clue. 

Couldn't tell you.

omg lol you had ONE reason for guests tonight!

I got distracted.

by what? 😇

I think you know by what.

Nothing comes back for a minute. He pictures you on your couch, that cat beside you, deciding what to do with it — and it occurs to him, mildly horrifying, that he's enjoying this. The wait. The little emoji with the halo, transparently unrepentant. He finds himself smiling at the ceiling like there's something written on it.

anyway!

Anyway.

He'll allow it: retreat granted. There's no rush.

The cat in your photo. Yours?

yes! that’s twix. she's a menace.

Good name.

she prefers men that ignore her.

Then we'd get on fine. I'm very good at ignoring cats.

It goes on just like that: easy.

You ask if he's a morning person and learn he's up at five most days by choice; he learns you consider five the middle of the night.

He talks about the Brecon Beacons — the actual Beacons, the ones he loves, not the ones that nearly killed him at twenty-two. You tell him you've always wanted to go, and he catches himself already planning the route he'd take you. Then quickly chastises himself. 

How's the average Friday held up?

certainly improved

Mine too.

He puts the phone on the arm of the chair and sits in his quiet house, and for once it doesn’t feel so desolate.

——

The following morning he's up at five. He starts drinking his coffee at the counter, looking out the window over the sink, the sorbet summer sky bleeding morning.

He thinks of you before he can stop himself. Asleep, presumably, five being the middle of the night and all. Then he takes the coffee out to his back step for some fresh air.

He wonders if he was any good with the messaging last night. It's the longest he's ever sat with his phone in his hand, period. Let alone chatting with someone. There's no debrief for it, that's the trouble. No one to tell him whether ‘I got distracted.’ read as charming or desperate.

He runs the entire two-hour exchange back over and over and finds no actionable errors, but remains unconvinced.

He goes for his run at six. The route climbs uphill around klick seven, and somewhere on the hill he thinks about your photo, your smile, your mouth. He wonders what you smell like, what you sound like when you're being sarcastic. 

By noon he's under the Land Rover draining the old oil, and he catches himself pondering what you might do on a Saturday. Whether you slept in properly. Whether the cat allows it; he grew up with one himself and knows how demanding they can be when they're ready for a feeding.

He hasn't messaged yet and neither have you.

He couldn't say exactly why he's held off. Something the lads said about being keen, and rules, and mystery lodged somewhere he can't reach to dig it out. He's not normally a man that takes doctrine from Johnny MacTavish, and yet… here he is. 

It's a stupid fuckin' rule.

The afternoon goes long and gets quiet in the old way.

The house at four o'clock has a particular acoustic he knows down to the plumbing, and today, for the first time, he notices himself noticing it. It never used to be so obvious. Years of Saturdays like this one and it took his phone going quiet for half a day to show him the loneliness so plainly.

By the evening he's got Chinese takeaway at the kitchen table, eating it straight from the carton, chopsticks shoveling fried noodles down his gullet while he does the crossword from the morning paper in his head.

That's when his phone lights up for the first time all day, buzzing three times in succession — he absolutely hates how quickly it's in his hand.

spent six hours wedding dress shopping with my best friend. i need a glass of wine and a lie down.

thought of you on the tube home

He reads the second message again.

Thought of you. 

He’d been drafting the same admission since noon and something in his chest going catastrophically hot.

are you still up? i know sundown is bedtime for your generation.

And there's the sarcasm. 

Outside the window, the sun is — he checks — still up. Barely. He's got that going for him, at least.

Just in time. Was about to take my dentures out.

Thought about you as well.

He types the second line fast before he can be a coward about it. If you can say it, he can say it. Fair's fair.

I do have a question now though. It's not your wedding we're shopping for, is it? That'd be proper inconvenient for me.

lol no! maid of honor. today was purely supervisory.

don't really see myself getting married anyway.

the dresses were stunning though!

He’s picking up on a pattern. Three messages arriving like one exhale — the vulnerable thing said flanked with distraction. 

Nothing wrong with that.

Successful trip then? Or is there another six hours coming?

successful! she found it. there were tears and champagne.

what about you, how was your saturday?

He’s had a day spent purposefully not doing the one thing he wanted to do.

Quiet. Nothing worth typing.

hm. sounds like you should ring me then…

He looks at that one for a moment and blinks, the inside of his cheek finds itself between his teeth.

For all their blabbering, the lads did not warn him about this bit. Not that he can't speak on the phone, he prefers it. You're essentially quoting his profile back at him. But he's been thinking about something since roughly the fourth time you crossed his mind today, and a phone call isn't the ask he's been building up to.

Could do.

Truthfully, though. I was just working up the courage to ask you for a drink.

Courage. He's used that word in citations, for men who ran toward gunfire, heroes. Now he’s using it to describe the act of asking a woman on a date, and the genuinely undignified part is that it's regrettably accurate.

Your reply takes a minute. He watches the dots start and stop, and start again. God, he's been shot at with less suspense.

Then your message comes through and it's just a number. Ten digits. It buzzes in his hand once more.

for logistics.

He stares at it for a beat and then he's up out of his seat. Takeaway abandoned, at the fridge with his phone still in one hand, snapping the cap off a beer on the lip of the counter, and then he's out the back door into the garden where the evening's gone navy and the air’s still warm from the day.

He saves your number first. Then he stands there a moment, beer sweating in one hand, thumb over the call button in the other.

——

You’ve just tipped the bottle over your glass when the phone starts buzzing against the counter.

Unknown Number. Local.

“John?”

“Evenin’.”

Fuck. 

His voice lands an octave lower than you were braced for. A honeyed gravel that seeps into your ear and slides thick over your spine, pooling somewhere behind your ribs.

You set the bottle down before you drop it.

“So you actually do ring,” you manage.

“Said so on the profile, I think.”

“I half thought it was a bit.”

“I don’t really do bits.”

“No,” you say through a grin, picking up your glass and drifting toward the couch. You drop your voice into a gravelly impression of him: “You’re a very serious man.”

The laugh that comes down the line is quiet — more breath than sound, warm at the bottom of it, like you’ve caught him somewhere he doesn’t usually go.

“That meant to be me?”

“It’s uncanny, I know.”

The line goes quiet a moment — the good kind, neither of you rushing to fill it — and in it you catch the sounds of his side: a whirl of breeze, the faint ring of a glass set down on iron. He’s outside. You picture a tidy yard with tall dark hedges, a big man pacing slowly with a beer.

“Am I interruptin’ the wine?”

“The wine and I are happy to share the time.”

“Good.” There's a pause that you can hear his smile in. “I have a beer out here. Seemed only fair we’re both suffering the same.”

“Are we having our drink right now? Is this it?”

“No,” he says immediately, unamused even — which is very amusing for you. “This one doesn’t count.”

The speed of his reply sends something fizzing under your sternum. You tuck your feet up under yourself and take a slow sip.

“No?” you tease.

“I had imagined I’d see your face.”

“Been imagining, have you?”

You are very glad he cannot see your face right now. Cheeks warm and strained, you press the cool of the wine glass briefly against them in turns

“Nothin’ mucky if that’s what you’re gettin’ at.”

“Mm, no, 'course not. You’ve been a proper gentleman. Haven’t even thrown me a cheeky pick-up line.”

“I could workshop somethin’ for you if you’d like.”

“No thanks,” you giggle into your glass. “It was a relief when I opened your first message and it wasn’t a riddles-three about your dick.”

You can hear his scoff and recoil on the other end.

“Is that what it’s come to?”

“Unfortunately.”

There’s a short silence you’d swear is him coming to terms with the modern world, and you bite down on a smile.

“Right,” he says, and there's a controlled shift in his voice. “My question...”

Your stomach does a free-fall, nauseating and fluttery, fifteen again on the Detonator at Thorpe Park.

“Mm?” you hum around a sip, deeply casual, a woman entirely unbothered, curled so tight around the phone that Twix doesn’t have a leg to lie on.

“There’s a pub about halfway between us, Lamb & Flag. I’d like to take you for that drink tomorrow. Will you come?”

Then you remember what tomorrow is and sigh, immediately irritated with your whole family.

“Ugh, I want to say yes,” you sulk. “But I’ve got Sunday dinner with my family tomorrow. My mum would hunt me for sport if I flaked.”

“Fair. Wouldn’t want that on my conscience.”

“I could do a weeknight? After work?”

There’s a pause on his end.

“I’d rather not promise you a weeknight,” he admits. “I rarely get away on time, and I’m not startin’ this by standin' you up.”

You go quiet for a beat, you were ready for the usual ‘ahh, well, we’ll figure something out’. But instead got a man mindful of your time; a unicorn, really.

“Also fair. And— and thoughtful.”

“Friday, then?” he tries hopefully, you catch the small lean in his voice.

“Friday’s perfect,” you agree. “It’s a date!”

“It is,” he agrees, smiling.

The conversation should end there but it doesn't.

You learn things no profile has a field for; that he talks slower than he types, that he hm's real low in his throat when he’s considering something, that when you make him laugh it rumbles, so rough at the bottom that you feel at the back of your knees.

Somewhere past the hour mark you stop scrutinizing the call for red flags and just talk, and you only notice you’ve stopped when Twix jumps onto the couch and you realize you’ve been lying down for a while, phone balanced on your ear like you’re seventeen.

Eventually, you yawn.

“Right,” he says, and you can hear him moving, standing up by the way he tries to muffle a stiff groan. “That’s my cue.”

“Aw, no! I’m fine, really.”

“It’s late, love. And you’ve got your family tomorrow.”

“True. And you’ve got… whatever it is old men do on Sundays.”

“Lie-in, according to my profile.”

“Ha!” you bark, vindicated alone in your living room, having forgot about his little 'two truths and a lie'. “That’s the lie, I bet. I don’t think you’ve ever had a lie-in in your life.”

A low sound of amusement rolls down the line. “Goodnight,” he says, declining to confirm.

“Night, John.”

You sit a minute in the amber shine of your lamp after the line goes dead, phone loose in your hand.

——

Sunday morning, you text him at 8:12 AM.

good morning. how was the lie-in?

Wouldn’t know. Been up since five.

the lie confirmed!

He doesn’t dignify it. You don’t expect him to. You grin at your phone while you wait for the kettle to boil.

Your mum will later describe you, over dinner, as ‘suspiciously cheerful’.

The day swallows you — the drive, the roast, your mum’s questions, your brother’s kids. It’s near ten when you’re finally home, shoes off, replying to the last thing he’d sent that morning.

survived. my mum sends her regards to whoever put me in a good mood. her words.

Regards received. Sleep well.

——

Monday morning, John’s at his desk with his coffee going cold because somewhere between the canteen and the walk to his office, his phone buzzed, and it was you and he hasn’t stopped looking at it. 

good morning :) big meeting today. does this say “promote me” or “she tried”?

[ PHOTO ATTACHMENT ]

You, in your hallway mirror — chin tipped, black short-sleeve blouse with a wide collar exposing the smooth skin of your upper chest and collar, grey pencil skirt stretched over the curve of your hips and thighs, one knee bent like you’d just been lowering your foot from fitting on your heel.

His eyes are stuck on the soft-looking flesh just above and between your knees when a rap lands on his door and forces a cough from his throat.

Johnny eases it open with Kyle behind him holding a folder, Simon's behind them both, holding nothing, not even a pretense.

His phone goes face-down on the desk at a compromising speed, shifting to sit up straigher.

Simon’s eyes go to John’s hand over the phone, then to his face before he leans in the doorway with his arms folded.

“Mornin’, Cap. Good weekend?” Johnny asks, falling into the side chair in front of the desk with a theatrical groan.

“Fine.”

“Aye? Do anythin'?” He smiles, waggling his eyebrows. “Anyone?”

“You’ve got thirty seconds to develop a work reason for being in my office, Sergeant.”

It's an empty threat and everyone in the room knows it.

Kyle sets the (empty) folder down and steps back behind Johnny. “How’s it going, sir? Did you have any luck with Hinge?”

John could make them work for it. He’d planned to. But all three of them are standing in front of him trying so hard to look casual it’s a wonder none of them have pulled something.

"Have a date Friday. Drinks."

Johnny is ready to blast out of his seat, but Kyle shoves him back down by the shoulders, digging his fingers into the pressure points on either side of his neck until he relents with a hiss.

"That's great. Same woman or…?"

"The same."

“Good, good, good,” Johnny says, and means it — John can hear that he means it, he can also hear the restraint he's keeping from unloading shite advice.

“We'll stop buy Saturday for the debrief,” Simon says, already turning around, and Kyle picks the folder back up like it had a purpose all along, and they file out the way they came.

"I'm not debriefing you on my date. Don't come!" John calls to them half-heartedly, but the door's already shutting on top of his words. 

He turns the phone back over.

Promote you, he types.

You look lovely.

Your reply comes before he’s picked his pen back up.

well now the meeting feels easy. thank you x

He gets on with his morning, but by noon he suspects he's looked at that damn photo a dozen times.

——

The rest of the week goes standard. Your Tuesday runs long and his Wednesday runs longer, and the messages carry throughout it all. His texts arrive before your morning alarm even sounds, your replies go mid-commute — nothing heavy, just remaining in each other's orbit of interest as Friday chugs slowly into view.

Thursday night, near nine, he rings you, having first texted to ask if he could, which you’re beginning to understand is just how he’s built. It’s a short call by your new standards with him. He only wanted to confirm you’re still on for the pub, but he had you grinning into your pillow until you fell asleep.

———

You leave work at five on the dot, and you’re in front of your open wardrobe by six.

The little black dress comes off the rail first. Goes back. Comes off again. Back. The floral one gets as far as your shoulders before you pull it off over your head and drop it on the bed, where Twix immediately sits on it.

The silky baby blue halter’s been hanging on the door since you bought it. You put it on like you hadn’t already decided and do the tie at the back of your neck twice before the bow sits flat and neat. You pull on some jeans and rummage the closet for your chunky heels. 

You press some strawberry perfume to your throat in the mirror and try to comfort the nerve-ridden woman in the reflection.

“It’s just a pub,” you tell her. 

She doesn’t seem convinced. 

———

The pub is exactly the kind of place you imagine he'd frequent — quiet, all old mahogany and low brass lamps, no telly anywhere. You claim a stool, hook your heel over the rung, and decide not to order anything yet simply because it just feels polite to wait.

You're fifteen minutes early which means you're left alone with your anxieties. 

The last of the sun lies across the bar top in warm stripes, and you trace one with a finger while you wait. 

You’ve done this before, and it almost never goes how the phone promises. There was the guy whose photos were six years out of date. The one who spent both drinks talking about his ex and then sent a payment request for half the tab. The one who, two hours in, hadn’t asked you a single question about yourself. And John has been too good to be true for a week, and you know how that saying ends. Tonight is where you find out how, find out he really is just a man between deployments looking for entertainment and a shag.

It felt good, though. All week. Being excited about something. You’d forgotten the feeling. 

You pick at the hangnail on your thumb until it stings.

You don’t have to wait much longer for him. 

He casts a shadow when he comes through the door. Broad. Tall. Smart olive polo fighting for its stitching across his chest and where it grips into his biceps. He’s tidied his beard in comparison to his photos, hair less kempt in a purposeful way.

He scans the whole room before he finds you and stops looking anywhere else. He smiles tight and restrained, pleasant, but like he’s pacing himself, and by the time he crosses to you, your tongue has gone dry and whatever you’d planned to open with has shriveled away.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hi,” you smile.

He smells clean, a bit like pine and amber, and faintly like there’s tobacco somewhere on his collar.

“You’re early,” he adds, almost pleased.

“So are you.”

“I’m always early.” His eyes drop to the empty bar top in front of you, then come back. “You haven’t ordered?”

You shake your head once, legs shifting to cross. “I wanted— I was waiting for you.”

The lines beside his eyes deepen and he holds out his hand, says your name for the first time, and his hand swallows yours — big and dry and calloused across the palm where yours is soft — and you hold on a beat too long. He doesn’t mention it. You add that to the list of things you like about him, which is getting embarrassing for something four minutes old.

“What’ll you have?”

“Uhm, whatever you’re having,” you decide.

He signals the bartender with two fingers and opens his mouth — and there’s a brief second where he looks at you first, and you notice for the first time that his eyes are blue, and you get stuck, and it seems so does he. By the time he looks back, he’s lost the name of the beer he’s drunk here a dozen times.

“Two of the, uh— the local,” he manages.

You pretend not to notice. He knows you did.

He pulls out the stool beside you, and more of his cologne wafts around you as he sits, turned to face you, legs spread, one knee pointing between yours.

The pints arrive wet from the tap, and for a second neither of you says anything at all. You trace a bead of condensation down your glass.

“Funny, isn’t it,” you offer, sheepish. “We’ve talked every day for a week, and the second we’re actually in front of each other…” You trail off, cheeks warming, eyes fixed on the fizz jumping over the rim of your beer.

“You’re nervous?” he asks, a cheeky lilt on it.

“A bit, yeah. Aren’t you?”

“Not at all.”

You squint at him. “I don’t know if I buy that.”

“Hm.” He takes a sip that lasts a little too long, and the tips of his ears have gone pink.

Your cheeks are doing about the same. You drink your beer — cold, hop-bitter, helping — and let him have his lie. It’s a generous lie anyway. It’s a lie shaped like a man trying, and you’ve been handed far worse shapes.

“So,” you start. “I haven’t asked why you’re even on Hinge. You don’t seem the type.”

“I’m not,” he chuckles, and offers nothing beyond it.

You wait. He just sips his beer. You hike a brow.

“That’s it? That’s your answer?”

“Well, it wasn’t my idea. The lads put me on it.”

“The lads — your guys from work?”

“Yeah.”

“They what, talked you into it?”

“No.” He turns his glass a degree. “They nicked my phone and made the profile behind my back.”

“And what made them do that?”

He takes a moment with that one. He could give you a cover story — you can almost watch him weigh one — but then he doesn’t.

“Their assessment,” he laughs to himself, “was that I’d been… cranky. Needed gettin’ out of the house.”

“Cranky?” you repeat, delighted.

“Their exact words were a bit different.”

“Hm.” You look at him — at ease, half a smile living in his beard, one arm resting along the bar. “You don’t seem cranky to me.”

“Yeah, well. Guess they were right, then.”

Your neck goes hot and you have to look away from him. “Well,” you manage. “They do good work, your committee.”

He huffs into his pint, and lets you recover.

“Okay, next one, then. Military.” You tip your glass toward him. “What do you actually do?”

He sets his beer down and you can see him carefully choosing which door to open. “What d’you want to know?”

“I don’t know. What’s your day look like?”

“Depends on the day. Paperwork, mostly. Meetings.” A beat. “Sometimes we go away.”

“Away?”

“Away.”

“For how long?”

“As long as it takes.”

“Doing…?”

“Whatever they need me to,” he says easily. “S’not me being mysterious. I’d tell you if I could.”

“That must be so strange, though. Having this whole— like, most of your life you can’t talk about.”

“You get used to it.” Then, because you’re still looking at him expectantly, not filling the space the way people usually do: “There’s loads I can say. Ask me what six weeks of rain in a jungle smells like. Or what a month in the desert does to your skin.”

“What’s a month in the desert do to your skin?”

“Nothing good, love,” he answers, shifting to face you better. “The beard’s load-bearing.”

You laugh into your beer, and it makes the next one easier to ask.

“Do you like it? Like, the whole life of it?”

He goes quiet on that one. Longer than he’s gone quiet on anything else you’ve asked. You can see him thinking on it. 

“It’s what I’m best at,” he says finally. And then, mostly to his glass: “It’s all I’ve known, really. Been doin’ it since sixteen.”

You turn that over. There’s a whole life folded up in that sentence and you notice you want to ask about all of it, which is not a thing you’ve wanted to do with a man in a very long time.

The second beers arrive, and the conversation stops keeping to lanes — his lads and your best friend, the wedding in October, the neighbor whose bins are apparently a whole saga. You’re midway through the story of your work feud when a birthday party arrives loud and glittering behind you, and John, without so much as glancing down, reaches down and hooks his hand under the edge of your stool, and pulls.

The whole thing drags six inches across the floor with you on it, your knee sliding neatly between his, close enough now that his voice drops to match the new distance. You’re looking up at him, pulse tapping somewhere that has your thighs pressing together. 

“Go on,” he encourages. “She said what?”

It takes you a moment to find your place, but you go on.

The bar only gets louder from there, the birthday table multiplying, and when a booth opens up in the back corner, John tips his chin at it.

“Go grab that,” he says, turning back to the bar. “I’ll get another round. Want the same?”

“Actually—” and you hesitate out of nothing but habit, out of years of a man’s face going tight when you complicate an order, “—could I do a vodka cranberry this time? I could get the round—”

His brows furrow with something akin to bafflement, brief and genuine. “You can have whatever you’d like,” he says, and suddenly you feel silly, your hand crossing to grip your elbow.

“No—I know. I just—”

“Whatever you’d like,” he repeats, gentler. “And—” he grimaces, like what he’s about to say pains him deeply. “Don’t ever offer to pay on a date with me again. Properly wind me up, that will.”

“S-sorry,” you shake your head, like you can rattle the habit loose.

“None of that either,” his eyes have gone crinkled at the corners, warm all the way through, and he raps two knuckles soft on the bar top like the matter’s settled. “Vodka cranberry. Go, sit.”

“Actually— I’m gonna go freshen up quickly. Two minutes.”

And you go, biting down on a smile, ears hot — embarrassed and looked after all at once, which is apparently a combination that works on you.

The bathroom is cooler than the bar and a quiet that leaves your ears ringing. You reapply some lipgloss and wash your hands and look at yourself in the dirty mirror, buzzing warm at the collarbones, eyes shiny, mouth half-curved.

It’s going well.

It’s going suspiciously well.

And every time it’s gone well before, this is exactly when you started hunting for the catch. So you dry your hands on the rough paper towel and leave before you can start.

He’s in the booth when you come back, settled against the wall side, the last of the evening gone from the windows and the lamp above him glowing gold over the table. Your drink is waiting — pink, iced, a lime wedged on the rim — set neatly across the table at the seat opposite.

You look at the seat opposite.

Then you slide in beside him instead. Your thigh a heated inch from his, reaching across to relocate your drink.

You don’t look at him, but you can tell John’s a bit curious of the arrangement. His arm comes up and settles along the back of the booth behind you, and it oddly feels like it was always going to end up here, his thumb grazing the bare skin of your shoulder. He picks up his beer with the other hand.

“Comfortable?” he asks, low, and with entirely too much satisfaction.

“I am,” you say, and the first sip of the vodka cranberry is cold and tart and sweet all the way down, blooming behind your sternum right where his voice has been landing all night.

The booth is easier than the bar, somehow — closer, quieter, the birthday party more muted — and the talk drifts wherever it wants, his low laugh arriving against your shoulder through the arm behind you. At some point the lull comes; ice softening in your glass, his thumb resting an inch from your shoulder. And maybe it’s the vodka, or the arm, or the running list of things you like about him that you’d need both hands to count now—

“How long ago was your last relationship? Like a real one.”

He takes a deep breath before answering. “Honest answer?”

“Preferably,” you giggle softly, and he smiles — most of it lost in the beard, enough that you wonder if there are dimples under there.

“Longer than what sounds good out loud,” he admits through the pull of it. 

“Say it out loud anyway.”

“I was thirty-two. So, almost ten years ago.”

“Ten.”

“Mm.”

“A whole decade.”

“You can stop countin’ the years to me at any time, love.”

“Sorry, sorry.” You’re grinning. He is too. “It’s just, quite the gap in romance.”

“It went quick,” he says, and it’s a joke, and it’s also not. “What about you?”

“Ended about a year ago, we were together four.”

“Mm.”

“It was fine. Amicable— mostly,” you shrug. 

“Mostly,” he repeats — not pushing, just setting the word down where you can see he heard it.

“Mostly,” you confirm, and leave it there.

The ice ticks in your glass. And the next question’s been sitting in your chest, so you take it out while you’re brave.

“Can I ask something and you not be offended?”

“Startin’ well,” he says, nodding on for you to continue. 

You settle further into the booth and your shoulders press against his warm arm behind you, his fingers brushing over your shoulder. You lean your head back, turned to his face. 

“What’s changed? Between thirty-two and now that you’re trying dating?” You mean just to ask the question, but you find yourself rambling on. “Because if the honest answer is nothing, and this is just— a-a hookup with, like, really good manners, that’s fine. Genuinely. I’d just rather know now.”

“Fair,” he says. “Asked myself the same thing this week.”

“Yeah? And what was the answer?”

“I’m tired of the quiet,” he starts, pausing as his eyes drift away in thought. They come back to you just as quick. “Used to come home to it like a reward. Now it just feels… empty.”

Something in your chest slides sideways.

“So, no. Not a hookup,” he continues with a breath. “But I can’t promise you’d be happy with the alternative either. I can be gone longer than I’m home.” His thumb brushes along your shoulder, once, like an apology.

“Guess I wouldn’t know unless I gave it a go.”

You say it lightly, and the exhale he lets out has a smile riding on it — and something in his shoulders comes down, some held thing you didn’t notice until it let go.

“No,” he agrees, low. “You wouldn’t.”

You’re suddenly aware of the distance between you — or the lack of it. Somewhere between sitting down and the vodka you’ve ended up awfully close: near enough to count the grey threaded through his beard, to catch the beer on his breath, near enough that the light between you has stopped reaching the space. Near enough that you can feel the heat coming off him, and your heartrate has picked up on it before the rest of you has.

His eyes flick down to your mouth. Quick — half a second, there and back — but you catch it, and it lands low in your stomach and stays.

Neither of you leans back.

And the pub carries on behind you — glasses clinking, the birthday table shouting, a till drawer slamming — all of it arriving from somewhere far off and dreamlike.

You move closer. Barely. Imperceptible. Your pulse is in your ears now, drumming out the last of your sense—

“You know,” you say, quiet, pitched for the six inches between you and nobody else, “you can kiss me. If you’d like.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Mhm,” you grin.

“Well,” he says, matching your volume, low enough that it lands somewhere below hearing, “I was going to be a gentleman about it. Wait til I walked you out.” His gaze drops to your mouth again, slower this time, no secret. “But if you’d rather have it here in the booth, I won’t argue.”

“I suppose I could be patient.”

“Mm,” he says, and doesn’t move.

Somewhere in the world, presumably, time is passing.

His jaw shifts. 

“I’ll go pay the tab,” he decides.

And you’re both up and out of the booth quick, and you watch him stand at the bar with his back to you, shoulders set, and you press one cool knuckle to your own cheek and find it burning.

You two make it out the door.

The night’s gone hazy and July-thick, and you get maybe four steps down the side of the pub with his hand a light at the small of your back before you glance up at him and he glances down.

Whatever was left of patient dies right there on the pavement.

He moves you.

One hand finding your hip, the other your jaw, and then your back meets brick, warm through the thin of your blouse and against your bare shoulders, and his mouth is on yours.

Whatever mindful version he’d planned for the end of his gentlemanly walk out must have been spent in the booth — this is the interest. The kiss opens on a low rumble out of his chest, one you feel travel through his ribs into yours, and his tongue slides against yours, all beer and him, and you grip the front of his shirt with both fists just incase the wall behind you vanishes.

He kisses you thoroughly, his beard catching along your chin, a chafe you know you’ll feel tomorrow. A thigh slots half between yours, not pushing, not touching, but it’s not any less inviting. You could bare down on it, get the friction your body is craving, he’d let you, but you restrain yourself. His thumb strokes a slow line along your jaw in obscene contrast to what his mouth is doing — and it blooms down through you, fervid, liquescent.

He pulls back just far enough to breathe — forehead near yours, both of you loud with catching your breath — and when you open your eyes his are dark.

“Very gentlemanly,” you croon.

“I walked you out first, yeah?” he says, unrepentant.

You giggle against his mouth, and he claims it for himself with one more gentle kiss, and then he steps back a seemly distance, hand smoothing once down over his beard, shoulders resetting, breath evening out, everything going back in its place except his eyes.

“Walk me home?” you ask.

“I drove. I’ll give you a lift.”

You look up at him, all vodka-warm and enjoying yourself. “Well, just so you know, I share my location with my best friend and she knows exactly what pub I’m at, and has your name and photo, so—”

“Good,” he replies, no hesitation. “Smart girl. Keep it that way.” He finds his keys, fishing them out of his pocket. “I’m taking you straight home. You have my word.”

He draws an X over his heart, your lipgloss shining at the corner of his crooked mouth. 

——

The car smells like-new — clean upholstery and faintly of engine oil, everything squared away, nothing rolling around in the footwells.

The drive is short. The radio murmurs. His hand rests easy on the gearstick a few inches from your knee — close enough that you spend two full streets aware of nothing else — and the streetlights slide over him in slow bars, catching the grey at his temple and the small satisfied set of his mouth. 

The kiss is still thrumming under your skin like a struck glass, low in your belly, at the back of your knees — and you catch yourself doing the thing you swore off doing: imagining forward. Him in your doorway. Him in your kitchen on the weekend. Him coming home from wherever away is and it being your door he— 

You look out the window. Four miles has never taken so long.

He pulls up outside your building and sets the handbrake, and the engine idles, and neither of you move.

The dashboard glow makes everything blue. 

You want to ask him up. That's not the question; that got settled somewhere around the second kiss in the alley, possibly earlier, possibly around the moment he walked into the pub, or whatever. But there's the other thing you can't evict from your head: do you really want to sleep with him on the first date?

"So," you say.

"So…”

You look at him — streetlight in the grey of his beard, arm along the wheel, he’s in absolutely no hurry to resolve you.

"Did you have a good time tonight?"

His head turns. There's a beat where he just looks at you, and you watch him physically decide not to make a joke of it.

"Yes. Best night I've had in a while," he says. 

"Would you—" and god, you're thirty years old and your heart is doing this anyway, "—want to see me again? Like this?"

"Was already plannin' to ask you to dinner." A small crease starts at the corner of his eye. "Was workin' out whether to do it now or ring you tomorrow, so I didn't seem overly—"

"Keen?"

"Keen," he confirms, gravely, like the word's been a burden to him all week.

And that lands warm and the relief does something reckless to your mouth, which is that it stops guarding it.

"Okay. Then I'm going to say something, but you can't look at me while I say it."

“Right.” He scrubs a hand over his twitching lips and looks out the windshield, obedient.

"I want to ask you up."

"Mm."

"And I'm having a whole debate about it."

"I can hear it," he says. "Been losin' to the engine for about a minute now."

"Just—,” you sigh, “—shut up." But you're smiling at the dashboard. "It's just— I spent all week wondering if this was a hookup thing for you. And you answered that, and I believe you, I do. But there's this small, paranoid part of me that's like, well, that's exactly what a man would say at the pub, isn't it? And then there's this other, stupider part that thinks if you come up, you'll—" you take a deep breath, your fingers hooking into each other on your lap, and make yourself finish it, "—think less of me. First date and all."

He's quiet for a second, lips pursing. 

“Can I look at you now?” he tries.

“Yeah.”

"You want to know where I'm actually at?"

"Truly just desperate for a man to be honest so I know what headspace to put myself in."

“Alright.” He shifts to face you, wrist still hanging over the wheel. “I want to come up. Badly, if you want some extra honesty.”

The badly goes straight between your thighs.

“Okay,” you manage. “Noted.”

“I haven’t lied to you once tonight. And I’m takin’ you to dinner whether I come up or not.”

“And, like— you wouldn’t think—”

“Think less of you?” He frowns, like the math’s not mathing. “For doin’ the same thing I’d be doing? Together?”

“When you put it like that…”

“For what it’s worth, I’m sat here havin’ a version of the same debate. Been out of this a long time. Didn’t want you thinkin’ that’s all I came for. So if you’d rather I kiss you at the door and drive home, I’ll do that and consider it a perfect evening.”

And maybe it’s the ease of him, the total absence of pressure you’re always braced for on nights like this, that settles it for you. 

“Would you like to come up?”

——

The stairwell smells of somebody's late dinner and warm dust, the day's heat still trapped in it, and you take the stairs ahead of him to the second floor.

John is a gentleman.

John has been a gentleman all night.

John gives himself the length of one flight of stairs off the clock — the sway of you in those jeans, the shift and give of you with every step, the smooth line of your bare shoulders under the halter's little bow — and by the landing he's a gentleman again, and if you felt his eyes like a brand on you, and by the half-smirk you throw over your shoulder you did, neither of you says a word about it.

Your flat smells like you — the perfume he got to know at the pub, but underneath it, clean laundry, a candle burned down sometime this week — and a blur of black-and-caramel bolts across the living room and vanishes down the hall before he can so much as get a look at her.

"That was Twix," you say, her paws still pattering away. "She'll start her background check and circle back."

"Sensible."

And then the two of you are standing in your living room with the whole car’s worth of honesty sitting in the middle of the floor, and you look at him, and look at the kitchen, and say:

"Do you want a drink? I have wine. Or, um. Tea? I might have a beer from—"

"I'm alright," his mouth pulls at one side. 

"Water? I'm gonna have water."

"Then I'll have water," he says like he’s surrendering. 

He watches you go — and he could laugh, not at you, but because he knows exactly what he’s looking at. The two of you agreed in plain English on why he’s standing here, and now you’re in your kitchen filling glasses neither of you want, and wiping down a counter that, from where he’s stood, was already clean. 

So he gives you room. Settles against the arm of the couch, takes a slow lap of your shelf with his eyes — you and a woman he guesses is the October bride, you on a hike somewhere sunny, you and Twix bravely on the balcony — and he wants you the whole time, low and patient, in his back teeth, but doesn’t move on it.

 Your pace. Your move.

You come back with the waters, and hand him his, and hold your own in both hands like you might drop it. He takes a sip, looks at you over the rim of it.

“You’re nervous,” he says.

“Not at all.”

“Mm.” He nods slowly, deeply unconvinced and taking a page from your own book. “Don’t know if I buy that.”

He watches it land, watches the laugh come up out of you before you can stop it, head tipping back, throat bare, and half your nerves seem to leave with it.

He likes that. 

He sets his glass down. Then, gently, he takes yours out of your mid-fidget hands and sets it down too — he tips your chin up with one knuckle, and kisses you.

Easy-like, cold from the water, cranberry still faint on your tongue, your breath catches once against his mouth and then lets go. Your hands slide flat up his chest and stop over his heart — which is going quicker than he’d care to admit, and he feels the exact moment you find it out, the little hum of discovery you make.

When you pull back to look at him, whatever nerves were left in you are gone from your eyes, and they’re twinkly a lot like the first photo he ever saw of you. 

You take his hand off your waist, lace it through yours, and guide him backward toward the short hall.

In your bedroom he finds the tie of your halter at the back of your neck and pauses with the ends between his fingers, silk warm from your body. One pull and it gives, the fabric sighing loose, and he follows it slide down with his eyes first, then his mouth — the slope of your throat, over your shoulder, then the soft skin below your ear that tastes of strawberry perfume and salt. His beard drags over your neck and a shiver flows through you so he does it again, slower. You shiver harder, fingers curling into the front of his polo.

Good.

You tug the hem of his shirt up and he reaches back, pulls it off over his head one-handed, and drops it somewhere he’ll look for later. He unhooks your bra just as easily, and when your palms spread into the coarse hair over his bare chest and down his toned stomach, the muscle jumps under your fingertips, he hears his own breath go rough.

“Okay,” you say, a little wonder in it. “Wow, yeah, that’s….”

“Mm?”

“Nothing. Just— I knew military, just didn’t realize… this much military.”

“Lodging a complaint?” he askes, amused.

“Definitely not.”

The rest goes gradually — his belt, your jeans peeled down warm thighs with his calloused palms flat against your skin the whole way, a hop and a giggle when the denim catches your ankle and he steadies you by the elbow — and then you’re bare in front of him, lamplight pooling gold along your shoulder, your hip, the soft curve of your stomach. He stops with his hands at your waist and looks.

“Say something,” you murmur, half a laugh, shy at last under the attention. “You’re oggling.”

“I am.” His thumbs press slow arcs into your hips. “Give me a minute. Been picturin’ this since Tuesday and I did you no justice.”

You pull him down onto the bed by way of an answer, and the mattress sinks with a soft complaint, and then it’s just skin — so much warm skin, soft everywhere he’s hard, giving under his hands, smelling of perfume and the clean sweat July dampens into everyone.

He stretches out alongside you, one heavy thigh over yours, and takes his time. The curve of your waist. The full weight of your breast, thumb dragging over your nipple until it peaks and your breath stutters. The inside of your thigh, where the skin is finest and the heat pools. You move under his touch the whole time, restless and rising, fingers in his hair, at his shoulders, and the small sounds you make land somewhere at the base of his neck and prickle there.

Then he shifts down the bed, kisses the soft of your stomach, the plush crease of your hip, and looks up the length of you.

“Can I?”

“You— yes,” you breathe, trembling feebly. “Yes, obviously, you don’t have to a—”

His mouth is on you before the sentence ends.

You’re sweet and slick against his tongue, already so wet the first slow lick slides easy, and the sound you make is high and caught somewhere low, thigh twitching against his ear, one hand flying to his hair. He hums — feels you feel it — and settles in. No rush. Long soft strokes of his tongue until your hips learn the rhythm and rise to meet it, then his lips close warm around your clit, sucking gently, and your whole body pulls tight.

“Oh my god— okay— okay—”

“Mm.”

“Don’t be smug—” and your voice climbs off the end of the sentence as he slides two thick fingers into you, curling them, tongue still working, and whatever the rest of that scolding was, he never learns it.

“Could do this all night, sweetheart,” he murmurs against you, and feels the words land in a shudder. Your breathing changes. Your thighs start trembling, your hand fists in the sheets — and he keeps the pace exactly the same until you’re pulling at him. Hair, arm, anything you can reach.

“John— John— come— I want you. Now,” you whine, “Please.”

He comes up the length of you slow, mouth mapping stomach and sternum and throat on the way, and settles over you on one forearm—

"I should've said this in the car," he starts, eyes on yours. "I don't have a condom. Wasn't assuming tonight would end up here."

"I don't have any either. I actually checked the drawer before I left tonight." You push his dampening hair back off his forehead. "I'm on the pill, and I trust you. But I'd still feel better if you pull out. Is that okay?"

He nods assuredly. "Then I'll pull out," he says flat and plain. "You have my word."

"You and your word—" but you're smiling, and then you're not smiling, because he's already moved and taken himself in hand and dragged the head of his cock through your folds, coating himself in you, and notched against your entrance, and the smile falls open into something much, much better.

He pushes in slow, watches your face the entire way — he couldn't look elsewhere if a grenade went off — your brows drawing up, your lips parting around a breath that doesn't finish, your nails biting little crescents into his forearms — and fuck, the feel of you: scalding, soaked, tight enough that he has to stop twice, jaw clenched, sweat sliding at his temple, feeding you his cock an inch at a time and pulling back, then giving you more; the slick easy give of you around him unspooling something in his stomach.

"Talk to me," he murmurs, gravel-low. "Alright?"

"Yes." Your voice has gone breathless and small and blissed. "You're— god—"

"Christ, you’re snug," he exhales shakily, eyes finding yours. “Relax for me, baby. Breathe.”

"I am breath—oh. Oh—shhit—"

John’s seated all the way, hips flush to your backside, and both of you go quiet — a shared beat of stillness, you fluttering around him hot and full, his body coming down, forehead dropping to yours, ten months of silence pulling a sound up out of his chest that he couldn't have stopped if he knew it was coming.

Then you shift your hips, experimental, a slow grind up against him, and that stillness is over.

He moves slowly; long level strokes dragging all the way out so you both feel every hot stretch of the return, your breasts pressing soft against his hairy chest. Your heels slide up the back of his thighs and he budges his hips closer, holding deep and pressing the head of his cock into your furthest wall. Your hands squeeze the meat between his shoulders and his neck as he pushes a small squeal out of you. 

"Right there—right there—right there, don't—"

"I won’t," he murmurs against your jaw. “I won’t move.”

"—okay maybe move a little—"

He breathes something restrained through a smile. "Make your mind up, darling," he grunts. 

“It’s hard to— mmm—think like this,” you half-moan against his cheek. 

“Don’t think, then.”

It’s all your talking that undoes him more than anything, he realizes distantly. He’d forgotten there was a version of this with laughing in it; a version with a woman eagerly gripping him and grinning against his cheek in the second before a moan carries her voice away — and every time you say his name, breathed and broken, something in his chest cinches another notch tighter.

He draws back and drives home again, and whatever you’d been about to answer with comes out as a punched huff.

You don’t think.

He feels the difference in you immediately — your body dropping the manners, hips rising to meet him harder than he’s giving it, heels dragging him in by the thighs on every stroke, a low frustrated sound building in your throat when he keeps the same controlled pace. You’re not asking for anything. You’re taking it in inches, greedy and unaware of yourself, nails dragging down the small of his back, pulling—

“Harder?” he asks against your ear. 

"Yes, please."

He hooks your knee up over his hip and opens you wider—“So polite.”—and gives it to you deeper, his weight behind it, your headboard cracking against the wall. You go loud and lovely underneath him, clutching, slick heat and plush skin and your nails scoring lines down his back that he hopes, viciously, will last long enough to admire.

He works a hand between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, riding the motion you’ve bkth created.

"That's— John— You’re gonna make me come," you sob. 

"I know. I feel you. Squeezin' me like— Christ. Go on—fuck."

He watches it arrive before you do, a shiver running ahead of the wave; your spine arches up off the bed, your cunt clenches around him in long pulsing, aching, waves —  it takes you under, and you pull him with you.  

He holds you, murmuring filth and praise in equal measure against your ear—

How good—

How gorgeous—

You’re mine now, you know that? Hm?—

It’s watching you eagerly nod along with his babbling that finishes him. He lasts maybe ten more strokes on borrowed time, heat gathering alacritous and irrevocable at the base of his groin — and he rears back onto his knees, pulling out of you with a growl that tumbles from his throat, fist working his cock over, soaked with you, spilling hot across your stomach and hip in thick ropes, head hanging, shoulders heaving, your thighs still bracketing his knees.

When he lifts his head, you’re already looking at him.

Glowing down to your chest, lips parted and kiss-swollen, wearing him low on your stomach — and neither of you says anything. Neither of you looks away either. His chest is still heaving. Your knee presses in against his side, and the corner of your mouth starts to curl, and his does too, helpless about it.

He comes down on his side, careful of the mess he’s made of you, one arm heavy across the pillow above your head. The curtain breathes at the window beside the bed and the night comes in and cools the sweat on his back, and he can see your heartbeat going hard at your throat, the rise and fall of your stomach not yet settled. He gently fits his thumb against your pulse, just to feel it going. 

He kisses you, your mouth lazy under his, and then your temple, and the crown of your head, and you make a low, boneless sound and turn your face into his hot neck, and the two of you just lie there breathing each other in, tangled and settling, your finger drawing slow shapes on his forearm.

"John?" Small, against his throat.

"Mm?"

"Would you mind grabbing me a cloth? Bathroom's just across the hall."

He's up before the sentence finishes, annoyed at his own carcass the whole three steps to the door, ten months out of practice and it shows, he used to know this part, the part where he takes care of you before you have to ask.

You bathroom is small and smells of your shampoo, fruity, herbal. He runs a flannel under the warm tap, wrings it out, catches his own eyes in the mirror over the sink — wrecked hair, beard ruined and shiny with your lipgloss. He turns, craning his neck spotting a blooming red scratch coming up nicely at his shoulder.

He comes back and cleans you up properly, kneeling on the edge of the bed, one hand steady at your hip while the warm cloth moves over your stomach — thorough about it, frowning slightly the way he does when he’s concentrating — and you watch him do it propped up on your elbows with an expression he can't quite read and doesn't need to. It's warm, whatever it is. And it’s aimed at him, so.

"You're staring," he says, not looking up. 

"You're tidying me."

"Should've done it before you asked." He folds the cloth, sets it on the nightstand, and stretches out beside you again, this time gathering you into his chest. "Out of practice."

"I'll allow it," you say, magnanimous, settling your cheek against his pec. "The rest was very in-practice."

He huffs into your hair.

Your fingers trail idle through the hair on his chest, down over old pinked scars, and you ask him about them — whether the jagged line at his shoulder hurt, what caused the puckered one under his ribs — and he answers more honestly than he means to, your weight settling heavier against him as the adrenaline drains.

There's a soft thump from the hallway, then, and a moment later a small shape appears in the doorway — sits, tail wrapping her feet, and surveys the wreckage: the trail of clothes, the stranger man in the bed, you draped over his ribs.

She stares at John.

John stares back.

"We have an audience," he says.

You look over him to see your cat, "Twix, John. John, Twix."

Twix holds his gaze a moment longer, supremely unimpressed, then steps delicately over his discarded shirt and exits the way she came and he feels you giggling before he hears it, the shake of it against his chest.

"That went well," you say, overly pleased. 

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

"Well, consider me chuffed."

Some comfortable minutes later he feels you surface a little out of the drowse, feels your breathing change, going careful; feels your face arrange itself against his skin before you speak. 

"You don't have to stay, by the way." Light. Smooth as eroded stone, polished by use, he imagines. "If you'd sleep better in your own bed. No pressure either way."

And there it is — the same maneuver from your texts, the honest thing dressed up so you can't be caught caring — except this time he can feel your heartbeat while you run it, quick against his ribs, betraying the whole performance from inside. 

He keeps his hand moving on your arm, slow, so you know nothing's landed wrong.

"I'll head home," he says. "Not because I want to," he clarifies.

“No?” you ask. 

"Believe me. This is about the last place I want to leave." His hand doesn't stop, slow up, slow down, steadying you through it. "I'd like at least one proper dinner between us before I go makin' a habit of your bed."

You lift your head off his chest and look at him — hair wrecked, eyes searching his face for the trick — and he lets you look as long as you need to because there's no trick to be found. He meant it. 

“Alright," you agree. 

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Dinner sounds nice.”

"Mm," he hums, contented. He presses a kiss into your hair and untangles himself, face scrunched with visible reluctance, and dresses while you watch from the bed with the sheet gathered loose around you.

At the door he stops. 

"C'mere."

You come to him in the sheet, and he kisses you properly, one hand cupping your face, thumb at your cheek. You go languid against him. He takes his time. Long past politeness. Long enough that leaving starts to look renegotiable, and he breaks away before he starts. 

"G’night," he says, low, still holding your face.

"Goodnight."

"I'll ring you about dinner tomorrow."

——

The flat is quiet. But it's a different quiet than the one you left this morning and you stand in the middle of it grinning.

Twix reappears at the edge of the counter and stares. 

“I don’t need the lecture, I’m grown,” you tell her and start walking back to the bedroom, you hear her little jump to the floor and her feather steps catching up with you, “I can have sex. I deserve it, even.” You drop into your bed with a sigh. “You’d understand if you still had ovaries.”

[froggykarma]

Good soup

[ohangeleyes]

alright, i'll be the one to say it. ao3 and tumblr becoming "mainstream" did so much damage to the community and the writers. i have seen loads of videos and posts about:

1. people hating on writers and fics. writing is something we do for free and for fun. if you stumble upon a fanfic that isn't necessarily your cup of tea or you just don't like, scroll. dont read it. literally leave their page. you don't know if this could be the author's first work that they're so excited about, you dont know if the language they're writing in isn't their first language, you dont know that the writer could be a literal teen and loads of other reasons. fanfictions don't HAVE to be perfect. you write what you want to write because we do it for fun and enjoyment and we want to share that to the world. seriously, what is the wrong with that?..

2. x reader consumers getting WAY too entitled. the number of tiktoks i've seen that say "i run a strict program when it comes to reading fanfics." girl you aint running shit. this is FAN FICTION you're reading. F A N F I C T I O N. there is no denying that most fanfiction writes are beyond talented but just because you read one fanfic that exceeds your expectations doesn't give you the right to talk down on others that don't. people have their own personal writing style, their way of doing things and you talking shit on that isn't right.

at the end of the day, we are all humans, reading and writing is what we do and what we're meant to do. and for you to talk shit about a person WRITING is so insane. we are humans. not some robots that you can tell what to do so you can consume it.

i've seen so so many authors take down their fanfics and losing all motivation to write because of a hate comment. DONT LIKE DONT READ‼️

and to every author reading this, this community values your work and your contribution. we love u and, please, never let anyone's negative words have an effect on you.

[theworstwolvie]

self-recs list tag game!

i was enlisted by the always lovely, perfect, beautiful, stunning @kryptidfiles to share a list of 5 self-recs of my own fics. i must listen to her. she's the boss (one of my wives). and i love her.

rules: fic authors self rec! when you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you’ve written, then pass on to at least five other writers. let’s spread the self-love!

but im not fully following them bc jae's already tagged all of the wonderful writers i would have tagged. whoops.

the first one of my fics i'd recommend is: false devotion (18+ MDNI)

i poured my heart and soul into this fic to the point where like......im burnt out on clark now lmfao. if you like greek AUs, and specifically greek AUs where clark is apollo's son, and a shit ton of angst, you'll like this one. also has some blasphemous fucking in it, if that's your bag. please read this one, it's the best thing i've ever written lol

the second: 'cause it's insured! (18+ MDNI)

fun little collab moment. very silly and fluffy and dirty. domestic bliss with clark (until his big ass breaks your dining room table, obv)

the third: whatever keeps you around (18+ MDNI)

back to angst! based on a hozier song (one of my favorite hozier songs, too). that's all you need to know, really. clark kent never knows peace when i've picked up my pen.

the fourth: trial and error (18+ MDNI)

little bit of enemies to lovers moment here with clark kent! prob my fav of my galentine's day entries! dry humping, premature ejac, degradation, etc. clark's a pathetic mess. love him.

the fifth: music with dr. grace

shameless self plug of this last one here. i love it so much. teacher!grace is my favorite thing in the whole world (probably because i am also a teacher) and i just loved being able to write for him. i even made a playlist to go with these cute little classroom headcanons...not to toot my own horn, or anything ;)

thanks for tagging me jae ilysm!!!!!!

[froggykarma]

Peak fics that I’ll definitely read later

[hotties4gojo]

AISHA’S JJK-WOMEN CENTRIC FIC RECS

a collection of my favorite yuki, shoko, utahime, femjo, femguru, femkuna, femtoji (in this order) fics i’ve read over the years that i want to spotlight, with pieces that include fluff, angst, smut, and more. fics are divided by oneshots/drabbles. please heed all warnings & give all included authors their very much deserved flowers! here’s my own yuki, shoko, and femjo fics 😙

i’ve marked superscript next to authors to indicate if they’ve been included multiple times in this post; note that there are inevitably going to be repeats of the same few writers since there’s so little wlw jjk fics! additionally, i wanted to include as little fics involving men as possible, so there’s exactly 3 fics that have three/foursomes with men, no more than that. this will be updated regularly-ish with new recs! and happy pride! <3

oneshots:

your kingdom in flames, your castle in the sea (yuki) on ao3 ; top 10 fics that ruined my life, number one: THIS FIC. reader is gojo’s older sister and yuki’s new interest, and also someone who has a mask that yuki is able to easily sneak past and into reader’s heart. i love the relationship & dynamic here. the affection between them isn’t loud in the verbal/physical sense, but it permeates each of their interactions and its SO good. the “food as a metaphor for love” tag is always one that catches me hook, line, and sinker, and this fic was no exception :3 every word is so carefully chosen and op writes so, so beautifully— every sentence is moving and leaves me in awe of their talent. do note the angst and major character death tags… sly yet sad giggle…

naked in manhattan! (yuki) by @kentwos-archived ; the summary here is simple yet succinct— you're inexperienced but yuki's there to guide you through it all as you start a relationship together— and what a GREAT take on the experienced gf/inexperienced gf trope it is!! yuki is SUCH a sweetheart here; she’s sweet ofc, understanding, and just as patient/accommodating and eager to comfort/guide as i imagine her to be :,) this is an incredibly sweet yet hot read!

kiss my ice (yuki) by @xo2dee ; FIGURE SKATER YUKI OH HOW YOU’VE MOVED ME… rivals to lovers with yuki is a fun trope for her given how easygoing/lax she can be with people, her duties, and her public image. after the kiss reader and yuki share goes viral, the two of them are paired up for future comps as a figure skating duo. their dynamic here is tooooo good and yuki’s dialogue throughout the full fic had me giggling and twirling my hair cos ugh i want her so bad. I too would let yuki be my downfall

(not so) lyrical genius (yuki ft. choso) by @stnexus ; ahh this fic is a long time favorite of mine. i remember reading it years ago and adoring it, so i was beyond elated when my reread proved to be just as enjoyable as my first read of this fic! yuki & choso are bandmates in a poly relationship with you, and when choso struggles with writer’s block, you and yuki know exactly what to do to help him along… 😏😁 i love me some dommy mommy yuki and subby choso RAHHHH

moon bend the knife (shoko) on ao3 ; to this day, this 2023 fic is one of my favorite shoko fics everrrrr. it takes place in canon, following a bad mission that reader went on before returning home to shoko. shoko wishes to care for reader, and they have the most sugary sweet, tender sex ever like omfg. i wanna melt every time i reread this fic cos it’s touched my heart in a way that few fics can… like. words Cannot describe how beautiful and moving this is. genuinely. this is poetry. it really is

lifeline (shoko) on ao3 ; the centric themes of this fic can be easily explained by these few lines in the fic itself: “You think of her and feel hope, then regret. She’ll see you in this state. You hate to do that to her. You care for her. You love her. You hate to hurt her.” ahhhh this hurt/comfort is like crack 🚬 a mission goes terribly wrong and so reader is escorted back to shoko for some healing, and shoko tends to reader so comfortingly and so sweetly 🥺😢 i adore shoko’s characterization here, same with her relationship with reader!

doctors orders (the woes of a pregnant wife) (shoko) by @manonism ² ; SHOKO FLUFFFFFF SHOKO FLUFFFFFF GATHER ROUND FOR SOME GOOD SHOKO FLUFF!!! reader is pregnant with shoko’s baby and shoko makes it her mission to dote on reader, she’s beyond cute and sweet here ^_^ this is a great read and is very funny & comforting!! love it!!

on call (shoko) on ao3 ; secret relationship trope AND shoko’s possessive?? yeah i’d be pussywhipped too! you and shoko both work at a hospital together, and when shoko’s able to score a bit of downtime with you, shoko wants you ALL to herself 😁😁 y’all know i love a good long-ish fic with in-depth smut so this fic is a winna winna in my book!! the push and pull between shoko and reader is just mmm… chef’s kiss

the tartness of nicotine (shoko) on ao3 ; I LOVE MEET CUTES LIKE THIS MORE THAN ANYTHING I SWEAR ☹️ every day that reader takes her bus, she runs into shoko, who she’s dubbed ‘cigarette girl.’ in turn, she calls reader ‘strawberry girl’ given how often she brings strawberries along with her as a snack, which reader always shares with shoko :,) super cute, fluffy, and feels-good!!

suguru and the girls who ate him (shoko ft. geto) by @macbethinchains (ao3 link) ; the day that i dont glaze this fic is the day that i DIE brah . phy has such an innate talent for writing and choosing theeee most perfect/beautiful words to describe people, places, emotions, thoughts, etc. in a way that deeply immerses AND captivates you. inspired by jennifer’s body (love this movie sfm), shoko is a succubus who, after turning reader into one as well, guides reader down the path of a succubi— and losing reader’s virginity to geto, another virgin. you can FEEEEEEL shoko’s deep yearning and obsession for reader in each scene, that’s her girl fr :,) the smut is soooo mfing good, and it’s even better knowing how it will inevitably end and anticipating what shoko and reader plan on doing with geto 🤭

sleeping beauty (shoko) by @reignpage ³ ; the things i’d do for roomie shoko 🚬🚬 and if that means waking her up every morning with my mouth on her cooch, I’M IN IT TO WIN IT!!! reader here struggles with waking shoko up every morning to no avail, until accidents happen and they discover that the sure-proof way to rouse shoko is with orgasms 😁 shes so hot and flirty in this fic MEOWWWWW MEOWWWWWWWW

cherry (utahime) on ao3 ; i need to start off with saying UTAHIMES CHARACTERIZATION HERE IS SO MFING GOOD RAHHHHHH!!!!! utahime is fairly experienced and has never really had a good kiss, so reader shows her the ropes ;) utahime is sooo yummy in this i fr wanna DEVOUR her cos of how cute yet hot she is, ughhhtjshejdjw especially when some of her snark/possessiveness leaks outta her 🤭 sosososoooo good i simply cannot praise this fic enough

my rifle, pony and her (fem!gojo) by @liahcharms ; SAVE A HORSE RIDE A MFING OUTTTTTLAWAAAWW!!!!!! liah’s femjo in this fic is getting ridden through the mattress til the bedframe breaks and the floorboards below shatter like glass 🤤😋 reader works at a brothel and her new client is none other than gojo herself, a notorious outlaw. this whole fic is SO descriptively beautiful and each word drips with such gorgeous sensuality, its genuinely tooooo good. FEMJO LETS RIDE OFF INTO THE SUNSET TOGETHA 👅

equal rights, equal fights (fem!gojo) by @reignpage ³ ; gojo gets hit by a gender-bending curse and naturally that means some fun is in store for her and for reader 😇 gojo’s competitiveness that shines while trying to show how many orgasms she can give reader as a woman and as a man is sooooohjtkwhrjaj yes im actively kicking my feet and giggling like a schoolgirl!

in harmony (fem!geto) by @indom-itus ; lets all give nico their 10s cos oh my gawddddd this story is so lovely and god do i love femguru 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩 ESPECIALLY WHEN SHES A ROCKSTAR! cheeky, cute, smug and flirty sugu with a certified #girlfailure reader is a top tierrrr dynamic, especially with all that pining between them… dreamy sigh. you won’t regret reading this fic fs!!

move on (fem!geto) by @suguruss1ut ; conniving ass femguru is truly my achilles heel cos i’d be tripping over myself tryna get on top of her and that strap jhtjwhrjs. geto and reader are best friends and roomies, so naturally when reader gets cheated on, she turns to geto for comfort… and ohhh does she make you forget about the situation FAST 🤭 and shes sooo mean in the hottest way possible ugh #INEEDDATNEOWWW

STREEEEEETCH YOU OUT (fem!toji) by @uzugeto ; FEMJI SAVE ME FEMJIIII LET ME BOUNCE ON THAT STRAP SLOPPY STYLE!!! after reader gives birth to the zenin heir, her STANK ASS incel husband signs her up for a gym membership, where reader meets her new trainer, toji…. and whewwww is the mental picture of a sweaty, bulked up femji a TREAT. i love jade’s humor that she weaves into her fics alongside very real world insecurities and fears, there’s no dissonance cos of how seamlessly she executes her fics. this whole fic, from the yearning/thirsting stage to the eventual smut, is a certified wlw masterpiece cos WHEWWW

express yourself (yuki, shoko, utahime, fem!gojo, fem!geto, fem!sukuna) by @wiinterz ³ ; based on movies such as secretary and stoker, each smut piece features secretary!reader and a super hot boss. all of them are SO toe-curling and scrumptious that i simply cannot narrow down my favorites LOL. you will enjoy every single one of these, truuuust 🤞🏽

drabbles:

edging yuki (yuki) by @kamitv ; smut

phone sex (yuki) by @fushigur0lover ; smut

milf!yuki repaying her gratitude by eating you out (yuki) by @amortoru ; smut

prey (yuki) by @schilders ; smut

guilty pleasure (yuki) by @indiewritesxoxo ; angst, suggestive

yuki really loves her motorcycle (yuki) by @gyarujo ; fluff

yuki thinks about you when she works out (yuki) by @whosepyramidscheme ; smut

i can’t drown you out (no matter what i do) (shoko) on ao3 ; light angst, smut

your first time (shoko) by @moviecritc ⁴ ; smut

angst & miscommunication sex w/ shoko (shoko) by @ieiripie ³ ; angst, smut

lab rat (shoko) by @sugurusbadhabit ; smut

fingering you in front of a mirror (shoko) by @moviecritc ; smut

shoko loves your nursing boobs (shoko) by @manonism ; smut

nicu nurse reader and ob/gyn hooking up in an on call room (shoko) by @ieiripie ; smut

sex toys (shoko) by @eraserbread ; smut

messy drunk makeout with shoko turns into mutual fingering (shoko) by @gojosconsort ; smut

teeth (shoko) by @mydarlingem ² ; smut

she discovers your breeding kink (shoko) by @moviecritc ; smut

your girlfriend and professor shoko helps you with your homework (shoko) by @requiemdesreves ² ; smut

nine in the afternoon (shoko) by @mydarlingem ; fluff, suggestive

halloween surprise w/ shoko (shoko) by @ieiripie ; smut

granted for patience (shoko) by @kusahigunanas ³ ; smut

SMS (shoko) on ao3 ; smut

nonsexual acts of intimacy: shoulder rubs (shoko) by @kusahigunanas ; fluff

nonsexual acts of intimacy: playing with hair (utahime) by @kusahigunanas ; fluff

scissoring (utahime) by @kunareads ; smut

just like high school (utahime) by @wiinterz ; smut

kiss it better (fem!gojo) by @wiinterz ; smut

swimmer fem!gojo (fem!gojo) by @mirrrrinda ² ; suggestive

my bitch (fem!gojo) by @mirrrrinda ; smut

long distance gf!suguru geto getting you a replica of her cock (fem!geto) by @moviecritc ; smut

homoerotic friendship with femguru (fem!geto) by @getozzn ; suggestive

the squirter (fem!sukuna) by @requiemdesreves ; smut

lactation (fem!sukuna) by @lilacxquartz ; smut

impatient girl (shokohime) by @cuntphoric ; smut

a man’s place (shokohime ft. gojo) by @reignpage ; smut

girls girls girls (yukishokohime) by @mooniewritess ; smut

dividers © sweetestpeacreates.

[indiewritesxoxo]

true love waits

seeing spectres? got a ghost problem? it seems Satoru Gojo has one of his own - one he doesn't want to get rid of

synopsis: full-time nerd turned part-time amateur ghost hunter, you've become Gojo's favorite occupation! living with a roommate is hard enough - let alone falling in love with your (un?)dead one!

pairing: nerdjo x ghost!Reader

content: mdni, angst and fluff and smut, roommates-to-lovers but one of them is dead lol, paranormal aspects ofc, fem reader, discussions of death, some darker themes but plenty of goofy gojo to go around, idiots falling in love, petty reader, gojo being a DORK, she falls first + he falls harder, this one's gonna be freaky guys, unprotected piv sex, oral (m! receiving), more tags to be added!

art by @chu-cho + divider by @petalpxl

gojo's ghost hunting guide

one | two | three | four

five | six | seven | eight

a/n: the amazing @madamechrissy inspired this <3

taglist: @fati27ma @soraairo @s-guru @shokosbunny @ssetsuka @deathofacupid @kayskow @pillkits @inoluvrr @baepsays @imm0rtalbutterfly @heartcam @littlenutmaestro @mia-can-yap-too @bbatzvil @sugarcoatedsoul @designerpvssy @gravity-valley @stellasloth @dostoevskyzz @aldebrana @lashaemorow @monstersholygrail @mai-505 @itsinherited @gojosprettyprincess @mimiluvzu2 @poopooindamouf @emochosoluvr @nina-from-317 @beautiful--macabre @gris3o @petalshxwer @oneirataxiaa @onixsky @flowerpot113 @ryuvies @anyx404 @herefor-tojis-tits @takethechai

[froggykarma]

Amazing

[gh0sttlyy]

i know this is the coldest take ever. but i’m actually so tired of seeing orcs being portrayed as these tribal brutes who can’t speak eloquently and are dumb. like. call me the woke police or whatever but it’s racist. and i know. unfortunately. a lot of mythical creatures are actually based on racist caricatures. so why are we continuing to use these stereotypes for our stories??

it’s incredibly frustrating. trying to find an x reader fanfic with an orc and they’re almost always a part of a ‘tribe’ or ‘clan’. or they’re some violent beast with broken english

please stop making your orcs dumb, blood-hungry, lustful weirdos who don’t care about consent

[froggykarma]

THIS

[madamechrissy]

Baby You're a Star Masterlist // Pornstar Satoru headcanons

Chapter One - Chapter Two - Chapter Three - Chapter Four - Chapter Five - Chapter Six - Chapter Seven - Chapter Eight

Pairings- Pornstar Satoru x shy f!reader

Summary- You meet Satoru Gojo at a wild Hollywood party, insanely out of place, waiting for your friend to show up. The two of you hit it off, spending time together, and share a kiss, but you're a good girl, and you just don't do this, but he is the top pornstar there is, and the top .01 % on OnlyFans. Once you find out, you know there's probably no match, as Satoru doesn't date, and you don't sleep around, but after meeting, you keep in touch- and soon Satoru can't get hard without thinking of you, and you get over curious, and join a livestream.

Warnings- mentions of sex and sexwork, masturbation, mentions of drug use, weed smoking, Gojo has an OF hehe, lots of longing, pining, Satoru can't get hard if it's not you, whipped ass Satoru, explicit sexual content, angst -

Finished - WC 85k 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻 Playlist -Ao3 link

Headcanons below!

Pornstar Satoru is one of the most famous pornstars there are, hence him constantly wearing jet black shades and hoodies at times, he never knew just who he'd run into that would recognize him. Whether it's his flicks or his OF - he's the top .01 % - he gets a lot of notice, especially in bustling LA. But, he loves what he does, he especially loves watching his abs flex in the camera as he hits one of his lovely costars from the back.

Pornstar Satoru loves making the costars and girls he collabs with actually cum, where they're shaking and squirting all over his latex covered cock. Not that fake shit like he watches them do with other men- no Satoru makes sure to slam that curved tip against their cervix, to roll his thumb right on their clit with the perfect amount of pressure. Perhaps that's the secret to how famous he really is, along with his good looks.

Pornstar Satoru makes so much money from each shoot and is in high demand, so he can have whoever he wants as a co star. They line up to have a chance at him, watching his videos and aching for a chance to feel his cock hitting them deeper than damn near anyone could hit, to say they got to shoot with the Satoru Gojo. This just makes Satoru fuck them harder, smiling right at that camera, as women dream it's really them that have captured his pretty blue eyed gaze.

Pornstar Satoru thinks it's a pretty damn good life, being rich for fucking beautiful women on camera, as he's inhaling a blunt after a threesome shoot with his best friend - and often costar- Pornstar Suguru, as they talk about who got the girl to squirt more, right in the middle of a bouguie party in East LA. Suguru let's out a throaty laugh, while Satoru narrows his blue eyes. 'I had her cumming so hard she was shaking' he says, taking a hit and handing it back to Suguru. 'Nah, that was all for me, did you see...'

Pornstar Satoru stops listening when he sees you enter the room, completely out of place at the coke filled, booze filled party, wearing a pair of black glasses that cover half of your pretty face, and a little nervous look as you stand there, in a cute white pleated skirt and a big oversized sweater. Satoru smacks Suguru on the shoulder then and he coughs up smoke. 'Shit what is it?' Satoru looks back at you, when you're handed a drink, some guy flirting as you look down shyly. 'Who's she?' Suguru blinks a bit curiously. 'I don't know, she's pretty though'

Pornstar Satoru scowls at Suguru who snorts in laughter then. 'Satoru we don't have 'girlfriends' and she... looks like a good girl' your eyes catch his then, across the room, like something shifts as you smile sweetly, before peering at your phone, biting your lip in concentration. 'I'm talking to her' Suguru chuckles as he watches his friend, and Satoru feels his heart race when he comes too close to you, something he can't say he's felt, even pleasing countless beauties, nothing has quite altered him as your sweet turn of lips, as you look down at your converse, so out of place you're fucking adorable. 'Hey sweetheart... Satoru Gojo' he says, introducing himself with ease, expecting you to maybe notice him, get starstruck, fuck women get wet just near him, but you simply grin, and your name whispers through his mind when it spills from your lips.

Pornstar Satoru has you sitting with him later, you fall into easy conversation, you're a little gamer nerd, you love science and the environment, he just bets you were head of your ecology club in college, which you quickly confirm, all while you're in awe of just how beautiful this man is. He's sweet, he's sexy... you feel he shouldn't even be talking to you. You're pretty but... he's experienced so clearly, by every way he moves, he's worldly, so confident, and you've never really left this little part of LA, but the two of you can't stop talking, to the point you forget what brought you here.

Pornstar Satoru laughs with you, as you're sitting side by side, and he lights up a blunt, leaning back on the burgundy couch on the outskirts of the party, inhaling it deep into his lungs. 'Want a hit, sweets?' he murmurs, you take it nervously, putting it to your lips and inhaling a bit, before coughing, covering your mouth. Satoru chuckles, 'you're cute' earning your cheeks heating up. 'Can you tell I don't do this?' you're nervously tapping your leg now. 'Yeah, what does bring you here, doesn't seem your...' 'my scene?' he nods then. 'yeah, that.'

Pornstar Satoru watches avidly as you sip on your drink, wincing at the strong liquor. 'Well, my friend invited me over, but she's running late' Satoru grins now. 'Party time is different, everyone comes late, that's on time. About fifteen minutes late' 'oh no I came early!' you smack your own forehead, giggling along with him. 'Are you like... a model, or an actor?' you ask, eyeing him and his baby blues, the cheekbones so perfect, those lips that wrap the blunt again. 'You could say I'm a bit of both,' he muses, then spits out his drink when you ask 'what are you in!?'

Pornstar Satoru coughs just a bit, he's never been ashamed of what he does, but he's nervous for some reason to tell you. Why, he doesn't know. 'I'm... into some indie flicks' you brighten up then. 'Oh, let me know, I love lowkey films! I bet you're great' Satoru sighs, gulping down the rest of his drink and eyeing your cup. 'Want more?' you frown now, maybe you're asking too much, or offending this actor that you don't recognize him!? You nod, the amount of people around you making you press against this friendly, pretty white haired stranger just a little more.

Pornstar Satoru has another drink, eyeing the sea of bodies undulating in the extravagant mansion, and soon the two of you are dancing together you're cute and so awkward, Satoru's enjoying this far, far too much. He has plenty of costars and fans come up to the two of you, but he's too interested in showing you how to move your hips to pay them any mind, when finally your friend comes. Satoru instantly recognizes her, she's a pretty famous co star he's collabed with on her Onlyfans not long ago. When she sees you giggling and enjoying yourself so much, she damn near drags you away, making Satoru curse.

Pornstar Satoru eyes you when your friend whispers in your ear- 'you really don't recognize him!?' you blink curiously, looking at him more closely. 'Should I?' she sighs then, eyeing Satoru up and down. 'He was in my OF videos, we collabed' you heat up furiously then. 'I never watched your videos! I just subbed to be supportive!' she giggles. 'You're so cute, I thought you at least watched some?' you shake your head nervously. 'I don't really watch, is he... like an OnlyFans guy?' Satoru is back over with Suguru now, while you sip your drink, feeling your body warm up. 'He's the top pornstar there is, the collab was like a dream. He's really sweet but you should know is all, you're kinda...' you glare. 'kinda what?' she giggles again. 'you're just... sweet, emotional, is all'

Pornstar Satoru expects you to be done with him once you find out, after all you just seem innocent, uncorrupted for this city, not the kind of girl to be at this party where lines are being snorted off bodies, and people are naked and jumping in the pools, a heady, wild atmosphere. But you smile at him, as you murmur - 'he's sweet?' to your friend. She nods then. 'He is, but just know... he doesn't date so, it'd only be physical' you frown at that now, that's not something you think you can do, you're about as demisexual as it gets, hence your very limited experience. 'He doesn't date at all?' Your friend gently touches your shoulder. 'No, love, I'd hate to see you hurt'

Pornstar Satoru catches you before you leave later that night, when you are just feeling too out of place, his big hand wrapped around your delicate wrist, earning you looking up at him. He can't stop thinking how pretty your eyes would look rolled back, how good your lips would feel wrapped around his cock, as you relax a bit, turning and looking up. 'Headed out already?' he asks softly, you flush as you remember just what he does for a living, your friend had just described his cock in far too vivid detail. 'It's not really my thing, but I'm glad we met, Gojo' you smile so cute then, leaning up and pecking him on the cheek, his arm wraps your waist as he leans down, inhaling that sweet vanilla scent cloying to your skin.

Pornstar Satoru pulls you in closer, blue eyes staring under snowy lashes. 'Can I... get your number?' Satoru has never asked for a number a day in his life, but he delights in watching you shift nervously, nodding as you tuck your hair behind your ear. 'Yeah, I'd like that' he exchanges numbers, tilting your chin up then, watching the way your eyes dilate, the color spread on your pretty cheeks. 'She told you?' you clear your throat, nodding a bit, still being captured by his fingers. 'I don't judge at all, Gojo, I'd still like to be... friends...' your whisper is met with the most subtle kiss on your lips, shooting desire hot and heavy until Satoru releases you, plump lips smirking- 'sure, sweets, we can be friends'

Pornstar Satoru can't get you off his mind, the feel of your skin on his, the sweet sigh against his lips. He is on a big shoot and - the Satoru Gojo that never gets soft - is having trouble keeping it up, to the amusement of his costar Pornstar Sukuna. Satoru scowls at his comments, just picturing your sweet lips against his for that brief moment. A man who just fucks and fucks, and doesn't feel, is hung up just on some fucking kiss. He has to take a break after pleasing his costar with his fingers, she's cumming so much she doesn't notice, but the directors wonder why he's off. He's in his own dressing room, eyeing the phone, hands shaking as he decides to type a message - 'could you give me a picture, sweets, to save as your caller id?'

Pornstar Satoru finds his cock is right back on hard when you send one quickly, just a cute selfie with a little peace sign, but he sees your glossy fucking lips, the teeth indentations he aches to rub the tip of his cock on, along with just a hint of your breasts. Your nipples press against the thin material of your little tee shirt- Pokemon, he notices, smiling- his cock throbbing. 'Can I get one too?' you're biting that lower lip nervously as you ask, getting a picture of him shirtless then, doing nothing to stifle the curiosity in your mind, your heart racing as you seee his body. 'You at a shoot?' you ask in the messages, he hesitates before answering - 'yes' - and somehow you feel jealous of whoever his costar is. You message a - kill it, Gojo! - despite the feeling in your tummy, little do you know you're drowning his fucking mind when he performs later, feeling the star squirting all over his latex covered cock.

Pornstar Satoru can't stop texting you that week, he can't even get hard if he doesn't look at that picture, and you can't stop your curiosity, when you friend mentions he's doing a live stream. Since Satoru can hardly perform, he's decided to masturbate on live cam, in minutes making more than he'd make in a shoot, all while having your picture propped up. People are chatting, watching, dollars by the hundreds being tipped every moment, fuck he's making way more than he usually would, and he can think of you. He laughs softly, abs flexing as he hits the right angle, reading the comments, making you dripping wet, this isn't what you do!?

Pornstar Satoru is stroking his wet, slick cock that's glistening, up and down with his huge hand, and you feel your pussy clench, breath coming faster, unsure whether to look away or keep staring, meanwhile he's picturing you in all sorts of positions, on your knees, a fucking mating press. He's shutting his eyes for a moment, grinning as the viewers go crazy. 'I know, it's pretty, huh?' he spits right on that long, veiny cock of his, pinching his pink tip and whining, white lashes fluttering open right when he sees a familiar name enter the chat.

Your name.

Pornstar Sukuna hcs here // Pornstar Suguru hcs here // Onlyfans Nanami hcs here

Kofi link (if you feel generous & wanna buy me a ☕️

[froggykarma]

This was like crack

[liahcharms]

𝑇𝐴𝐿𝐸𝑆, 𝑀𝑌𝑇𝐻𝑆, 𝑅𝑂𝑀𝐴𝑁𝐶𝐸𝑆

This is a space where I'll be keeping all my JJK historical and tales-based fanfictions. Because you loved Gods, Heroes, Warriors, and wanted more – I decided to make a separate collection of everything related to myths, folk stories, and other historical events that I'll be posting.

How is it different from Gods, Heroes, Warriors? Not that different, actually, but the previous collection was focusing only on historical heroes/gods. Here, I'll be posting all the other history-based stories, but will also include some folk tales and myths. They won't necessarily be super historically accurate, but I'll always try to base them on real figures/tales/myths. The stories will be set in European 𖤓, Egyptian ࣪ ִֶָ☾, East Asian 🀥 settings, as well as anything else I think of.

The list will be updated regularly, and I'll be throwing my ideas here too!

pairings: Gojo Satoru x Reader, Geto Suguru x Reader, Nanami Kento x Reader, Toji Fushiguro x Reader, Ryomen Sukuna x Reader, Hiromi Higurama x Reader, Satosugu, WLW

𖤓 𖤓 𖤓

001. Nuisance of a man [Napoleon Bonaparte!Gojo x Josephine!Reader]

Home in three days. Do not wash! Forever yours, Satoru

002. Hades!Choso [request]

He tries hard to fulfill his wife's dearest wishes... even if they're quite bold

003. Knights, come hither! [King Arthur!Gojo x F!Reader x Merlin!Geto]

What could happen if a lovely maiden showed a bit too much of an ankle to the knights in a local tavern? And what if they turn out to be someone much more... important... than simple knights?

003. Wounding the beast [Ares!Toji x Athena!Reader] [request]

He was like a dog. Ferocious beast, truly, and you wished for nothing more than to have him under your command once and for all. And as it turned out, Ares, the brute God of War himself, took a sort of pleasure from being beaten to a pulp after each and every clash with you. So the idea of being finally tamed by his dearest Goddess wasn’t that unappealing.

004. The weird little lady in the woods [Lumberjack!Toji x Witch!Reader x Lumberjack!Sukuna, based on Slavic tale]

Long ago, in faraway lands stretching behind an eerie forest, a tale was told. A story of a young woman living in the deepest corners of the woods, with a black cat as a companion, a trickery house sitting on a single chicken leg, and… two rather handsome lumberjacks who warmed her cold heart during the nights!

005. A giver of life [Prometheus!Hiromi x Hecate!Reader] [request]

Prometheus!Hiromi was condemned for giving humanity a will to live. With his half-naked body chained to a stony wall, he was meant to suffer for eternity. But then, one evening, the Goddess came to him. With the coldest touch, he's ready to suffer another lifetime for.

006. Hades, Greek God of the Underworld!Sukuna [coming soon] [request]

007. Peaceful life of Hades!Choso and Aphrodite!Reader [part two of this fic] [coming soon] [request]

008. Apollo!Gojo x Spartan Prince!Suguru [coming soon] [request]

009. Apollo!Gojo x Nymph!Reader [coming soon]

࣪ ִֶָ☾ ࣪ ִֶָ☾ ࣪ ִֶָ☾

001. God!Sukuna x Archaeologist!Reader [coming soon]

002. Julius Caesar!Gojo x Cleopatra!Reader x Mark Antony!Geto [coming soon]

003. Ra!Gojo x F!Reader [coming soon]

🀥 🀥 🀥

001. Dragon King!Choso x F!Reader [coming soon]

002. Heian Demon!Sukuna x F!Reader [coming soon]

DO NOT COPY MY WORK, if anyone wants to get inspired please tag me

˗ˏˋ ꒰ ✉︎ ꒱ ˎˊ˗ want to join permanent taglist? sign up here ꨄ︎

[bumpen-underbeds]

𝙏𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙪𝙥𝙙𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙛𝙪𝙡𝙡 𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙇𝙤𝙣𝙜 𝙛𝙞𝙘𝙨:

❧ The Perfect Trap ❧

Yandere - Male Fox Hybrid x GN Reader

It really only happened by chance, a lie you had told to keep your family off your back, your neighbour was right there, and it was convenient to simply lie and say he was your partner. Only, why does your mother now think you're getting married?

Part 2

❧ Parent Trap ❧

Yandere - Male Fox Hybrid x GN Reader (Reader is called momma)

You were just meant to help him adjust to having three little ones, now they're calling you momma and their dad has this look in his eye...

Part 2 - Soft Ending - Yandere Ending - Yandere Epilogue

❧ Forever In Forests ❧

Male Fennec Fox Hybrid x Chubby Fem Reader

Even if you couldn't show interest like his own fellow hybrids, was... Was this your way of expressing interest? Did you know what that would mean? How it would be you and you alone forever with him?

❧ Safe on the Road ❧

Trans Woman Fox Hybrid x GN Reader

Not everything in the forest is a ferocious monster waiting to consume you...

❧ A Working Pup ❧

Male Wolf Hybrids x Dog Hybrid Reader (Fem Genitals) A working dog amongst wolves? No, no, you're just a pup, a little runt to them, so let's see what you can take.

❧ A Dear Dad ❧

Male Dragon Hybrid x GN Reader

Worn out, almost overworked, but still trying his best for his daughter. That's your neighbour, and maybe just maybe if the little matchmaker of a toddler gets her way, your new boyfriend?

❧ Find a Flatmate ❧

Male Bull Hybrid x GN Reader

It's hard enough with bills, work and everything else adult life has to throw at you, but now you have a roommate that puts the most valiant himbos to shame... At least he gets his share of the bills done on time.

❧ Fucking Stuck ❧

Male Bull Hybrids x Fem Reader

Attempting to cut between the paddocks was not the brightest idea, but the outcome was worth the cost to fix the posts that have been ruined.

❧ SweetHeart Holiday ❧

Male Bull Hybrid x GN Reader

We all love a big, beefy himbo, but what if he's still big and brawny, but also a soft boy?

Part 2

❧ Helping Hands ❧

Male bull hybrids x GN Reader

There is a park near your home, a simple grassed area and a playground next to a sports field, it's almost always booked or in use on weekends but it's during the late afternoon that it gets its most enjoyed use, mainly when a certain sports club takes to the grass.

❧ Farm Fake Out ❧

Male Bull Hybrid x GN Reader

Fake farm. Real money. The horrid laws of your new home aside, there are small saving graces to the job you had taken up...

❧ Blood Blessed Father ❧

Male Vampire Priest x Fem Reader

He'd been blessed, not cursed, blessed! Eternal life in the service of god, how could that not be a blessing. And in turn for his devotion he has been gifted a lamb, how sweet they are even as they sin.

❧ Feed From Him ❧

Male Vampire x GN Reader

{{CW: CANNIBALISM}}

What he started can't be stopped, not now, not after you had spent weeks consuming him. Devouring what he gave you and ever so slowly being dragged into the endless night.

Part 2

❧ In Season ❧

Male Squid Mermaid (Olis) x GN Reader

The courtship was long, but as the summer ends and autumn begins, he can finally have you! Pumping his dear mate full as he should have been for the past three months.

❧ Specialist Services ❧

Male Mermaid x GN Reader

It's for the best that management keeps your recovery aid records sealed and shredded, after all people think mermaids are a myth, who knows what they'll do when they find out someone fucks them to help them...

❧ Captive ❧

Yandere Male Drider x GN Reader

People go missing all the time. What does that have to do with your move or the town you're going to?

❧ Attic Dwelling ❧

Male Drider x GN Reader

It lived in the attic, but winter meant hibernation, and as strange as having an unwilling roommate that pops out of the roof from time to time is, it's kinda cute when it sleeps.

❧ Dress Maker ❧

Male Drider x GN Reader

Need a custom fitted outfit for an event? Need a date to go with said outfit? Why not the local drider? Sure his shop is a little spooky but the silk embroidery will leave people dying to know more and that's just what he needs.

❧ Make Time For Me ❧

Yandere Male Naga X Former Stalker Reader

He had smirked and thought it cute how you watched him, and then he panicked as he watched you pull away. You had looked like you loved him, but he could count the minutes as they ticked by, each one telling of more and more distance between the two of you.

❧ Forgotten Lord ❧

Male God Naga X GN Reader

Your grandparents had left their home to you in their will, shown you how to care for the house, garden and the shrine they cared for all their lives...

❧ Clean Up For Me ❧

Male Naga X Sex Worker GN Reader

He's not your usual clientele, but out of everything and everyone you've done today, he may just be the best.

❧ Parasite Protection ❧

Parasitic Guardian Angel Concept Fic

Everyone knew what angels were, how they were meant to look, but there was no way anyone had thought of them like this or that they would be like this, did they?

❧ Touching Grace ❧

Male Angel x GN Reader

{{TW: Choking}}

It's not sinning if they had truly made you believe that through them, you were getting saved.

❧ Man Made Angels ❧

Frankenstein inspired fic

You knew the day and time your father went mad, you also know the moment he finished his creation he would succumb to whatever divine punishment awaited a man like him.

❧ Husband Haunting ❧

Yandere Male Ghost (Ezra) x GN Reader

It was so easy to fall asleep in this house, never taking more than a few minutes at most to drift off, dipping into a deep peaceful sleep all the while the spectre of the home helps himself into your bed alongside you.

Part 2

❧ Teddy Trouble ❧

Yandere Possessed Demon Teddy x GN Reader

It's just some overly stuffed toy that you pick up from an op-shop when passing through some small town, and just how much trouble could such a small thing be.

Part 2 - Part 3

[froggykarma]

I’m also gonna read/reread the shit out of all of these

[holy-minseok]

... FOR THE WRITERS <3

Not all of the people reading your x reader fics have white skin

Just a gentle reminder before you write characteristics that assume whiteness and exclude your black/indigenous/poc supporters-specifically in 'x reader' works.

I love and appreciate writers, but this is a recurring avoidable issue (going on for decades now).

"your dusky pink nipples" "your face turned just as red as his" "he could see the blush on your face" “your cheeks furiously blushed” “your ears burn bright red” “The look in your reddened face” “your knuckles white with effort” “bruised purple against your light skin”

Describing the physical feeling instead of the visual change helps include your readers while also elevating your writing IMO.

Anyone can say "Your cheeks turned red with embarrassment" or "Your face flushed" but wouldn't you rather say "A burning heat rushed across your face, from your neck to the tip of your nose, prickling right underneath the surface. You look anywhere but him, hoping your newfound interest in the buildings ceiling tiles will ease the fire tightening beneath your skin" And instead of the other character pointing out that the readers face is red, they can point out the obvious flustered facial expression/body language.

If you want your reader insert to have white/fairskin, then just label them white!reader or put the mention in the warnings/summary.

↪I have reached out to writers I favored/supported before and sometimes I have been met with severe hostility and defensiveness. I often wonder if people are doing this purposefully or for some reason think only white people read their fanfics (?)-if that's the case then be upfront and label your reader inserts as white!reader or something PLEASE. It’s gotten to the point where I feel like black women and other POC aren’t wanted or considered in these fandoms because it comes off like that in your writing. If you need a different motivation, just know you're missing out on more interactions, reblogs, and a bigger reader base. I don’t know why white is the default for so many writers in unspecified x reader/reader insert fics-the people on your blog following, reading, and supporting you aren’t all white and fair-skinned.

I am not talking about OC fics or fics where race/skintone is x specified in summary or warnings. This is specifically about unspecified "x reader" where whiteness is assumed as the default

Put in the comments good replacements for writers to use!

[yenayaps]

Missing Pieces

Pairing: childhood bestfriend!sukuna x f!reader

Content: As a kid, all Sukuna ever really wanted was to be around you. He did just that for 10 years, only to spend the next 7 years wondering why you just stopped picking up the phone one day || MDNI, angst/comfort/smuț, porņ with plot, friends to enemies(?) to lovers, uncle!sukuna, mentions of depression and low self esteem, sukuna's tongue is pierced, so is his 🍆, nıpple sucking, humpıng, óral (f receiving), fıngering, squırtıng, dacryphılia, matıng press. word count: 15k

Sukuna isn’t the type to hold on to promises, especially one made in elementary school. But, he never would’ve thought that you’d break it like that. 

The promise? That you’d be each other's best friends until the day you died. Looking back, it might be a little dramatic, but you were eight years old— all eight year olds are dramatic. 

Exactly how did you break said promise? 

You ghosted him. 

You fucking ghosted him. 

You were friends for over a decade and the moment you went off to college, poof— gone! You stopped calling, stopped texting, deleted all your socials. It was as if you had never even existed and that you were just a figment of the man’s imagination. 

Now that’s dramatic.

He’s texted and called you multiple times, no response. He’s asked mutual friends, they never got a response either. It got to a point where he had finally had it and texted your mother. You could only imagine how hurt he was when she told him you were doing just fine, and not that you were missing or in a coma.

He’d never admit it, though. 

The years came and went. The hurt he once felt inevitably dulled. Yet, you always managed to linger around in the back of his mind, like a little ghost haunting him. 

To this day, he still has no idea what he did wrong. You may have ghosted everybody, but he wasn’t just anybody. If anyone deserved an explanation, it was him. 

He still cares for you, sorta, but it’s been so long, he’s not sure if he’d even want to reconnect with you. Not with how you just dropped him like that.

. . . . . . 

“Are you excited?”

“No,” you respond a little too flatly for Ieiri, who shoots you the look right after. “Ugh, I’m sorry. It’s just been forever since I’ve seen everyone.”

She sighs, redirecting her attention back on the road— there’s not much to look at. Most people stay home on gloomy Sunday afternoons. 

The GPS says you’re nine minutes away from your destination, making you remind yourself once more to relax. Though, you really wish you could be one of those people staying in right now. Cuddled up on the couch, watching a movie. 

Ieiri taps her finger on the steering wheel. “It’s like what I said—”

What didn’t she say? 

She held you hostage on the phone for over an hour last weekend, threatening and bribing, and then threatening you again if you didn’t go with her to Kento’s surprise birthday party. 

You thought you had a good argument at the time.

“Do you realize how annoying that sounds? Kento doesn’t even like surprises, could you imagine how irritated he’d be if I just randomly popped up, too?”

“If you were Satoru? Yes. You? Doubt it. If anything, he’d probably like the distraction from it.” 

“Yeah– probably,” you murmured. 

“Can you please get out of your fucking head for once?” she scoffed. “Yeah, it’s been years since you’ve seen everyone, but it’s not like it’s because of a falling out. I don’t know where you got this weird idea that they hate you now because of it. It was them who told me to bring you!” 

“Who’s them?” you stubbornly responded. 

“Suguru, Satoru, Yuki, Choso— even Toji said something about bringing Megumi so you could see him.” 

As much as you’d love to meet his kid, it would also be another reminder of all the years that’ve passed— how everyone moved on with their lives. Getting married, buying homes, having children, starting families. 

The most you’ve done is get the job. You’d include the condo if you actually got to enjoy it, but it’s been a year since you bought it and you haven’t even bothered furnishing the place despite all the money you've saved up for it. The last thing you want to do after work is look at a screen and make more decisions. Deciding between color palettes and aesthetics, deciding on what decor and accents you want— it all sounded exhausting. Hiring an interior designer was an option. Except, you barely want to talk to a stranger, let alone work with one. 

It’s too many decisions to be made for someone that didn’t want to make them. You often wonder if you’ve simply just become someone that couldn’t make them. 

You’re well aware of the things that are wrong with you, but it didn’t make it any less surprising. You, paralyzed by choices and options? 

The people who knew you professionally would laugh. Hard. Any sense of certainty that could be felt in the air almost always emanated from you. You were decisive. Sharp as hell— honed to perfection. Someone that was more than capable of a task as menial as filling a space full of items they liked. 

You know what you like, don’t you? 

No, not really.

You are sharp, there’s no doubt about it. It’s what your boss favors you for, and sure, one could say you’re valuable to the company, too. It’s a nice feeling for a while. 

Then you realize there is quite literally nothing more subjective than the value of something.

Luckily, you are very useful. It was simply a fact, and every single one of your quarterly reviews solidified it. A coworker, or god forbid a client, could spend an entire hour talking shit about you, and they’d eventually reach the point where they’d have to backtrack with a little ‘well’ or ‘however’, before giving credit where it was due. 

The devil works hard and you stole his pitchfork. Ripped it right out of his hands, because apparently, you needed it more than him to become the youngest portfolio manager the company’s ever seen. 

Who cares about the value of something when you need it? Mr. Yaga claims to hate black tea, but leave him out in the desert long enough and he’d easily drink gallons of it. 

Having you at the company isn’t a matter of life or death, there’s thousands of others out there that are more than qualified for your role. More than half probably had resumes twice as long as yours, too. 

But for Yaga, there is no guarantee that day to day operations would run this smoothly, ever again. 

You may be a little blunt. At times, impatient. But in a world full of sexual harassment allegations and sleezy managers abusing their power, not once has there ever been a formal complaint made against you. You’re not always like that either, you’re great with the clients and stakeholders. 

It’s a talent, really— remembering all the personal details people tell you, like childhood stories, the places they’ve vacationed to, a spouse's birthday month that was briefly mentioned months ago. It makes people feel special. 

It was very handy, too. Especially in the case where the company might deal with someone that isn’t likely to give them their hard-earned money or signature. Your job was to either sweet talk or gaslight. No arguing needed.

Yaga may have not preferred you at first. You were essentially a kid compared to the people that applied for the position. 

The plan was to let you down easily, tell you to keep working hard and you’ll eventually get there. You were already lucky enough to have your foot in the door as an employee. 

Yaga had a list of goals he wanted to reach before his retirement, though. Any of the other candidates would’ve helped with that, but none would've given him the opportunity to make a second list and cross that off as well. 

The decision took months. 

In that time, he realized a few things. 

One, he spent his entire adult life playing it safe, which is an obvious sign of fearing growth. You’re not sure who taught him that, but at least he realized it was okay to start over and try something new. It was like a rebrand for him and he embraced that the “new” him craved more profit and welcomed different approaches. 

The different approaches being, finding more aggressive people because they bring in the money quicker. 

He never saw you as aggressive, though. He never saw you at all, actually. It wasn’t personal, those under 30 usually come and go, so he didn’t see much of a point in remembering names. What he did see, when he finally opened his eyes, was efficiency. 

You were straight forward in a way that saved time, had an air about you that screamed “don’t ask me how my day’s going or what I have planned for after work”, yet approachable enough for work related questions. Stellar reports, received every quarterly and year-end bonus. Sharp. 

Making you one of the managers meant he could wield you like a weapon, now you are the one he uses the most. You had the salary to prove it, yet no time or energy to enjoy it. 

You’re respected. The young interns, the girls in particular, look up to you more often than not. Eyes bright and filled with ambition. Romanticizing everything, from how much coffee you drink, all the way to your style that they labeled as “effortless”. They’re not wrong, it is effortless— always some variant of trousers, a t-shirt, heels, and a long coat. They’re never planned, yet they somehow always manage to work thanks to the lack of color in your wardrobe. 

You overheard your lack of jewelry and unpainted nails being appreciated once for how “clean” you look. All you could think of was the girl that used to do her hair and paint her own nails at one point. Except for the ones on her right hand. She saved that job for her best friend who surprisingly had a steady hand, despite complaints flying out of his mouth the entire time. Even on the days he gave in and painted his own nails black, he’d find something to be grumpy and complain about. 

It was always you choosing whose house to hang out at, which movies to watch, what places to grab food from. He was a big brat whose favorite answer to most questions was an inaudible ‘I dunno’ from the way he’d mumble it. So, you always led the way. 

Now it’s you mumbling that same exact ‘I dunno’ when you’re all alone. 

You’re tired. Worn out. If you were a blade, you end each day dull and chipped. Nobody sees it, not even those young girls with all the time they’ve spent studying you, blinded by their own dreams and aspirations to be just as important, not knowing the difference between being valuable and useful. 

Maybe it’s better off that way. 

Who were you to try to burst their bubbles when you never had dreams or aspirations to begin with? Your eyes were never as bright as theirs— not as a student, not as an intern, and definitely not as a new hire. 

You never had a spark to begin with, what makes you think they’d eventually lose theirs? 

Maybe you were the unlucky one here. 

You were the one whose head went under water after one bad semester, after all. Even now, years later, it still feels like you’re stuck in the deep end while everyone else has moved on. 

Toji chose to get married and have a kid. 

You can’t even choose yourself on most days. 

“You have arrived at your destination.” 

Fuck. You have a hard time believing the GPS was that loud when it was telling Ieiri which exit to take and where to turn. 

Her lips thin into a reassuring smile as she makes the final turn into the apartment building’s parking garage, and you fail to return it as you take a deep breath. Ieiri doesn’t say anything this time, figuring you’ll probably just have to see everyone's excitement for yourself to realize this wasn’t a pity invite. It’ll settle half of your nerves. 

The other half should settle itself with time and a drink. Several drinks, honestly. She did the best she could with telling everyone that what you pulled during your second year of college was 100% a you thing and to not talk about it unless you brought it up. Which you probably won’t— everyone will understand. No one wants to talk about being in a dark place when they haven’t fully left it. 

One moment, you’re sitting in the passenger seat with your seat belt still buckled. Next, your chest is tightening as you watch her open the door to Satoru’s apartment. There’s already chattering, which stops once she announces your guys’ arrival. 

You barely get the chance to look around before Suguru’s peaking his head out of the kitchen to see if you really did show up and lets out a laugh once he sees that you did. It was light and airy, the kind that’s accompanied by the warm feeling that you should get in your chest when seeing an old friend. 

He’s obviously changed, it’s been 7 years. Yet, he never lost that quality that managed to make people a little more comfortable.

“Hey stranger.”

Your lips thin into a shy smile, “Hey.” 

“Well?” Suguru asks, holding his arms out. “I know it’s been ages but there’s no need to be shy.”

“Sorry,” you murmur, stepping forward and accepting the hug. 

He lets out another laugh. “Don’t be— it’s nice to see you.”

“Where’s mine?!” 

You easily recognize the offended, slightly childish tone. You slowly turn your head around to see a slightly less lanky Satoru. Aside from getting some much needed meat on his bones, he doesn’t seem to have changed much. He’s still as unserious as ever, still wears sunglasses indoors like an asshole. 

Ieiri stood back the entire time, sipping on a drink she had already managed to make, patting herself on the back as she watched her little plan run smoothly: Show up early and let you build some confidence from awkwardly greeting the old friends you shared together one by one. 

It’s funny, you told her that they’d eventually move on to talking to the friends they made after you, but they all seemed more interested in circling back to you, whether it be handing you a shot or introducing you to a new face. 

If there was one burden she wishes she could take from you, it’d be the burden that has you walking through the world as if you were everyone’s last choice. 

Today should be enough to prove that.

“Yeah, no— at this point, fuck Nanami and his birthday. This is a better surprise.” Satoru throws an arm over you, slightly swaying from the shots he’s already taken. “Pfft– he doesn’t even like his birthday. I’m sure he’d be happier to see her, too—”

“He’s coming up the elevator,” Suguru cuts him off. 

“SHIT! EVERYBODY SHUT THE FUCK UP AND HIDE,” Satoru suddenly yells, as if he weren’t just talking shit just seconds ago. 

No one would be surprised if Kento heard him yelling at everyone like that, and given how hesitant of a knock there was at the door. The blonde probably already knows there’s something up. 

Suguru goes to open the door, and the moment he opens his mouth to greet him, there’s a loud wave of people yelling ‘SURPRISE’ behind him, with Satoru saying it a split second sooner than anyone else did. 

Kento’s eye slightly twitches. Half surprised, half irritated. He fucking hates surprises and knows that’s the only reason why Satoru decided to throw him one. Before a complaint can leave his mouth, Ieiri hands him an old fashion. He tries to speak again, but gets interrupted once more when she tells him who’s here. 

At first he scoffs, already having enough of people of fucking with him today. 

“No, I’m serious!” she swears, looking around trying to see where you were at, eventually catching a glimpse of your head in the kitchen. “There she is— come say hi.”

Ieiri grabs his wrist and pulls him through the living room and into the kitchen, where you, Yuki, and Choso were talking. She turns back to look at Kento, who’s already surprised by her rare display of excitement, as she gestures towards you. 

“See? Surprise!”

“Yeah, surprise!!” Yuki says right after. 

“Holy shit.” Kento rarely curses, but finds himself unable to come up with better words. “It’s been ages!” 

“I know!” You try to sound more apologetic, but ultimately fail from the nice buzz you had going on. “Happy birthday!” 

And for once, he’s a little less uptight about it when he gives you a hug and says his thanks. It was a nice surprise, he had to admit. If only Satoru didn’t have to ruin the moment with the way he barged into the kitchen with some stupid, frilly party hat in hand, begging Kento to put it on. 

“I said no!”

“C’mon, Nanamin!” Satoru whines, taking a step forward each time the blonde takes a step back. “You’re not getting any younger.”

“I don’t want to get any younger— I’m a grown man, and so are you. Maybe you should start acting like one.” 

“I do! I’m just fun,” he continues to pester him, ignoring everything Kento mumbles under his breath. 

You end up excusing yourself to use the restroom, somewhat bummed you couldn’t stick around longer to watch them bicker some more. You’re sure it went on for a while, though, unaware of how it was cut short when Shoko grabs Satoru by the arm. 

He hisses at how tight of a grip she has on him, fingers digging into his skin as she pulls him aside.

“What is your problem?!” he asks through a clenched jaw. 

“Sukuna’s here?!” 

“Yeah?” He tries and fails to free himself from her grip as he answers. “I thought it’d be a nice surprise!”

She looks at him like he’s stupid, nails continuing to dig into his flesh. “A nice surprise? He fucking hates her. I wouldn’t have brought her here if I knew he was coming!”

“Ow ow ow— No he doesn’t?! Do you actually believe that?!” he groans in between each sentence. 

“Yes! He says it every time someone brings her up!”

“Ow ffuck! You know how dramatic he can be sometimes— fuck, Shoko, please, you’re breaking skin.”

“You deserve it!” she responds in a clipped tone, despite finally letting go. 

“Jesus Christ— you can’t just assault people like that,” he pouts, rubbing his arm. “It’ll be fine! It’s been years, he can’t hold a grudge that long.”

. . . . . .

Sukuna can absolutely hold a grudge that long. 

Except, he was staring at said grudge like some fucking loser, and had to remind himself that it was still alive and well. 

At first he thought you were just one of Satoru’s new friends as you walked through the living room, shyly making your way around everyone, but then you just so conveniently looked up in his direction.

His eyes nearly widened. 

And yours actually did, looking as guilty as you should be.  

The longer you two stood there, looking at each other from across the room in shock, the guilt you had in your eyes started to fade. He was sure everyone else welcomed you back with open arms, and in turn got irritated because you probably thought he’d do the same. So before you could even think to take a step in his direction, he wiped the shock off his face and replaced it with a look that’s able to make even grown men turn around and walk the other way. 

Which is exactly what you did, stomach slowly twisting into a tight knot as you immediately began to replay the death glare he gave you over and over in your head. 

Sukuna didn’t stay long and left shortly after. Not without pretending like he didn’t know you when he said goodbye to everyone, including Kento, who he never even got the chance to say hi to in the first place. 

Shoko didn’t think that was enough to have a complete 180 in your mood. She then realized you were already quiet before that. You also decided to stay in the kitchen, where there was a wall in between you and him. 

So yeah, she blames Sukuna.

“Are you sure he didn’t say anything to you?” Ieiri asked one last time as she pulled up to your apartment building. 

“Nah— my stomach just started to hurt. I don’t drink alcohol that much.” 

She still didn’t believe you, not with how big of an asshole Sukuna can be, which is why a certain someone got an earful over the phone the moment you got out of the car. He barely got a word out while she threw nothing but insults and threats so specific his way, that he had begun to believe them.

Of course Satoru felt bad! He didn’t want you to disappear again for another seven years and have it be all of his fault. So, he gives Sukuna a call, continuing the cycle of abuse started by Shoko. 

The phone rings three times. Sukuna never finishes saying hello before Satoru tries to grill him. “Alright, what did you say to her?”

“Who the fuck are you even talking about right now?”

Sukuna knows exactly who he’s talking about, Satoru can just see his face crinkling in fake disgust over the accusation because he’s just a bullshiter at the end of the day. 

“Shoko thinks you said something to her— she said she was acting all weird and shit when she came back from the bathroom.” 

“She’s already fuckin’ weird,” Sukuna scoffs. 

“So you did see her before you walked into the kitchen to say bye?” 

“Yeah, I saw her. Doesn’t mean I said anything to her though, you fuckin’ moron.”

Satoru sighs and rubs his temple, knowing he probably looked at you like he wanted to skin you alive. 

“What? Is looking at her a crime now?” 

“With the way you look at people? It should be.” It’s clearly not the first time Sukuna’s managed to simply offend someone his face with the way it comes out as a complaint on Satoru’s end. 

“Why do you even care?” 

“Don’t turn this back around on me?!”

“Then quit trying to grill me over the way I look at people. Seriously— she comes back and you all are fuckin’ babying her like she’s some victim. It’s not that serious.”

“Well Shoko—”

“Shoko can fuck off.” Sukuna cuts him off. “Don’t bother me about something stupid like this again. If she can’t handle someone looking at her in a way that she doesn’t like, maybe she should stay home and lock herself in her fuckin’ room.” 

“I– she already did!” he tries to come to your defense. “Shoko won’t tell me much, but she was going through it for years. She probably still is! She doesn’t go out at all. I tried telling you before and you wouldn’t listen.”

There’s a long pause before a disappointed sigh could be heard. Satoru could tell it was directed towards himself instead of you. “She was going through it, so she locked herself in a room for years?”

“Not literally,” he scoffs. “Look, all I know is she was dealing with depression and now she’s all anti-social because of it.”

“She should’ve fuckin’ said something then.” 

“Well, she fuckin’ didn’t.” 

“That’s–”

“If that’s an opinion, it doesn’t matter,” he cuts the man off, starting to grow impatient. Satoru has adhd— the severe, annoying kind. There’s only so much he could handle before getting the violent urge to scream out random noises. “I’m just gonna give you her number so you can talk to her if you want. Who knows, she might even open up to you more since you were the one closest to her.”

“I don’t want her n—”

“YES YOU DO.” Satoru yells, leaving Sukuna more appalled than annoyed. “I just sent it. BYE.”

click.

Sukuna glares at his phone for a moment as if it were an extension of Satoru, convinced he was dropped as a child or something and just doesn’t know it. He knows he definitely wouldn’t tell his kid if he dropped them as a baby. 

He relaxes his tensed brows and shakes his head as he pulls up the number Satoru sent. For some reason, he expected it to be your old number that he still somehow knew by heart. 

He hates that he remembers it. 

He also hates that the actual reason why you disappeared isn’t as dumb and selfish as he wanted it to be. 

. . . . . .

In the three weeks he’s had your number, he hasn’t tried reaching out. He also hasn’t accepted any invitations to hang out with anyone as a group, despite being told that you were okay with him showing up. Part of it was spite, the rest being him genuinely tired from work. 

His old man’s been taking more time off under the guise of letting him ‘take over for the day’. He acts so gracious with it, too, as if Sukuna should be thankful for the opportunity, when really, Wasuke should just fucking retire already so he can hire someone else to take his place as site manager. He’s essentially working two jobs now and when he asked for a raise, that old piece of shit laughed so hard that he damn near coughed up fifty years worth of cigarette tar.

You’d think watching his father nearly hack up an entire lung would be enough to make him quit smoking himself, but that shit pissed him off so bad that he smoked three cigarettes in a row just to calm down before going back to work. It still pisses him off. He doesn’t regret taking $50 out of that old man's wallet on his way out to cover his gas for the day. He honestly should’ve taken more. 

It’s been months since he’s gotten home at a decent time. Tonight was probably the worst thus far. 

He drags his feet into his apartment and kicks off his boots, heavy eyes landing on the clock that’s two minutes away from 10:00 pm. 

The next ten minutes are spent shoveling leftovers into his mouth, followed by a hot shower that was mainly spent just standing there, zoning out as the hot water hit his back. It’s been days since he’s jacked off, realizing it doesn’t even give him the urge, his sex drives plummeted all the way down to hell. He just wants to sleep at this point. 

Except when his head hits the pillow, he’s wide awake. It doesn’t help that he ends up scrolling through instagram— there was hardly a point for someone that barely followed anyone to begin with. 

There’s not much to scroll through. The most interesting thing being a recent post of Suguru’s night. He absentmindedly looks through them, then pauses at the 4th photo of you and Shoko with your little drinks in hand. 

You were barely smiling. 

Your lips curved just enough for the camera— nothing like the photos of you from before, grinning and laughing. That’s how he’s always remembered you.

Would it have even made a difference if he told you not to move so far away for school? It’s not like he could’ve known, you never said anything. He thought you were doing just fine and you deleted everything one day and changed your number. 

He taps the photo to see who’s tagged. Just Shoko. You still haven’t gotten back on social media, no profile to see what you’ve been up to. All he knows about you is that you moved back to the area after graduation and scored a cozy finance job without telling anyone. The only reason why you got in touch with Shoko again was because she ran into you at some bakery and made you give her your number. 

It didn’t even matter if you did have a new phone with no contacts by the time you moved back. You didn’t need to text him or call him, you could’ve just shown up. Sure, he might’ve been annoyed at first, but he wouldn’t have turned you away. 

You’ve known each other since 8 years old, you disappeared at 19. That’s his whole childhood right there. You played together, ate lunch together, walked to school together until he got a car, ditched school together. You had your own shampoo and toothbrush at his and would just use his clothes if you didn’t have a spare set with you.

It’s just dumb.

Still thinking about it, that is. It’s been years. It may have been fine to still be thinking about it at 21 or 22, but now it’s just ridiculous.

. . . . . .

You aren’t expecting Sukuna to warm up any time soon. At all, really. You couldn’t blame him for the reaction he had seeing you at Kento’s birthday. If there was one person that deserved an explanation, it was him, and you’re just about seven years too late for that. 

He wasn’t the same person you knew. You couldn’t just go up to him expecting that you’d get to have a conversation. A civil one, at least. 

It’s been years. 

And honesty, it might not even be about being several years too late. He’s a grown man, why would he care about a childhood friend that just up and left?

All there’s left to do now is to stay out of his way. You’re sure his temper’s the same and the last thing you want is to bug him. Hopefully being at a kids birthday party shields you from it in the case that you accidentally do. From what you heard, he seems close enough with Toji to know not to fuck with his sons special day. 

It’s not all bad. Toji couldn’t come to Kento’s birthday since his wife and son woke up sick that day, so you were more excited than nervous for today since you’d get to meet them. 

This time it was you that picked up Ieiri. You felt a little guilty for being the one that constantly got rides, despite having a running car of your own. Once you two got to the little park in their neighborhood, everyone was already there, including Sukuna, who was stuck having to watch his nephew that you’ve heard about through Choso. 

The biggest plot twist of all was probably learning that Jin is now technically Choso’s stepfather. You knew Choso had a teen mom, you didn’t know she was that young, though. You also had no idea how much of a milf hunter Jin was, either. 

Jin apparently didn’t know that was Choso’s mother. No one believes him, especially not Sukuna, who still looks at two like they’re a couple of fucking sickos for making him Choso’s step-uncle. 

The kid’s name is Yuji, and he looks just like Jin and Sukuna when they were kids. He’s the same age as Toji’s son, who’s turning 3 today. Yuji acts nothing like his father or his uncle. Jin was always quiet and sensitive. Sukuna was sensitive, too, but he was always very vocal about the things that annoyed him. The toddler was more like Gojo, hopped up on sugar and bouncing off the walls. 

Sukuna calls out to him like an angry mother at a grocery store, gritting his teeth as he tells the kid to, “get your ass over here, NOW,” all while Yuji pretends not to hear or see him…. up until Sukuna gets up from the bench, which is when the little boy decides to run back to him, whining about how he’s sorry and how he didn’t know. 

Megumi’s more quiet and follows Yuji around. He even ran back to Sukuna with the boy, worried that his friend's uncle was going to leave him at the park too, even though his father was at the grill just a few feet away. 

Watching the two boys play is adorable, but you try not to look too much in an attempt to avoid making eye contact with the grumpy uncle, which ends up becoming more difficult than you’d imagined. The kid eventually wore him out to the point where he managed to slip out his view. 

Yuji didn't go very far. 

“...es’cuse me?”

You feel a little tug at your shorts and look down to find an incredibly worried Yuji, who should’ve gone to an adult he knew, but here he was after quickly deciding you were the trusted adult for whatever problem he had. 

“What’s wrong?” You crouch down, getting at eye level. “Are you okay?” 

“No,” he shakes his head, pointing to his feet. “I donno how to tie my shoes.”

“You don’t?” you ask, sounding just as concerned. “Do you want me to tie them for you?” 

He pouts. “Yes, please.” 

Your heart melts at his little voice. “Aw, okay.”

Like any other kid, Yuji’s amazed at how fast adults can tie shoelaces, unable to keep up with the strings crossing and looping around each other to create the little bow at the end. 

“Yay!” He claps his hands, jumping in excitement. “We can play again, Gumi!”

Megumi thinks to celebrate with his friend, but closes his mouth right after opening it. 

Then you’re startled by a scoff made directly behind you. “You make a stranger tie your shoes and you can’t even say thank you?” 

The last to freeze is Yuji, who side-eyes him, rather than turning to face him. “Um.. ya I did..”

“No you didn’t?!” The toddler's ability to lie over something so simple amazes and offends the man at the same time. Does Yuji seriously think he’s that stupid? “I watched you lie about not knowing how to tie your shoes and then I watched you try to run off with even thanking her.” 

“I donno how to tie my shoe!” Yuji stomps a foot on the ground to prove whatever point he thought he was making. 

“Yes, you do— now thank her, before I take your shoes away.” 

“Oh no, not my shoes!”

“Yeah. Bye bye, shoes.” Sukuna snorts, clearly enjoying this. “You’re a big boy now, remember? You don’t need them.”

“Yes, I do!” Yuji whines.

“Then have some manners and say thank you.” Sukuna continues to glare at the kid while pointing at you.

“Thank you for tying my shoe,” Yuji tightly grabs the bottom of his t-shirt with both hands and bows at you, then turns to his uncle and starts whimpering. “Don’t eat my shoes, Unkakuna! I need them!” 

Sukuna’s even more annoyed now at how specific that was. “Who said I was gonna eat them?!” 

“I dunno! You eat everything!” Yuji claims, bottom lip quivering and all, making his uncle's eye twitch in disbelief. “It’s all stuck in your big belly.” 

Sukuna’s face drops, as if he didn’t see a 6-pack in the mirror this morning with his own eyes.

“I don't have a goddamn belly,” he scolds him through a clenched jaw, then lowers his tone as he begins to crouch down. “Do you want me to hit your Papa Jin?” 

“No!!!”

“Then quit acting like I eat everything in sight, you little shit.”

Yuji scratches the back of his head as he continues to whine, trying to force a couple tears out. Eventually he turns to you. “He’s gonna hit my papa with his big belly.” 

“Uh-oh. That's not nice,” you begin to laugh, all while Sukuna grumbles something about Jin being the one with love handles. 

“Papa gonna cry,” he claims, continuing to act distraught over the news, trying to get all the sympathy he can from you. “My poor papa.” 

You giggle. “I don’t think he’ll hit your papa, though.”

“He’s gonna EAT my papa!” Yuji stretches his arms out, emphasizing how big of a meal that would be for Sukuna. As if it couldn't get any worse, Yuji finds a random basketball and tries to stuff it under his shirt. “Then his belly will be big like THIS.”

“Stop it,” Sukuna snaps, pointing off into the distance behind the kid. “Get out of here before I barbecue you on that grill Mr. Toji’s using.” 

“Hey!” Yuji gasps. “You can’t do that!”

“You can barbecue anything when you have barbecue sauce, Yuji.” he informs the kid, then notices a mortified Megumi standing off to the side. “You’re next.”

“DAAAADDDDYYYYYYYY.” 

The boys run to Toji at full speed. Yuji thinks it’s a game, but Megumi’s genuinely scared, sobbing as his father picks him. His dad’s obviously confused as to why his son’s crying like someone threatened to kill him. Once Megumi’s able to actually get a full sentence out as he points right as Sukuna. 

If Megumi thought he was going to receive any sort of comfort from his father, he was dead wrong. Toji bursts out laughing and doesn’t stop, even when Megumi starts screaming and hitting him for not being more concerned over something so dire.

“Megumi says you’re not allowed to have any cake,” Toji yells out. 

“I’m taking Yuji home if I don’t get a slice.” 

Sukuna’s response has the two boys whining in the distance. 

“NO barbecue me.” Megumi glares as he tries to strike a deal with the most difficult person he’s encountered so far in his short, yet stressful life. 

“Give me three slices and I won’t barbecue you.”

“But Unkukuna, you’re belly!” Yuji rounds his arms out in front of him, emphasizing how detrimental those extra calories would be for his physique. 

Everyone grows quiet as Sukuna stares him down, wondering who the fuck even taught him that. Whoever it was better pray to god that he doesn’t find out. 

“I’m not gonna be your uncle anymore if you keep talking about my belly.”

Yuji reaches out in despair as he screams, “NOOO.”

“No? You don’t want that?” he asks, fighting back a smile. 

Yuji throws his back dramatically, shaking his head. “NO.”

“That’s what I thought,” he barks, not bothering to hide how proud breaking Yuji down with a singular sentence made him. “Now ZIP IT.”

“KAY’.” 

Yuji looks away for a moment to take a deep breath, trying to calm down, all while sneaking little peeks at Sukuna. 

He quickly looks away after seeing that his uncle’s staring at him, then peeks again. It happens several times, yet his uncle hasn’t moved a muscle once as he continues to just look at the boy like he’s better than him. 

What kind of a sick game is this? 

Naturally, he grows irritated knowing Sukuna is winning whatever game this is, which isn’t fair since he’s already going to have three slices of cake later. Even one slice was pushing it, to tell you the truth. He was too young to put into words why it pissed him off. All he knows is watching Sukuna enjoy good things, that are meant for good people, will never sit right with his spirit.

By the time Sukuna decided to stop staring at the kid as a form of psychological warfare, you had already been awkwardly standing there for quite some time, unsure if you should leave or not. It was either look rude or look too comfortable, neither of which you wanted to come off as.

Sukuna wasn’t mad at you anymore. At least not since Gojo called and told him you were and still are dealing with some mental health stuff. 

He wasn’t planning on talking to you today, either, purely because he didn’t believe he should have to apologize for giving someone a harmless look. But then he caught Yuji trying to get your attention and figured it would’ve been fine since 2 minutes with him would make anyone want to choose peace for the next hour.

You couldn’t tell what he was thinking when your eyes finally met his, but at least he wasn’t giving you that same disgusted look you got at Nanami’s birthday. 

You weren’t the best at starting conversations outside of work, though, and quickly embarrassed yourself with how bad you stuttered while trying to find something to say, which ended up being an apology for tying the kids' shoe. 

In turn, Sukuna looked at you like you were a fucking weirdo. 

“What? No, it’s— that’s fine,” he waves a hand, still thrown off by the apology. “He just goes around annoying anybody he can.”

“Oh– don’t worry, he didn’t annoy me. He's adorable.” 

You suppress a laugh as he shoots you a look saying he’s anything but that. 

“He’s a pain in the ass,” he grumbles, already rubbing his eyes from how tired he is. “We passed around a baseball for an hour before coming here and he’s still running around trying to convince people that I’m a fatass.”

He has to be at least 200 pounds of pure muscle and has the ass of a baseball player, so you neither confirm nor deny the words out of fear that you’d make yourself look stupid again. “He probably just likes your attention.”

“That’s the problem— he’s probably taken 10 years off my life already because of it,” he smiles a little, obviously more fond of the kid that he lets on. 

You avert your gaze as you find yourself smiling as well. “His poor parents.”

“They have good life insurance, he’ll be set.”

“Oh, I'm sure,” you laugh with him until it dies down into another awkward silence. You’ve barely looked at him and try not to think too much about it after the realization. Having a conversation with him was surprising enough. Difficult on your end, too, but you pushed yourself. “How’ve your dad and Jin been?”

“Jin’s been good, he’s—” he huffs out a laugh, “you know he went and made Choso his fuckin’ stepson right?” He openly points at Choso, not very worried about getting caught. 

“Yeah,” you nod, just as surprised by it, more so by the fact that Choso and Yuji and brothers. 

“Well. He’s still going strong with Kaori. Just bought a house,” he struggles to list things worth sharing— aside from the mommy kink, his brother’s pretty boring. Sukuna quickly moves on to Wasuke, who he has no issue talking about. “Old man’s driving me nuts. Says he wants to retire, instead he just takes a bunch of days off and pretends he’s doing me a favor by letting me play boss while he’s gone, so now I’m doing my job and his.” 

“You’re working for the company?”

He sighs deeply. “Yeah.” 

It pains him to say, remembering all that talk about him wanting ‘something of his own’ when he was younger. Now here he is, set to take over daddy’s company. 

“I mean… it’s already there,” you try to offer some words of reassurance, being the one that heard most of the said talk. “All you have to do is maintain it once it’s yours.”  

“Exactly,” his tone changes, less ashamed of pulling the nepo baby card. “I’m not tryna work any harder than I should at this point.”

“Does he pay you extra on the days he’s off, at least?” 

“Fuck no.” He laughs, even though there is nothing funny about being exploited at his grown age. “Yeah— nope— he works me like a fuckin’ dog.” 

Hence why he’s been helping himself to whatever cash is in the old man’s wallet and whatever food he has in his pantry when he visits. He makes good money to begin with, so it’s not like he can’t afford any of it, it’s just the principal. 

He’ll take Wasuke’s toilet paper, too. 

That old man has one year to either give him a raise or retire completely before couches and T.V.s start to go missing. 

“Old man’s been good, though… still kickin’,” he mutters, then stops himself before saying something really fucked up, “What’ve you been up to?”

You shrug as you let out an indecisive hum, knowing you didn’t have much to share. “Nothing really— work usually has me pretty busy.”

He’s well aware of how boring of a life you have, but still tries to push for more details. “Yeah? Suguru says you’re in finance now.”

“Mhm,” you nod, growing shy, “portfolio manager.”

“You spend the day telling people what to do now?” he asks as if he were almost impressed. 

“Not really,” you laugh. “A lot of it’s research, reporting, meeting with clients, I— yeah, I mainly just take care of more of the sensitive stuff. If my manager hat’s on, it’s usually just collecting reports from the other managers or figuring out what’s going on with their teams if they’re not performing the way they need to.” 

He nearly barks out a laugh. 

You look at him with confusion. “What?” 

“So instead of managing a bunch of people, you just terrorize their managers?”

“I don’t terrorize them,” you murmur, shifting in place. “It’s their job to make sure that their teams are performing well and if they aren’t—”

“You ask them why they aren’t doing their jobs,” he finishes your sentence with an amused grin. “Then they sit there for the next hour, trying to come up with an answer for that.”

You pause for a moment, wondering if he has to do the same. “Well— kind of.”

You don’t have time to sit there and listen for an hour, nor do you want to. The longest one went just over twenty minutes before you had to stop her. 

“Listen, Linda— I,” you stopped to think twice about what you were going to say, “I’m just asking why there’s been a dip in the performance, I really don’t need an entire life story for that. Why don’t we take a few steps back— how has your team been?”

“Well… uhm… well… they…” You nodded, thinking it’d encourage her, and it did, but 5 minutes later she went off course to talk about her failing marriage, again. “And then Dave, he—”

“Is Dave a new hire?” 

Her eyes dried right up. “No… Dave is my husband.” 

You knew damn well who Dave was, but she was starting to get on your nerves.

“Okay, let’s talk about your team right now… this is about work— Dave doesn’t work here.” You tried your best to be patient with her, but it was like teaching a kindergartener how to self regulate. “I wanna know things like how everyone’s been mentally— are they eating, are they getting enough sleep, are they taking their breaks? Are they having to work through them?”

She didn’t know. She just wanted to give you a sob story so you’d let her off the hook. So, when she mentioned Dave a third time:

“This isn’t working,” you murmur to yourself as you turn to your computer and start typing. “I’m going to make a little worksheet for everyone, including you. Think of it as a peer review. You’ll have one for each team member and each team member will have one for you. I think that’ll be an easier way to get to the bottom of things.” 

Instead of excusing herself, she stares at you like a deer in headlights.

“There’s no need to wait on me by the way, I’ll have them emailed out to everyone within the next hour.”

On the rare occasion that you do have to ask performance related questions, you send them the same exact worksheet so they have an idea of what you wanted to talk about— which is the only part you mention to Sukuna. He’d probably accuse you of terrorizing Linda when you know you could’ve been ten times worse.

You’re just glad he didn’t ask about any of the other stuff you had to do.

Sometimes you wished you spent your days in Linda’s professional shoes— god forbid you ever had to deal with a man like Dave. Her job was less demanding than yours. More human. Working with others and collaborating with them must be great in terms of keeping you grounded— normal people, that is. 

You wouldn’t consider any of the people you answer to now as normal. The stakeholders, clients, the higher ups, Yaga— they’re all fucking crazy. You couldn’t just pretend like they were normal, you had to match their energy and in some cases, you had to be worse to finish whatever job you were tasked to do, which drove you closer to their territory with each day that passed.

“Do you like it there?” Sukuna looks at you and asks, tone fond and filled with warmth, as if he were proud of you. 

In the same moment you realize that you were only fooling yourself earlier when you tried to believe that he hated you. 

You wish you could turn back time by just a few seconds to change the subject. You didn’t want to answer a question that he clearly wanted a yes to— you’re sure it’d make him feel better about knowing you chose to spend all those years alone, when you had someone would’ve easily stayed by your side. 

You grew stiff, eyes glossing at the question because you hated the real answer to it. 

“Not really,” you murmur, almost ashamed to admit it. “That’s kinda how I feel about most things, though.” 

It was true. You don’t even know why you’re wishing for a job like Linda’s, you always came off as cold and hardly spoke to others before the big promotion. 

He didn’t know what to say to that, he wasn’t even sure if there were any words you could give to someone as apathetic as you sounded when answering. It’s not like he was the type to offer anything encouraging to begin with. Instead, he stayed quiet, comfortable in the silence as he let his own mind run free for a bit. 

Just as you were starting to think you made him uncomfortable—

“Did anyone have to drag you here today?” he asks. 

“No.”

“So you chose to come to soot sprites' birthday?” he asks, as judgmental as ever.

You smile. “I did.” 

He gently rests his hand on top of your head, leaving you with a familiar sense of comfort as he leaned in. “You’re not doing too bad then.” 

“Uncle-Kunaaaaaaa!” The man looks up to see his nephew sprinting towards him. “My tummy growling!!”

“This kid’s always coming up with the most extra ways to say things,” he mutters under his breath as he pulls away. “So you’re hungry?”

Yuji slows down the closer he gets, until he’s skipping towards the man. “Yeah. Mr. Toji says he make chicken sticks.” 

Sukuna looks at Yuji the way he always does whenever the kid decides to rename something. “You mean skewers?”

“Yeah, chicken sticks,” Yuji nods, confidently repeating himself, because Sukuna was obviously wrong, even though Toji said skewers, too. Both men obviously don’t know what they’re talking about. 

The man actually looked to you for help, and given how it’s an issue between a 3 year old rage baiter and a grown man that will make time to argue with a child, you decide to stay out of it. 

“That sounds yummy,” you say to Yuji, and you could feel Sukuna glaring at you for not even bothering to call them skewers, too. “You guys should probably grab some before Suguru arrives, he loves chicken and leftovers.” 

Sukuna lets out a mixture of a scoff and a laugh since it’s true, but if anyone’s taking those skewers home, it’s him. 

Which is why he lets Yuji start to pull him away to get some. 

. . . 

Getting to talk to you more, after being pulled away from Yuji, hardly counted since it was with groups of other people. 

Luckily for Sukuna, your car’s parked right next to his and you’re leaving at the same time he’s trying to get the little brat in his car seat. He’s half asleep and won’t let go— each time he physically tries to pry Yuji off of him, he does this weird muted scream. 

He’s about 2.5 seconds away from wrestling this kid when he hears someone. 

“Bye.” 

It comes off as a little unnatural, but it’s in more of an awkward ‘I don’t know if I should say goodbye to you right now’ way. 

Sukuna turns around. “Oh, wait—” 

His hand slides into his pocket, only to find it empty, then realizes it’s in the pocket of his jacket. The side where Yuji’s on and won’t leave. You stay in the place the whole time, wondering if he’s aware of how funny he looks grumbling to himself as he checks all his other pockets. 

He eventually finds his business card, then rolls his eyes after realizing he’s about to give you a business card, because he’d rather not tell you he already has your number. To add salt to injury, he didn’t even need to pull his phone out, because the goal was to give you his number. 

“Here.” He hands the semi-decent card over for you to take, surprised it’s not more broken down since he’s always leaving them in his pockets, even when he’s throwing his clothes in the washer. “You don’t have to of course, but feel free to reach out if you’re interested in catching up sometime over lunch or something.” 

“Yeah, that’d be nice.” You look at the card, flipping it over a couple times. “Um… I don’t actually… need this, though.”

He stares at you for a moment, wondering if it was just some pathetic, last minute excuse to turn him down. 

“I already have it,” you shyly admit, handing the card back to him as if it were better off going to someone else. “Satoru gave it to me a couple weeks ago. I just wasn’t sure if you wanted to hear from me.” 

“Fair enough.” He shrugs, reluctant to say more— he might be down to catch up, but he’s still not apologizing for his face. “Shoot me a text sometime, then. I wouldn’t mind.” 

“Yeah, I will.” You smile a little, trying to hide a bit of the excitement that was starting to bubble up. “Alright, well— it was nice seeing you.”

“Yeah, you too.”

. . . . . . 

‘You’re not doing too bad.’

It took around 3 months after the words left Sukuna’s mouth to actually start believing them. 

It’s not like your life was crazy interesting now. It just slowly started to fill up with things you looked forward to over time. Whether it be hanging out with others or simply sitting in your living room with a latte you took your time making. Your apartment started to feel more like a home with each new addition you added to it. You were nowhere near done, but you found yourself enjoying the process of casually looking through items and randomly falling in love with different ones. 

The newest addition was a painting you saw a year ago and decided not to buy, despite how much you loved it. You stood in that gallery for over an hour, convincing yourself that it would never get that much attention from you again once you took it home. You were convinced that it’d find a way to collect dust in a space that felt as sterile as yours, and left it for someone that had a home where it wouldn’t. 

You found it again in a consignment store with a big coffee stain on the side of the canvas. The person who ended up buying it probably got rid of the moment it spilled. They didn’t even bother hanging it up, and most likely had it on some counter before the accident happened. By the time you got to it, it was collecting dust with dozens of other paintings leaned against the wall since they weren’t good enough to be hung up.

You paid less than a quarter of it was originally worth, but a part of you thinks you would’ve purchased it for its original price if it meant you got to take it home. You’ve thought about it nearly everyday since you stepped out of that pristine gallery, after all.  

Sukuna stared at it for a while before hanging it up. You can’t remember how the conversation started, but he came over and put it up for you after finding out you were going to do it yourself, claiming you didn’t have the right tools. You probably don’t. 

It wasn’t until the canvas was up on the wall when he finally asked the question you had been expecting to get after you caught him looking at it funny. 

“That brown stuff on the bottom corner is a part of the whole thing, right?”

“Nope.” 

He just stood there and continued staring at the damn thing with you, waiting silently for an explanation that he soon realized he’d never get on his own.  

“Are coffee stains some new trend I don’t know about?” 

He was dead serious. It was almost funny how he couldn’t believe that you’d just buy something that was stained like that. 

“Nope, not a trend.” 

He continued to stare at you, so utterly confused as to why you want that thing hung up on your wall when you could just walk into one of those art shops and buy a new one. It’s not like you couldn’t afford it, he’s seen some of the shit you own and you’re clearly not bothered by commas on a price tag. 

You eventually told him the story. He probably still didn’t get it, but that didn’t really matter. 

“How cute,” he says rather boredly, wondering why you couldn’t just tell him that in the first place. “You didn’t buy it for more than 50% of its price, right?” 

You shoot him an annoyed look. “I spent almost an entire year sulking over it, do you seriously think the price of it matters at this point? I wanted it.” 

“You probably ended up cursing the damn thing so no one else could have it. People don’t usually spill coffee on paintings.” he says, starting to laugh the longer he thought about it. 

You don’t laugh with him, but he does catch the proud look on your face as you walk away, just happy to have it. He walks after you with another question in mind, hoping now was an okay time since he always forgets. 

“Mind me asking why you’re just now starting to furnish the place?” 

You shrug. “I was just always too tired to get out of bed. If it wasn’t for work, I wasn’t getting up,” you remind him. “Too many choices to make, too. I’d get overwhelmed and stop looking for stuff.” 

“Yeah, there’s a lotta shit out there,” he murmurs, helping himself to one of the white claws in your fridge. 

The can cracks open and he takes a sip, looking over your living room that’s become a bit more filled in since the first time he came over to help you put your couch together. The place was so empty that he automatically assumed you had recently moved in. 

He’s been helpful since Megumi’s birthday— at least he tries to be. 

It never feels forced, most of the time it’s just him asking if you wanna come along to a place he was already going to, just to get you out of the house. 

He also asks how you’re actually doing, a lot— figuring you were just someone that needed some extra support, given how one lonely, difficult semester made you isolate yourself to the point where you started to believe you weren’t worth missing.

Once, he almost asked how you could’ve ever put him into that category. He loved you, both platonically and not platonically. But he never asked, the past is the past and that’s probably just how it is when someone’s spirit’s in the dumps.

He’s far from a therapist and never has any advice to give, but he was surprisingly good at getting you out of your head— pull you back to reality, without the reality check. You’ve obviously had more than enough of them. It’s why he doesn’t bother being harsh with you, at all. Even during the times he’s come off as more straightforward, you don’t feel any judgement or malice behind his words. The last thing he wanted was to say or do something that made you think you couldn’t give him a call. 

It’s probably why you’re so comfortable with having him come over and why you don’t mind telling him certain things, like the fact that you spent most of your free time sleeping at one point. He never bats an eye. He just wants to be around you, like he’s always had.

“Summers’ coming up. Getting anything for the balcony?” he asks, nodding in the direction of its doors. 

You turn your head, looking over at the empty space. “What would I even get?” 

He’s mid-sip when you ask, but hums in acknowledgment. “Some seating, a little table, maybe a fire pit if you’re feeling extra crazy.” 

You fight back a smile, “Oh? Thanks, asshole.”

“You might be a grandma, but I never said there’s nothing wrong with it.” 

“I’m trying not to be, okay.” You give him the finger as you walk to the fridge, hoping he didn’t take the last seltzer. Seconds later you’re cracking one open yourself.

He chuckles at the little pout you get on your face when you’re offended. “I’m just fuckin’ with you— you’re fine.”

“I guess,” you murmur, leaving him in the kitchen to go take a seat on the couch. 

He trails behind you, leaving enough space between the two of you as he takes a seat on the couch he nearly lost his mind trying to put together. The instructions were in a language so uncommon that most people go about their lives without knowing about it.

“What do you mean you guess?” 

“I don’t know,” you murmur. “Kinda feel guilty for all the years I lost, I wish I could get them back.”

“I bet,” he leans back in his seat. “You ever considered making more time for yourself, now?”

“What do you mean?” 

“Taking some time off. Could be a week, could be a couple months. You could even try working part time for a little. You have a savings, I’m sure you could get away with taking a break.” 

“Oh— yeah, I have actually. The company has really good benefits, though. It’s kinda why I haven’t even tried to leave,” you turn towards him, leaning against the arm rest as you hug your knees. “I’ve been considering asking for a demotion, though.” 

You’re not quite sure how Yaga would handle that. You’ve been coming up with different ideas all month— a hybrid schedule, switching to a 4 day work week, maybe leaving early some days, a demotion. You’re sure taking on another role would have its own difficulties, but it’d be easy to handle compared to all you do now. The workload you have really should  be split between two people, maybe even three. 

“That’d definitely be a lot less work,” he remarks, still shocked at all the shit he has you do. 

“A lot less— I’m hoping Yaga agrees to one of them. If not, I might just find some place else. I could probably take a few months off then. Free time does sound nice.” 

“Yeah you could sleep in, hang out with anyone who’s free, find a hobby, go on a date—“

His last suggestion gets shut down with a laugh. “Yeah, right.” 

“What?” he smirks.

“I suck at dating,” you inform him. “I don’t even know how to anymore.” 

He snorts. “That’s a little dramatic, no?”

“It’s true— last time I went on one was three years ago.”

He raises his brows, then flatly asks, “Three?”

“Don’t judge me,” you grumble. 

“M’not. It’s just— 3 years of completely nothing?”

“God— obviously.” You hide your face in embarrassment. “You are judging me right now.”

“I’m not,” he laughs, taking another sip. “Just a long time to go without having someone take care of you.” 

"Well I slept through most of it anyway so I'm fine,” you roll your eyes, annoyed at how he’d even make a joke like that when he knows you can support yourself just fine without anyone’s help.

“You’re awake right now, though.” 

“So?” you scoff.

“I can take care of you, if you want,” he offers.

“Not funny,” you murmur, just about ready to kick his ass out. 

At first, he’s confused as to why his little offer had you that offended. Then after a minute, it clicks. Since you refuse to look at him, you miss the amused grin on his face after realizing you two are thinking about two entirely separate things in terms of ‘being taken care of’.

You only finally look at him when he gets up from where he’s sitting and there’s a shit eating smirk on his face, making you think he’s just being a dick and leaving.

Then he takes a seat right next to you, leg just barely brushing against yours.

“What are you d—”

“I think you’re a little confused here,” he says a little too calmly, throwing his arm over the backrest and leaning in way too close.

“Listen, I looked forward to hanging up that painting of yours all day, same goes for all the other stuff I’ve helped you out with.” You feel your cheeks start to warm as a result of the low, honeyed tone he’s using on you. “I really like helping you. It makes you a little happier, and with all the assholes I have to deal with everyday, it makes my day a lot better. So, why not just let me do a little more?”

“I don’t— what are you even talking about right now?” Your words come out all nervous and jumbled, failing to stay calm from how close this guy is. 

“I’m talking about all the times I’ve caught you looking at my dick print.”

Your eyes widen in horror and he laughs. 

“Yeah, you’re not slick,” he tucks some hair behind your ear and leans in closer. “C’mon— you’re not even at work right now and your mind’s still all over the place trying to find stuff to be stressed about. Aren’t you tired?”

Your heart pounds against your chest as you hesitate to answer. “I mean— yeah.” 

“Let me fuck you then,” he murmurs, tracing the backs of his fingers down your arm. “You won’t have to think about anything, won’t have to do anything— just gotta take it. Super easy. Sounds fun, huh?” 

“I… I don’t know,” you just barely whisper, shifting in your seat from all the nerves, looking like a deer in headlights.

“I think you do know.” He continues to toy with you as he waits for you to say anything else. Surprise: you never do. 

“I’ll stop if you tell me to.”

You look like you’re about to have a panic attack and it’s adorable. “Stop what?”

“This.” He smiles, pressing a soft kiss right under your ear, humming against your skin, not missing the way it makes your breath hitch. Then he presses another one on your jaw, then another, getting closer to your lips and pulling back right before he does, meeting your glazed over, half lidded eyes. 

He snakes a hand around the back of your neck and pulls you in, making your lips meet his. The first kiss is slow and gentle, letting you warm up to it. You put your legs down trying to get closer, not expecting for it to grow more heated, too. 

An arm wraps around your waist and you're being pulled in to straddle his lap. His big hands roam around your hips and ass as you start to full on make out, grinding you down against something long and hard until you’re desperately panting against each other. 

He gives your ass one last squeeze before finding the bottom of your shirt and pulling it up over your head, rushing to unclip your bra and tossing it in whichever direction the shirt went. A soft gasp slips through your lips once you feel the wet heat of his pierced tongue drag a slow stripe over your nipple, not thinking much about the way Sukuna smiled at you afterwards. 

You should’ve braced yourself for the level of greed you were about to experience. 

Many minutes later, your tits are covered in spit and you’re failing to bite back moans out of self preservation. 

And it’s fucking hard. 

Sukuna’s groaning and dragging a heavy tongue over each nipple 1, 2, 3, 4 times before wrapping his lips around them and starts sucking. He goes back and forth between each, pulling away with a wet, lewd pop before moving on to the next. At first, he’d replace his mouth with his fingers— rubbing, rolling, and pinching on the sensitive bud so it’s not completely neglected while he works on the other one. 

They’re now firmly planted on your hips, because apparently he needs the extra friction. So now your shorts are soaked through and you’re trying not to cum as he continues to push you down back and forth against his cock.

Your fingers are digging into his shoulders, the moans you’re struggling to bite back come out as whines and the one thing that actually pulls one out of you is when Sukuna’s palm cracks down on your ass. 

“Come here.”

He pulls you in by the back of your neck and swallows all the little sounds you try not to make with a kiss messier than the last. 

The air's hot and heavy once he breaks it. A small string of saliva hangs on and then breaks as you pull away, already looking like a mess while trying to catch your breath.  

“Bed?”

“Yeah,” you nod, sounding more desperate. 

“Thought so,” he stifles out a laugh as he suddenly gets up, easily taking you with him as he makes the short walk to your bedroom. 

He sets you down on the mattress before pulling his shirt over his head. The buckle of his belt lightly clinks as he undoes it to take his pants off, leaving just his boxers on that leave little room for imagination. He leans forward, hooking his fingers over the waistband of your soaked fucking shorts, taking them off along with your panties in one go. 

You don’t even get the opportunity to be shy around Sukuna because he's immediately grabbing the backs of your thighs and letting out a low whistle while pulling them apart to get a good look at how wet you already are. 

“Shit— look at you,” he groans. 

Without warning, he dips his head down in between your thighs, and he licks a long, fat stripe up your slit, not missing the extra friction from the metal ball on his tongue. There’s a shit eating smirk on his face when his head comes up, teasing you as he pushes you back further up the bed to make more room for himself. 

“Told you this was fun.”

“Shut up.” You giggle as you watch him get settled back in between your thighs, only for it to die out once he dips his head back down. 

He draws a long sigh out of you once he starts to slowly lap at your sensitive clit. He goes at an unhurried pace, just barely using any pressure and you’re sure he’s just doing it to fuck with you. With the way you are right now, the lazily licks are fucking torture, making you squirm around while you clench around nothing.

The more you move, the tighter his grip around the back of your thighs gets, until you find yourself pinned in place as he finally starts to pick up the pace, adding more pressure until that metal ball starts swiping across your clit like you need it to. You focus on it, until it gets ripped away once you finally feel his tongue press flat against your hole and begins dragging heavy stripes up to your clit. 

Your breathing grows sharp and uneven, hand moving down to his head, locking strands of hair in between your fingers as drawn out moans start spilling past your lips. He goes from pressing his tongue against your entrance to pushing past it, dipping further and further until deciding to just stay there and fuck you with it.

The shallow thrusts have you squeezing and clenching, back arching off the bed, desperate for more. You nearly let out a pathetic cry when he pulls away, but then he fills the empty space right back up with not one, but two of his fingers. They’re long and thick, and he’s curling them in. The pads of his fingers rub right up against that spot inside that has you seeing stars. 

Through half-lidded eyes, you watch as he starts to pump them in and out faster, until a light squelch can be heard. “Oh fuuuck.” 

“You like my fingers?” he asks with a low, amused hum. 

You nod. “Feels so good— oh my god.”

“I bet— look at how fuckin’ soaked they are from you.” He pulls them all the way out for you to see, then stuffs them back in. He starts curling faster, thumb pressing your clit and rubbing little circles until you’re clenching and whining. “Yeahh— that’s it, show me how good that feels.”

He keeps hitting your sweet spot until something in you shifts, making you close your legs out of instinct, only for him to keep them open so he can keep going. 

“Oh my god— fuck— wait!” you cry out. 

“What’s wrong, baby? Gonna cum?” Instead of letting up, he goes faster, letting the room continue to fill up with the filthy sounds of his fingers scissoring into your cunt, pushing you over the edge until you give him what he wants. 

And he gets it quick. You let out a sharp cry as you gush around him, finally cumming after holding it in from earlier.

“Fuuck yeah, there you go,” he rasps, fingers slowing down as he works you through it. 

He waits for you to catch your breath before leaning forward and kissing you a couple times, humming with each one. 

“Tired or you wanna keep goin’?” he asks. 

You’re still trying to catch your breath as you answer. “Yeah, keep going.”

“Atta girl.” 

He pushes himself off the bed to take the boxers off and your eyes widen at his cock that’s bigger than you originally thought it’d be. It springs out of his boxers with multiple piercings and precum smeared all over his darkened red tip. 

And of course, you stare for longer than you should.

“You alright?” he asks, sounding cocky as hell, and actually having the right to be. 

Taking your eyes off feels impossible— 3 rows of barbells on the underside of his shaft right below his tip, and another one on the underside of his tip. It almost feels wrong, he’s already long and thick. 

“Yeah— I just— holy shit.” 

“I know.” He says with full confidence as he gets back on the bed and situating himself in between your legs. “Gonna be fun watching you take it.”

He grabs the backs of your knees and spreads your legs further apart, getting a better look at how wet you still are, fighting back a smile knowing it’s from him.

He gives his cock a couple pumps, then looks at you, not sure whether you’re excited or nervous. “You ready?”

You look at him, then back down to the absolute monster he has in his hand, then back up at him. 

“Mhm.”

He stares at you for a few seconds, then casually shrugs. “Alright.”

You’ll get used to it.

He runs the head of his cock through your slick folds, tapping it over your clit a couple times, making you a bit more nervous after feeling the cold metal ball from his piercing nudging at your entrance. 

He pushes in, and you both have the same reaction to how easy it slides in despite how tight of a fit it was. You take in a sharp breath as he starts to sink in, inch by inch, with no resistance, all while feeling an immediate stretch and the added friction from each piercing. 

Once he’s halfway through, he slowly starts to rock his hips back and forth and you find yourself having to bite back on a moan, realizing those piercings were also rubbing back and forth against your walls. 

“You doin’ okay?” he raises a brow, clearly enjoying the sight. 

“You’re so fucking big,” it almost sounds like a complaint.

“I am,” he hums, leaning down and caging you in with his arms. “I’m gonna push the rest in.” 

“How much is there left?”

“You’ll be fine.” 

He thrusts right in and you're letting out a shattered gasp. At the same time, he’s humming in satisfaction since he got to watch the whole thing.

“Fuckin’ tight,” he murmurs, giving you a moment to get used to how stuffed you are, stealing a few kisses while he’s at it since he’s not entirely an asshole. “Remember what I said, all you gotta do is take it.” 

You don’t get a chance to respond before he’s pulling out all the way and sliding back in, working up a pace as he stuffs you over and over again, dragging those small metal balls right over the spot that made your toes curl. 

It still took you a little bit of time getting used to him though, all words dying at your throat once he started to actually fuck you like it was nothing. Feeling betrayed by your body for letting him stretch you so easily like this. 

Each drive of his cock has you moaning and gasping, making you cover your mouth trying to hold them in— something he did not like since he pushed your hand away. 

Then without warning, he shoves two fingers in your mouth. 

“Mmmh— you look good with my fingers shoved in your mouth like this. Now suck.” 

You do as he says, swirling your tongue around his digit a few times before he presses them down it, making you softly moan as you sucked on them. He pulls them out with a wet pop and starts muttering in your ear. 

“Don’t cover that pretty little mouth again, alright?”

Thrust. 

“Fuck— okay,” you whine back. 

“Good girl.” He gives you another rough thrust, pulling another choked noise out of you. “Don’t try to hold out on me thinkin’ snot and tears are gonna turn me off, cry on it if you have to. I like it ugly.” 

At first you wanted to cry from how fucking mean that was, only to realize that urge to cry may have just been from that one spot he wouldn’t stop hitting, which eventually stopped being overwhelming once you finally get used to him.

“See? That wasn’t so bad now, was it?” he asks, though it was more of a condescending remark rather than a question. “Bet this feels good now, huh?”

“It’s been a while,” you say in an attempt to defend yourself. 

“Yeah, no kidding— pussy’s fuckin’ tight,” he says all smug, getting harder at just the thought. “Feels good like this.”

He brings your legs together and throws them over his broad shoulders. Moans start to spill out of your mouth the moment he starts hitting at an angle that manages to hit your clit too. His hips crack against your ass as he picks up the pace, slick spreading past your thighs as he pounds down deeper, bed steadily rocking from all the force behind each thrust.

“Shit— look at how much of a mess you made,” he groans once the wet squelch between you becomes unavoidably louder. “Did you squirt or somethin’? You’re fuckin’ soaked.” 

“No. I don’t— nghh— who cares, just keep going.”

He looks at you in amusement, keeping the same pace as he pushes further back against your legs to go deeper, making you nearly squeal. “Is this what’s got you lying about squirting?”

“I didn’t squirt,” you say with an airy laugh. “Fuuck— just feels good.”

“Right,” he mutters slowly as he pushes back against you even more, slowing down until he’s just grinding against you. “What about this?” 

It’s a full blown mating press at this point.

“Mhm— yeahh.” Your lips curl into a small smile. “Better, actually.”

“Good,” he hums. 

He leans down to press his lips against yours while slowly picking up the pace again, soaking up all the sighs and soft moans he pulls out of you from the deep strokes of his cock, letting the base of it rub against your clit while his tip mushes against that special little spot inside.

The slow, lazy kisses go on for as long as they can, and for you, it’s when your teeth threaten to clash against each other each time his hips snap against you. By then, Sukuna’s going harder. He pulls all the way back, then drives back in— the force behind each thrust growing greater than the last.

“F-fuck— Kuna, that’s—” 

“What? Too much?”

“No, no— keep going,” you damn near start pleading with him, feeling a little bit of pressure start build. “Don’t stop— please, I think I’m gonna—“

Your cunt stretches helplessly around him, feeling every inch and vein he stuffs into you over and over again as he fucks you with reckless abandon. The sight’s nothing but obscene as he fills the room with the sounds of him pounding you senseless. 

“What’s wrong, baby?” he asks, honeyed and condescending. “Can’t take it?”

“I don’t– fuck– I don’t know.” Your words are cut off by sharp sudden gasps, feeling something unfamiliar build up. It’s not until he gives you one particularly rough thrust when tears start streaming down your cheeks. 

“You poor thing.” If you hadn’t known any better, he sounded quite pleased with himself. He leans down to lick a fresh tear streaming down your cheek before going back to business. “Look at you, getting fucked so good that it’s making you cry. You’re probably close, aren’t ya?” 

You take in a sharp breath, wondering how bad it would be if you did. You already thought you came. Instead, Sukuna’s right and he’s letting one of your legs back down, leaning in close and cradling your head while he continues to absolutely ruin you. 

“Cum for me,” he murmurs. His fingers trail down to your clit and starts rubbing over it with just the perfect amount of pressure, making clenching like fucking crazy. “Thaaat’s it— c’mon. Give it to me.”

He drags his heavy cock all the way out with a wet schlick, then slams back in— again and again and again— pushing you over the edge until your nails are digging into his back and you’re breaking out into a cry. 

You’re gushing around his cock and he keeps drilling into you like he’s trying to work as much as he can out of you— just powering through it. This is the hardest you’ve ever cum in your life, you’re fucking sobbing and he’s just encouraging it with the way he licks a stripe up your cheek, groaning about how fucking hot you look crying on his cock. 

“Oh my g-god— I-I can’t— ffuck it’s too much—” your nails start to claw down his back as he drives you into overstimulation. 

“I know— I’m so fuckin’ close,” he husks out, and you can tell he’s not entirely all here anymore. “Shhiittt almost there— keep squeezing me like that, baby— yeahh just like that,” his hips desperately slam into you, deep groans start to rumble out of his chest as he chases his own relief. “Fuck— ffuuck.”

He lets out the most drawn out guttural groan once it hits him. He slams in, burying his cock deep inside of you and flooding your walls with so much cum that it starts to spill out while he grinds every last drop of it out. 

He pulls out but keeps you caged in underneath you, pressing lazy kisses against your lips with short uneven breaths in between, skin damp and glistening from sweat. It takes a moment to come back to reality, and for someone that doesn’t even know where to start, you’re surprisingly comfortable with the silence between you. 

It eventually ends, though. You’re the first to break it. 

“Did you still want me to go out on those dates you were talking about?” 

Immediately he lets out a breathy laugh. “If you don’t mind me trying to fight them, then sure.”

. . . . . . 

Six Months Later 

You walk step inside Sukuna’s office, giddier than usual with the small pink cake you bought after handing in your resignation letter to Yaga. His feet are kicked up on the cherry oak wood desk and you doubt he’s doing anything work related. But he’s the boss, who’s going to yell at him? He does sit up straight once he sees you, though, ready to hear the news. 

Unfortunately, he doesn’t get to hear it right away since you just had to look at the wall shelves and catch sight of something that wiped the smile off your face. 

“Why is Yuji’s face crossed off in that photo?”

He rolls his eyes, “don’t worry, it’s whiteboard marker.” 

“But why would you do that?” you continue to interrogate Sukuna, because unlucky for him, you two are the best of friends now. 

Jin visited him earlier today and brought Yuji along. He started off the visit strong by pointing to Sukuna and asking his father ‘Does Uncle have a reezding hairline, too?’ and eventually took a look at the protein snacks he had in the corner, which made him look Sukuna up and down, and go “you eat too much.”

Sukuna rubs his temple as he grows annoyed again. “He called me fat and bald, so I told him we weren’t family anymore and crossed his face out to prove it.”

Despite the words that come out of Yuji’s mouth, the kid loves him in all of his grumpiness. 

“So you made him cry?” 

Yuji cried so hard that started dry heaving and nearly threw up. “No,” he grimaces. “He just pouted and said sorry.” 

The apology being, ‘No, PLEASE! I’m sorry, I'm SORRY,’ and, ‘I LIED— huhuhuhu my tummy hurts, yuji gonna frow up— I’m sorry’.

You look at him rather suspiciously as you grab a couple forks from his little snack station in the corner, but let it go this time. 

He takes your silence as an opportunity to change the subject completely. “How’d your boss take the news?” 

“Oh my god, he was distraught,” you reveal, still surprised over how panicked he looked when you turned in your resignation letter. 

He waves a dismissive hand, believing it’s the least he deserved for not trying to meet you halfway when trying to cut some of your hours down and refusing to demote you. 

“You’ll forget all about it after sleeping in tomorrow,” he reassures you before taking his first bite of cake. 

“Yeah— I,” you give a nervous laugh, “okay, so about that.” 

He stops chewing and just stares at you. 

“I’m gonna stay with them.” 

“What?” he almost snaps. “We’re going on vacation in a few weeks. I— what the fuck? What did you get a fuckin’ cake for then?!”

“We’re still going! He’s giving me that time off.”

“How charitable of him.” He snorts out a bitter laugh, then goes back to be mad. “I thought you hated that fuckin’ place?!”

“I did! But he offered to shorten my hours and said I could work from home.” 

That piece of information does nothing for Sukuna, who is grumbling profanities under his breath, acting like he’s the one being forced to stay there. His words start going in one ear and out the other after telling yourself he’ll get it eventually, and take a bite out of the victory cake since you also got a small raise, despite the decrease in hours. 

“Are you listening?”

“What?” you look up and ask, still chewing on the food. 

“Tch– nothing.” Sukuna takes his aggression out on the cake by stabbing the damn thing when getting more. “He shoulda’ given you all that before you tried to quit if you were that important. Hell— he shouldn’t have dumped all that work on you in the first place.”

“He’s a greedy old man that’s hungry for money,” you remind him. “What else would you expect from him?” 

Sukuna’s delusional and does this thing where he just assumes the world sees you the same way he does, and then when it doesn’t, he gets offended. Last week at the grocery store, someone reached for the produce in front of you and he snapped at them for not saying excuse me. Then he snapped at them again for not having any patience, given how you would’ve eventually moved.

“Whatever,” he gets up from his seat to grab a water from the mini-fridge and takes a sip, but before sitting back down, he stops next to you and gets at eye level. “If Mr. Crabs calls you while we’re gone, I’m ripping that phone out of your hand and cussing him the fuck out, you hear me?”

You suppress a laugh. “Loud and clear.” 

“Good,” he says, stealing a quick kiss from you. “Proud of you.”

The sincerity in his tone pulls a smile out of you. “Thanks.”

He glances at the door, notices it’s locked, then places a hand on your thigh when the sudden realization that there was no one that could fire him hits him. 

He gives it a squeeze. You already know what he’s thinking.

“Seriously? You can’t wait until we're at home?”

“I’ll make it quick.”

All rights reserved © 2026 yenayaps. Do not copy, repost, translate, or modify my works in any platform. Do not feed my works into ai and do not turn them into chat bots.

[froggykarma]

UGGHHHH THIS IS SO GOOD OMFG😩

[rosiestrudel-deactivated2026052]

⋆.˚ ★— softer,harder, in-between

pairing:baker!sukuna x reader

synopsis: there’s something off about the café. maybe it’s how quiet it is. maybe it’s how the baker watches you like he’s memorizing everything. or maybe it’s how easily your worst days seem to… disappear. you tell yourself it’s nothing. coincidence. after all, he’s always so gentle with you. and you keep coming back.

wc: 8.1k enjoy♡

the bell above the door chimes soft and high when you push it open. rain still clings to your coat from the sudden shower outside, but the moment you step inside the little café everything changes. the air smells warm and thick with sugar and vanilla, the kind that wraps around your shoulders and makes the damp city streets feel far away. pastel pink walls catch the soft glow of string lights shaped like tiny hearts. every table has a lace doily and a small vase with one perfect rose. the display case shines under warm lights, rows of macarons in blush, mint, and lavender lined up like jewels. chocolate boxes tied with satin bows sit beside them, each one looking too pretty to eat.

you shake the rain from your sleeves and walk up to the counter. the place is quiet for a weekday afternoon, only the low hum of a record player spinning something gentle and old in the background. behind the counter stands the baker. he is tall, broad enough that the frilled pink apron stretched across his chest looks almost comical, yet he moves with a calm that fills the small space without crowding it. pink hair slicked back. his eyes are a deep, steady red that should feel strange but instead feel focused, like they see more than most people bother to notice. tattoos cover his arms and climb up the side of his neck in sharp black lines, disappearing under the collar of his simple black shirt. despite the ink and the sheer size of him, his hands are steady and careful as he wipes down the counter with a white cloth.

he looks up when you approach. no big smile, just a small tilt of his head, like he is measuring you without trying to hide it.

“first time?” his voice is low, a little rough at the edges, but not unkind.

you nod and glance at the menu board written in delicate chalk. “yeah. it smells amazing in here.”

he gives a short hum, almost like approval. “most people say that. what are you in the mood for?”

you keep it simple. “just a hot chocolate. nothing fancy.”

he nods once, already turning toward the machines. you watch him work. his movements are precise, no wasted motion. he pours milk into a small pot, heats it slowly, then adds dark chocolate pieces one by one until they melt into something rich and glossy. while it warms he grabs a mug, plain white with a thin gold rim, and sets it on the counter. he does not write anything down. when the drink is ready he tops it with a swirl of fresh whipped cream and a light dusting of cocoa. the whole thing takes less than two minutes, yet it feels like he put more care into it than most baristas ever do.

he slides the mug toward you. a thin curl of steam rises between you both.

“on the house for new customers,” he says.

you blink. “really? thanks.”

he shrugs, the motion pulling the apron tighter across his shoulders. “name’s sukuna. i run this place.”

you tell him your name. he repeats it once, quietly, like he is tasting the sound, then nods again. something about the way he says it sticks with you, the low rumble of his voice making the simple word feel heavier than it should.

you carry the mug to a small table by the window. the rain has eased into a soft drizzle that streaks the glass in slow lines. you wrap your hands around the warm ceramic and take the first sip. the chocolate is deep and smooth, not too sweet, with a faint bitter edge that keeps it interesting. it settles warm in your chest. the café feels like a pocket of quiet in the middle of the busy city. no loud music, no rushing customers. just the soft clink of dishes from the back and the occasional creak of the old wooden floor.

after a few minutes sukuna comes out from behind the counter carrying a small plate. on it sits one perfect chocolate truffle, dark and glossy, rolled in fine cocoa powder with a single tiny heart piped on top in white chocolate.

“thought you might want to try this,” he says, setting the plate down without asking. “pairs well with the drink.”

you look up at him. he stands there with his hands loose at his sides, red eyes watching your face instead of the plate. there is no pressure in his expression, only a quiet patience that makes the moment feel strangely intimate for two strangers.

“thank you,” you say. you pick up the truffle and bite into it. the shell cracks softly, and a smooth ganache center melts on your tongue, rich with notes of cherry and something darker you cannot quite name. it is good. better than good. you make a small sound of surprise.

sukuna’s mouth curves just enough to count as a smile, the first one you have seen from him. it is small and uneven, like he is not used to offering it.

“good?” he asks.

“really good,” you answer, already taking another small bite.

he lingers for a moment longer than necessary, then nods once and returns to the counter. you watch him go. the tattoos on his forearms shift when he reaches for a cloth to wipe his hands. there is something steady about him, something that feels both solid and watchful. you cannot decide if it makes you want to stay longer or come back tomorrow.

the afternoon slips by slowly. you finish the hot chocolate and the truffle, then decide to order a second drink just to have an excuse to stay. when you bring the empty mug back to the counter sukuna is already preparing something new. he glances at you, red eyes flicking over your face.

“same again?” he asks before you can speak.

you pause. “yeah. how did you—”

“you finished the first one fast. looked like you wanted more.” he says it simply, like it is obvious. he does not smile this time, but his voice carries the same low warmth.

you sit back down with the fresh mug. the whipped cream has a little swirl on top this time, almost like a tiny ribbon. you do not remember asking for it. outside, the rain has stopped completely and weak sunlight filters through the clouds, painting the pastel walls in softer pinks and golds. the café feels even cozier now, like it is breathing with you.

sukuna moves around the space quietly, restocking the display case with fresh macarons from the back. every so often his gaze drifts toward your table. it is not staring exactly, more like he is checking that you are still comfortable, that the drink is still warm. you catch him once and he does not look away right away. instead he gives another small tilt of his head, almost a question. you lift your mug in a tiny salute and he returns to his work.

when the sky starts to darken you finally stand up, pulling your coat back on. the bell chimes again as you head for the door. sukuna is wiping down the counter one last time. he looks up.

“come back anytime,” he says. it is not the usual customer line. the words feel heavier, like he means them.

you nod. “i will. thanks for the truffle.”

he hums softly, that same low sound. “your order is easy to remember.”

you step outside into the cooling evening air. the city noise rushes back in, cars and distant voices, but the warmth from the café still sits in your chest. the taste of dark chocolate and cherry lingers on your tongue. you walk a few blocks before you realize you are already thinking about what you might order next time.

the next afternoon you find yourself pushing the door open again. the bell chimes its soft greeting. the pastel colors feel familiar now, the string lights just as welcoming. sukuna is behind the counter, arranging a new batch of heart-shaped cookies. he looks up the moment you enter, pink hair catching the light.

“back already,” he says. it is not a question.

you smile a little. “couldn’t stop thinking about that hot chocolate.”

he nods once, already reaching for the milk. “same as yesterday then.”

you watch him work. he still does not write anything down. the tattoos on his hands flex as he stirs the chocolate into the milk, slow and careful. when he sets the finished drink in front of you there is another small addition, a single chocolate curl balanced on the whipped cream like a delicate decoration.

“try it,” he says simply.

you take the mug and return to the same table by the window. the drink tastes even better today, or maybe it is just the way the café seems to settle around you. sukuna keeps the space clean and quiet. customers come and go, but none of them stay as long as you do. he remembers their orders too, you notice, but with you he adds the small extras without being asked.

late in the afternoon he brings you another truffle, this one dusted with a faint shimmer of gold powder. he sets it down and pauses, one hand resting lightly on the edge of the table.

“you sit in the same spot every time,” he observes, voice low.

you look up at him. his red eyes are steady, curious in a way that feels personal. the tension is there again, soft and humming beneath the surface, like the quiet pull between two people who have not yet decided what they are circling.

“it’s comfortable,” you answer. “and the view is nice.”

he glances out the window, then back to you. a faint curve touches his mouth again, smaller this time, almost private. “good. stay as long as you like.”

he leaves you with the truffle and returns to the counter. you break the chocolate open and the ganache inside is darker today, richer, with a warmth that spreads through your whole body. you sip the hot chocolate slowly, letting the afternoon stretch. every so often sukuna’s gaze finds you again. each time it lingers a moment longer than the last.

when you finally stand to leave, the sky outside is painted in soft oranges and pinks that match the café walls. sukuna is boxing up a small order for another customer, but he looks over as you approach the door.

“same time tomorrow?” he asks, casual but direct.

you pause with your hand on the door. the question feels like more than just business. the subtle tension pulls a little tighter, warm and intriguing, like the first sip of something you already know you will want again.

“probably,” you say.

he nods, satisfied. “i’ll have it ready.”

you step outside, the bell chiming behind you. the taste of chocolate still coats your tongue. the city feels a little softer tonight, the streetlights gentler. you walk home thinking about pink hair, red eyes, and the quiet way sukuna watches you, like he is already learning the shape of your silences as well as your orders.

the next day you return earlier. the café is the same gentle haven, string lights glowing, soft music playing. sukuna looks up from behind the counter the second you walk in. his expression does not change much, but something in his shoulders relaxes, like a small weight has lifted.

“hot chocolate,” he says before you reach the counter. it is not a question this time.

you smile. “yeah.”

he starts preparing it immediately. you notice he adds an extra swirl of cream without being asked. when he hands you the mug his fingers brush yours for half a second, warm and steady. the contact is brief, but it leaves a faint spark under your skin.

you take your usual seat. the truffle that appears ten minutes later has a tiny initial piped on top in white chocolate, the first letter of your name. you glance toward the counter. sukuna is watching, red eyes calm and unreadable. he gives the smallest nod when your eyes meet, like he is confirming something only the two of you understand.

you eat the truffle slowly, letting the rich center melt on your tongue. the tension between you both is still quiet, still gentle, but it has grown a little thicker, a little sweeter, like the chocolate he keeps making just for you. you do not know what it means yet. you only know you are not ready to leave.

the bell chimes the same soft note when you push the door open a week later. the rain has stayed away this time, leaving the city air crisp and cool. inside, the pastel café feels even more familiar, like slipping back into a warm coat. string lights glow gently over the heart-shaped tables. the display case still sparkles with rows of delicate macarons and ribbon-tied chocolate boxes. the record player spins something slow and sweet in the background, a piano melody that curls through the room like warm sugar.

you carry a book under your arm, a thick paperback you have been meaning to finish for days. the café seems like the perfect place to sink into it without the noise of your apartment or the distractions of the street. you scan the room for your usual table by the window. it is empty, waiting.

sukuna stands behind the counter. his pink hair isn't slicked back today, a few strands falling across his forehead. the black tattoos shift along his arms as he arranges a tray of fresh pastries. the frilled pink apron stretches across his broad chest, looking somehow both absurd and natural on his large frame. he looks up the moment you step inside, red eyes finding you immediately. there is no big reaction, just a small, steady nod, like he had been expecting you.

“back again,” he says, voice low and even. he does not ask what you want. instead he turns toward the machines right away, already reaching for the milk.

you walk to the counter and set your book down for a moment. “yeah. figured this was a good spot to read.”

he hums softly, a sound that feels almost approving. his hands move with the same careful precision as before. he heats the milk slowly, adds dark chocolate pieces, then stirs until everything melts into a rich, glossy liquid. this time he does not stop at the usual hot chocolate. he adds a dash of something extra, a faint spice you catch on the air, and tops the finished drink with whipped cream and a delicate swirl of white chocolate that forms a small, neat spiral. he sets a small plate beside the mug too, holding two truffles, one dark and one lighter, both dusted with a fine cocoa that glimmers under the lights.

“thought you might like this today,” he says, sliding everything toward you. “pairs with reading. keeps you warm without being too heavy.”

you blink at the custom drink. he had not asked a single question. “you remembered.”

sukuna’s red eyes meet yours across the counter. his mouth curves just slightly, that uneven almost-smile again. “your order is simple. easy to remember.” he pauses, then adds quieter, “and you sat in the same spot the last three times.”

the words feel personal in a way that warms your chest more than the steam rising from the mug. you thank him softly and carry the drink and truffles to your table. the book waits in your hands as you settle in. the chair feels comfortable, the light from the window just right for reading. you take the first sip of the hot chocolate. the added spice is subtle, a gentle heat that spreads through you without overpowering the deep chocolate. it tastes like it was made exactly for a quiet afternoon with a story.

you open the book and lose yourself in the pages for a while. the café stays peaceful around you. a few customers come and go, their voices soft against the piano music. sukuna moves quietly behind the counter, wiping surfaces, restocking the display. every so often you feel his gaze drift toward your table. it is not intrusive. it feels like he is making sure the drink stays warm or that you have enough space. when your mug gets low he appears beside the table without being called, carrying a fresh one.

“refill,” he says simply, replacing the empty mug. his fingers brush the edge of the table near your book. “same as before.”

you look up at him. up close, the tattoos on his neck stand out more clearly, sharp black lines that disappear under his collar. his red eyes hold steady, patient. there is a softness in the interaction now, a quiet familiarity that has grown in just a few visits. “thanks. you didn’t have to.”

he shrugs, the motion pulling the apron tighter. “i wanted to.” the words hang between you for a moment, low and genuine. then he returns to the counter, leaving you with the new drink and the lingering warmth of his attention.

the afternoon stretches comfortably. you read deeper into the book, the hot chocolate keeping you cozy. the truffles disappear one by one, their centers melting rich and smooth on your tongue. the café feels like a small bubble, separate from the city outside. sukuna’s presence at the counter is steady, reassuring in its quiet way. he does not hover, but he notices everything. when you shift in your seat he adjusts the string lights slightly so the glow falls better on your pages. when another customer asks for directions he answers in the same low voice, polite but brief, then his gaze returns to you.

later, as the light outside starts to soften, the door opens again. a man walks in, loud and restless. he orders something simple at the counter, but his voice carries too much, cutting through the gentle piano music. he glances around the café and his eyes land on you. he smiles in a way that feels too sharp, too eager. before you can focus back on your book he walks over, pulling out the chair across from you without asking.

“mind if i sit? place is packed,” he says, even though it is not. his tone is casual, but there is an edge to it, like he is testing how far he can push.

you tense slightly, fingers tightening on the edge of your book. “actually, i’m reading. i’d rather be alone.”

he leans in anyway, ignoring the refusal. “come on, just for a minute. you look like you could use some company. what are you reading anyway?”

the interaction feels wrong against the soft atmosphere of the café. you glance toward the counter. sukuna is watching. his hands have stopped moving. the pink apron still sits neatly on his broad frame, but his red eyes have narrowed just a fraction. he does not speak yet. he simply observes, tattoos shifting as his arms rest on the counter.

you turn back to the man. “no, thanks. i’m fine on my own.”

he laughs, low and dismissive, and reaches toward your book like he wants to see the cover. “don’t be like that. it’s just a conversation.”

before you can pull the book away, sukuna’s voice cuts through the space, calm and even. “she said she wants to be alone.”

the man looks up, surprised. sukuna has stepped out from behind the counter. he towers without trying, his large frame filling the aisle between tables. his expression stays neutral, almost gentle, but there is a weight to his presence that makes the air feel thicker. the tattoos on his arms stand out under the string lights.

“just talking, man,” the stranger says, but his voice has lost some of its confidence.

sukuna does not raise his voice. he simply stands there, red eyes steady on the man. “she wants to read. find another table.”

the man hesitates, then stands up with a muttered comment under his breath. he grabs his order from the counter and leaves quickly, the bell chiming sharply behind him. the café falls quiet again, the piano music filling the space once more.

you let out a slow breath. sukuna returns to your table, his steps unhurried. he sets down a new truffle on a small plate, this one with a faint dusting of gold powder, like the one from before but a little more ornate.

“sorry about that,” he says quietly. his voice has returned to that low, gentle tone. “some people don’t know when to stop.”

you look up at him. the tension from the interruption still lingers in your chest, but sukuna’s presence eases it. “it's fine.. thanks for stepping in.”

he nods once, red eyes meeting yours with a quiet intensity. there is something softer in the way he looks at you now, like the small exchange has drawn the two of you closer. “no need to thank me. your table is yours.” he pauses, then adds, almost under his breath, “always is.”

he leaves you with the truffle and returns to the counter. you watch him go, the broad line of his shoulders under the pink apron, the pink hair catching the light. the interaction feels more personal now, the quiet protectiveness settling between you like another layer of warmth.

you try to return to your book, but the words blur for a few minutes. the new truffle sits on the plate, rich and inviting. you eat it slowly. the center is even smoother than before, with a hint of spice that matches the custom hot chocolate. it helps the unease fade.

the rest of the afternoon passes in the same gentle rhythm. sukuna keeps the space quiet and comfortable. he refills your drink once more without being asked, adding the same delicate swirl on top. each time your eyes meet across the room the interaction feels a little softer, a little more charged with something unspoken. he does not push. he simply remembers, notices, and offers small things that make the café feel like it belongs to the two of you in some quiet way.

when the sky outside begins to darken you finally close the book and stand up. your legs feel a little stiff from sitting so long. sukuna is at the counter, boxing a small order for the last customer. as you approach the door he looks over, red eyes calm.

“finished the chapter?” he asks, voice low.

you nod. “yeah. the drink helped.”

he gives that small, uneven smile again. “good. come back soon. i’ll have something new ready next time.”

you pause at the door, hand on the handle. the bell waits above you. “i will.”

outside, the evening air feels cooler against your skin. the city noise returns, but it feels distant. you walk a few blocks before you realize you are thinking about sukuna’s steady red eyes and the way he stepped in without making a scene. the man from earlier does not cross your mind much. you figure he simply left and moved on to somewhere else. the café stays in your thoughts instead, warm and inviting, with its pastel walls and the quiet baker who remembers exactly how you like your chocolate.

a few days later you hear something small from a regular passing by on the street. the loud man from the café has not been seen around the neighborhood since that afternoon. no one seems to know where he went. it is mentioned in passing, like any other bit of city gossip. people vanish sometimes. the comment fades as quickly as it comes.

you return to the café the following week anyway. the bell chimes softly. the pastel interior welcomes you again. sukuna looks up from behind the counter, pink hair loose today, tattoos visible along his arms. he nods once, already reaching for the milk.

“same table?” he asks, voice low and steady, like nothing has changed.

you smile a little and nod. the custom hot chocolate appears a few minutes later, spiced just right, with an extra truffle on the side. when he sets it down his fingers linger near the mug for half a second longer than necessary. his red eyes meet yours with that same quiet intensity.

“welcome back,” he says simply.

the interaction feels softer now, the space between you both shrinking in small, careful steps. you settle into your chair with the book and the drink. the café wraps around you, sweet and comforting. sukuna moves quietly in the background, observant as ever. whatever happened with the loud stranger feels far away, like a small ripple that never touched the gentle rhythm of this place.

you take a sip of the hot chocolate and let the warmth settle in your chest. sukuna’s gaze finds you again from across the room. this time you hold it a moment longer. he does not look away. the tension between you both stays intriguing, quiet, and slowly deepening, like the rich center of one of his perfect truffles.

the afternoon stretches ahead, soft and sweet, with the promise of more quiet moments shared in the pastel light.

the bell chimes with its familiar soft sound as you step into the café again a few days later. the pastel walls greet you like an old friend, string lights casting their gentle glow over the heart-shaped tables. the air carries the same warm mix of vanilla and dark chocolate, thicker today with a faint note of something richer underneath. you have started coming more often now, sometimes every other day, sometimes twice in one week. the little place has carved out a spot in your routine, a quiet pocket where the city noise fades and the pages of your book turn easier.

sukuna stands behind the counter, pink hair slicked back neatly from his face, the sharp black tattoos climbing up his neck and across his arms. the frilled pink apron still stretches over his broad chest, but it no longer looks out of place. he looks up the moment you enter, red eyes locking onto you with that steady, knowing focus. his mouth curves into a small, uneven smile, the kind that has grown more frequent with each visit.

“there you are,” he says, voice low and warm. “missed you yesterday.”

the words settle in your chest, soft and personal. you walk to the counter and set your bag down. “got caught up with work. but i’m here now.”

he nods once, already moving. he does not ask what you want anymore. instead he reaches for the milk and begins preparing your drink exactly the way you like it, with the subtle spice and the perfect swirl of whipped cream on top. this time he adds a small touch, a faint dusting of cinnamon across the foam. when he slides the mug toward you he sets a plate beside it with three truffles, arranged in a neat row.

“for my favorite regular,” he murmurs, the words carrying a quiet intimacy. “extra dark today. thought you might need it after a long week.”

you feel the heat rise in your cheeks at the casual pet name. favorite regular. it sounds simple, but the way he says it makes the space between you both feel smaller, more comfortable. almost domestic, like this has become a shared ritual rather than just a stop for chocolate.

“thanks, sukuna,” you reply softly. you take the mug and the plate to your usual table by the window. the hot chocolate tastes perfect, the cinnamon adding a warm depth that matches the cool weather outside. the truffles melt rich and smooth on your tongue, one with a hint of cherry, another with something deeper and more complex.

sukuna moves around the café with his usual quiet efficiency. he wipes the counter, restocks the display case, but his attention keeps drifting back to you. when you shift in your seat he adjusts the string lights without a word so the glow falls better on your book. when your mug empties he appears at your table with a fresh one before you can even think to ask.

“here,” he says, setting it down. his fingers brush yours for a brief moment, warm and steady. “drink up. you look like you could use the warmth.”

you smile up at him. the interactions have grown softer over the visits, the conversations stretching longer. he asks about your book now, listens when you mention a rough day at work, and offers small comments in that low voice that makes everything feel calmer. “take your time,” he says often. “the table is yours as long as you want it.”

one afternoon you stay until closing. the last customer leaves and sukuna flips the sign on the door with a soft click. he does not ask you to go. instead he brings you another custom drink, this one topped with a delicate chocolate heart that has your initial piped in white.

“for staying late,” he says, sliding into the chair across from you for the first time. his large frame makes the small table feel even smaller, but it feels right. the tattoos on his forearms rest on the lace doily as he watches you sip. “you always choose the same spot. makes the place feel steadier when you’re here.”

the words hang between you, warm and almost domestic. you talk quietly about nothing important, the weather, the new pastries in the case, the way the city lights look from the window. he listens with that same focused attention, red eyes never drifting far from your face. when you laugh at something small he gives that uneven smile again, softer now, like it is meant only for you.

the connection has deepened without fanfare. he starts using small pet names naturally, slipping them in like they have always belonged there. “careful with that one, sweetheart,” he says when he brings a particularly rich truffle. or “you look tired today, doll. let me make you something light.” each time the words land gentle against the quiet tension that simmers underneath, intriguing and comfortable all at once.

you begin to notice other things too. the way certain desserts carry a new, subtle taste. one evening he offers you a special macaron, pale pink with a glossy filling. when you bite into it the center has a faint coppery edge beneath the sweetness, metallic and warm, like blood mixed into the ganache. you pause mid-bite, the flavor lingering on your tongue. it is not unpleasant. it feels intentional, like a secret folded into the recipe just for those who pay attention.

you glance toward the counter where sukuna is cleaning the machines. he meets your eyes calmly, red gaze steady. there is no explanation, no apology in his expression. he simply nods once, like he knows you have noticed and accepts it. the coppery note fades into the rich chocolate, leaving you with a strange sense of clarity rather than fear. someone had made you uncomfortable the week before, a different stranger who had lingered too long at your table, his comments crossing lines until sukuna had stepped in again with that quiet, heavy presence. the man had left quickly that day. now he is simply gone from the neighborhood, like the loud one before him. no one mentions it much. people vanish sometimes.

you finish the macaron slowly. the taste stays with you, copper and sugar blending in a way that feels deliberate. sukuna’s attention on you feels heavier now, more focused. he knows you have started to see the pattern, yet he does not hide it. instead he brings you another drink later, his voice low when he sets it down.

“everything alright?” he asks, the pet name slipping out soft and protective.

you nod, meeting his red eyes. “yeah. it’s good.”

he hums in that low way, satisfied. the quiet sense that he handles things in his own way settles over you, not as a threat but as something intentional, woven into the comfort of the café. you keep coming back anyway. the fear never fully arrives. instead the realization sits warm in your chest, mixed with the chocolate and the growing pull toward the man behind the counter.

another visit a few days later brings a similar moment. you arrive in the late afternoon to find the café mostly empty. sukuna greets you with the usual custom hot chocolate, this time with an extra swirl of cream shaped like a small bow. he calls you “darling” when he hands it over, the word rolling off his tongue like it has been waiting there. you settle at your table and open your book, the routine feeling almost domestic now. the string lights glow softly, the record player spins its gentle melody, and sukuna’s presence fills the space without crowding it.

halfway through the chapter a woman enters. she orders at the counter with a sharp tone, complaining about the wait even though the place is quiet. when she turns and spots you she walks over, eyes narrowing like she has decided you are the problem.

“this seat taken?” she asks, already pulling out the chair. her voice carries an edge that makes your shoulders tense.

“yes, actually,” you say quietly. “i’m using it.”

she scoffs and sits anyway, leaning in too close. “you’ve been here every day this week. some of us have real things to do. move if you’re just wasting space.”

the discomfort rises fast. you glance toward the counter. sukuna has stopped what he is doing, his broad frame still, pink hair slicked back, red eyes fixed on the scene. the tattoos on his arms stand out as his hands rest on the counter. he does not speak immediately. he simply watches, the weight of his gaze heavy enough to shift the air.

before you can respond again, sukuna’s voice cuts through, calm and low. “she stays. you don’t.”

the woman looks up, surprised by the authority in his tone. sukuna steps out from behind the counter, towering without effort. his expression remains neutral, almost gentle, but the quiet power in his presence makes her stand up quickly.

“whatever,” she mutters, grabbing her order and heading for the door. the bell chimes sharply as she leaves.

sukuna returns to your table a few minutes later carrying a small plate with a new dessert, a glossy chocolate tartlet. he sets it down in front of you, his fingers lingering near the edge.

“sorry about her,” he says softly. “some people forget their manners.” his red eyes meet yours, steady and protective. “you alright, sweetheart?”

you nod, the tension easing under his attention. “yeah. thanks.”

he stays a moment longer, the interaction feeling even more personal now. “good. eat that. it’ll help.” the words carry a double meaning you both understand without saying it aloud.

later that evening, when you bite into the tartlet, the filling has that same faint coppery note, richer this time, blended so skillfully into the dark chocolate that it almost tastes like a deliberate addition. you pause, letting the flavor sit on your tongue. the pattern is clearer now. the people who push too far, who make the space uncomfortable, they disappear soon after. and sukuna’s desserts carry the trace of it, blood turned into something sweet and intentional. you look toward the counter where he is working, pink hair catching the light, tattoos shifting with each movement. he meets your gaze calmly, no denial in his red eyes. instead there is a quiet acknowledgment, like he is offering you the truth folded into sugar and letting you decide what to do with it.

it does not scare you the way it should. the realization feels layered, heavy with the growing connection between you. he protects the quiet of the café, protects your place in it, in his own way. the coppery taste lingers, warm and metallic beneath the sweetness, and you keep eating. the fear stays distant. instead the tension pulls tighter, intriguing and almost intimate, like sharing a secret recipe only the two of you understand.

you finish the tartlet and take another sip of the hot chocolate. sukuna brings you a refill without being asked, his voice low when he sets it down.

“stay as long as you like, doll,” he says, the pet name soft against the quiet room. “this place is better with you in it.”

you smile up at him, the domestic comfort settling deeper. the café feels like a world of its own now, pastel and sweet on the surface, with something darker and more intentional woven underneath. sukuna’s red eyes hold yours a moment longer, the connection between you both growing stronger with every visit, every shared silence, every copper-tinged bite.

outside, the city moves on, people vanishing without much notice. inside, the string lights glow softly and the record player keeps spinning. you turn the page in your book and let the warmth of the chocolate and sukuna’s quiet attention wrap around you. the pattern is there, clear and deliberate, and you are still here, still coming back, the slow pull between you both deepening like the richest ganache.

the afternoon fades into evening, and you stay longer than usual, the café holding you both in its gentle, knowing embrace.

the bell chimes softly as you step inside the café again, the sound familiar enough now to feel like coming home. the pastel walls glow under the string lights, heart-shaped tables arranged neatly, the air thick with vanilla and deep chocolate. you have been coming almost every day this week. the routine has settled into something comfortable, almost domestic, the small space wrapping around you like a secret kept between two people.

sukuna stands behind the counter, pink hair slicked back from his face, the sharp black tattoos crawling up his neck and along his arms. the frilled pink apron stretches across his broad chest as he wipes down the surface with steady hands. he looks up the moment you enter, red eyes finding you with that quiet intensity that has grown sharper with each visit. his mouth curves into a small, uneven smile.

“there you are, sweetheart,” he says, voice low and warm. “same time as yesterday. good.”

you walk to the counter and set your bag down. the interactions have become effortless now, words slipping between you both with an ease that feels personal. he no longer waits for your order. he turns immediately to the machines, heating the milk slow and careful, adding the dark chocolate pieces one by one until the mixture turns glossy and rich. today he adds a touch more spice, the faint heat you have come to expect, and finishes with a delicate swirl of whipped cream topped by a thin chocolate curl shaped like a small heart.

he slides the mug toward you along with a small plate holding a single glossy tartlet, the filling dark and inviting under a smooth glaze.

“for you, doll,” he murmurs, red eyes steady on your face. “made it fresh this morning. thought you might like something a little richer today.”

you take the mug and the plate, fingers brushing his for a brief second. the contact feels warmer than usual, charged with the unspoken things that have been building between you. you carry everything to your usual table by the window and settle in. the hot chocolate tastes perfect, the spice blooming gently on your tongue. when you bite into the tartlet the center melts smooth and deep, carrying that faint coppery note again, metallic and warm beneath the sweetness. it lingers longer this time, intentional, like a signature folded into the recipe.

you eat slowly, letting the flavor settle. the pattern has become impossible to ignore now. you fully realize what sukuna has been doing. the people who made you uncomfortable, the ones who pushed too far or lingered with sharp words, they disappear shortly after. their absence leaves no loud ripples in the neighborhood, just quiet gaps where faces used to be. and each time, one of sukuna’s desserts carries that subtle copper taste, blood turned into something sweet and deliberate. he has been removing them for you, clearing the space so your quiet afternoons stay undisturbed. the realization sits heavy but not shocking, woven into the comfort of the café like another layer of ganache.

there is an unspoken understanding between you now. he watches you from behind the counter as you finish the tartlet, red eyes patient and expectant. he knows you have noticed. the way he prepares your drinks without asking, the soft pet names that slip out more freely, the quiet protectiveness in his gaze, it all points to the same truth. he expects some kind of reaction, a flinch, a question, maybe even fear. his broad frame moves with the same calm efficiency, but there is a new weight in the air, like he is waiting for you to speak it aloud.

you say nothing.

instead you take another slow sip of the hot chocolate, letting the warmth spread through your chest. the coppery trace from the tartlet fades into the rich chocolate, leaving only the sweetness behind. you turn the page in your book, the words blurring slightly as your thoughts settle on the truth you have carried longer than he realizes. weeks before you ever pushed open the café door for the first time, you had witnessed him. it was late one night in a narrow alley two blocks away, the kind of place most people avoid after dark. you had taken a shortcut home and stopped in the shadows when you heard the low sounds of struggle. sukuna had been there, moving with a terrifying calm, his large hands efficient and final. the man he dealt with had been loud and aggressive earlier that evening, catcalling strangers near the station. you had seen the whole thing from the darkness, heart pounding but feet rooted in place. you didn't scream. you didn't run to call for help. you had simply watched until it was over, then slipped away without a sound. the memory had stayed with you, sharp and private, and when you stumbled into the pastel café days later and saw his face behind the counter, something had clicked into place instead of breaking.

you never mentioned it. you simply started coming back.

the afternoon stretches in that familiar gentle rhythm. sukuna keeps the space quiet and comfortable, refilling your mug once without being asked, adding the same delicate swirl on top. each time your eyes meet across the room the unspoken understanding deepens. he does not push for words. he simply observes, red gaze steady, waiting. you keep reading, the book a shield for the calm acceptance settling in your chest. you are not a victim in this. you have allowed it, choosing the warmth of the café and the quiet protection it offers over any urge to pull away. the copper taste in his desserts no longer feels like a warning. it feels like a gift, carefully prepared and offered only to you.

when the light outside begins to soften into evening, the café empties completely. sukuna flips the sign on the door with a soft click and walks over to your table. he carries another small plate, this one holding a single perfect truffle, dark and glossy with a faint shimmer of gold powder on top. he sets it down in front of you, then pulls out the chair across from you and sits. his large frame makes the table feel intimate, tattoos shifting along his forearms as he rests them on the lace doily.

“you’ve been quiet today,” he says, voice low and even. there is no accusation in it, only that patient curiosity. his red eyes study your face, searching for the reaction he still expects. “everything alright, little one?”

you meet his gaze calmly and nod. “yeah. the tartlet was good.”

he hums softly, that low sound of approval. the unspoken truth hangs between you, thick and heavy, yet neither of you breaks it. he does not acknowledge what he has done or what you have pieced together. he simply watches you with that steady focus, the tension between you both pulling tighter in the quiet room. you pick up the truffle and bite into it. the center melts rich and smooth, carrying the faintest copper edge again, warm and metallic beneath the dark chocolate. you swallow without hesitation, the flavor lingering like a shared secret.

sukuna leans back slightly, his expression softening into something almost gentle despite the sharp lines of his tattoos and the red of his eyes. “you keep coming back,” he says quietly. “most people don’t. not after they start noticing things.”

you say nothing, only finish the last bite of the truffle and take a sip from your mug. the acceptance sits steady in your chest. you have known longer than he thinks, and the knowledge has not driven you away. it has drawn you closer, the pastel sweetness of the café masking something darker that you have chosen to accept.

he watches you for a long moment, the string lights casting soft shadows across his face. then he speaks again, voice dropping lower, more direct.

“there’s a place a few blocks over. small, quiet. good food, nothing fancy. let me take you there sometime. just us.”

the question hangs in the air, simple and clear. he is asking you out, the invitation slipping into the space between you like another custom drink prepared without asking. his red eyes hold yours, patient but intent, the broad line of his shoulders steady under the pink apron. he still does not acknowledge the full weight of what you both know. he simply offers this next step, testing whether the unspoken understanding will carry you forward.

you set the empty mug down and stand slowly, gathering your things. the café feels even smaller now, the air thick with chocolate and the quiet tension that has been building for weeks. you do not answer with words. instead you give him a soft smile, slightly unsettling in its calm, the corners of your mouth curving in a way that shows you are not afraid, not running, not a victim. you have allowed this. you have chosen it.

“i’ll think about it,” you say quietly, the smile lingering as you head toward the door.

sukuna stays seated for a moment, red eyes following you. there is no disappointment in his expression, only that same steady patience mixed with something deeper, like he recognizes the acceptance in your silence. you push the door open and the bell chimes behind you, soft and final for the evening.

outside, the city air feels cooler against your skin, the streetlights flickering on one by one. you walk a few steps before pausing, the taste of copper and dark chocolate still coating your tongue. the memory of that alley weeks ago flashes through your mind again, sharp and private. you had watched him then without intervening, just as you watch him now. the realization that you are not surprised, that you have known and still returned, settles warm and heavy in your chest. you are not leaving. you are not scared. you are simply continuing whatever this is, on your own terms.

you glance back at the café once. through the window you can see sukuna standing again, tall and broad behind the counter, pink hair slicked back, tattoos visible under the soft lights. he is already cleaning the table where you sat, movements calm and deliberate. he looks up and meets your eyes through the glass. you give him that same soft, slightly unsettling smile before turning away and continuing down the street.

the warmth from the hot chocolate lingers in your body, the coppery trace from his desserts a quiet reminder of the choices you have made. the connection between you both has shifted into something new tonight, unspoken but accepted. you walk home with the taste of his offerings on your tongue and the image of his red eyes in your mind, the slow burn pulling you both deeper into whatever comes next.

[froggykarma]

This shit was peak I loved the plot twist

[rip-cherrys-wrld]

A NIGHT WITH THE EMPRESS...

aka cherry's 1k celebration!!!

SUMMARY: as heir to your empire, you're expected to marry and choose your emperor consort from your existing harem of six men. to make your choice, you will spend a night with each one as they try to woo and seduce you...navigate your court as you decide who is worthy to rule at your side.

INTRODUCTION: here

take a bath to settle your nerves before choosing who you'll spend your night with. not necessary to be read, but it does give a bit of background for the rest of the chapters. this chapter ties directly into every other chapter. the following chapters are all different nights but do not follow a chronological order.

NIGHT ONE: the one with the pearl necklace

spend the night with a warrior who has longed for you for years.

NIGHT TWO: the one with the amethyst earrings

spend the night with a philosopher who was once a potential flame.

NIGHT THREE: the one with the garnet hairpin

spend the night with a kind concubine who was raised to serve you.

NIGHT FOUR: the one with the onyx bangles

spend the night with a former spy who now serves in your court.

NIGHT FIVE: the one with the emerald amulet

spend the night with a tactician.

NIGHT SIX: the one with the gold circlet

spend the night with a former king.

NIGHT SEVEN: the one hidden in plain sight [coming soon]

spend the night with someone who loves you.

THE CHOOSING: [coming soon]

well...it's time to make your choice.

all written content belongs to @cherrys-wrld. i do not own the original characters or the images used above. do not feed my work into ai, repost, translate, or copy it.

taglist is open!! leave a comment, message me, or send in an ask to be added <3 (if i like your comment just know that you’ve been added to the list)

[froggykarma]

This shit is so peak

[hellowoolf]

it will come back

synopsis: there is no doubt that mr. geto is an exceptional dancer, and a kind instructor. you have no doubt, either, that the perverse, voracious need you have for him is unrequited. of course, he calls you little dove and watches you dance low-lidded and teases you with innuendo, but surely he doesn't mean it...right?

pairing: ballet instructor!geto x ballerina!reader

tags: fluff, crazy yearning, reader can be cheeky, smut, unprotected piv, creampie (oops), semi-public sex...sort of?, dry humping, fingering, guided masturbation, mutual masturbation, dirty talk, suguru gets possessive, jealous suguru >:), floor sex...ok? quite literally doing splits on the d...ok? toji cameo...ok?

wc: 7k

a/n: it's been so long since i've posted a full length fic! i'm sorry and i love you all and please open your holes to me so i may place this fic there

18+! mdni <3

masterlist

~~~~~~~

mr. geto is nothing like the instructors you despised as a teen. 

you can remember walking to your car after your first lesson with him and pressing your forefinger to the tender crest of your ear, marvelling at the lack of ringing there. you were used to shrill yelling, to the echo of it against the mirror and back again, to higher and stretch and reach bellowed into your bones.

but mr. geto, it seems, is exceptionally thoughtful about how his sound carries, speaking only as loud as necessary to be heard by the furthest dancer from him. the register of his voice makes the floor thrum and your knees twitch and he seems to notice these things, take stock of them, adjust. 

he does not use his hands, either.

all other ballet instructors at your company use their fingers to adjust the body, to create the proper lines. you are completely familiar with fingertips in the crease of your knee, along the slope of your navicular, down your spine: it is not uncomfortable, not anymore, and it is in service of this art you have devoted your life to. you don’t mind. and in the dead of night when your duvet feels heavy over your waist and thighs you think that you wouldn’t mind, in particular, if he used his fingers to adjust your body. 

but he simply…doesn’t. he uses the shapes of himself, his own arms and torso, the extension of his own legs, to compose his requests of his dancers. higher, stretch, reach, he murmurs to the group of you, extending himself into position and showing you.

and a part of you likes that a great deal; there is no sense of injustice with him, no upset that he is asking something of you that he cannot himself achieve. you and the rest of the dancers watch as his twists and bows, displaying himself to guide through the moves, and it’s such a striking thing to behold that you can’t bring yourself to mind.

still, his beauty is the hardest part of being his student. the cording of his muscles, the sleek ink of his hair, the lithe curvature of his movements, it’s torturous. all at once you want to dance as he does, want to make your audience feel as he makes you feel, want him to shed himself of all professionalism and touch you somewhere irrevocable. you feel terrible and silly wanting it, wanting him, but there’s no helping it, you think.

and anyway, you insist that this wanting you indulge in in the dark isn’t dangerous. there is no oxygen for it in the studio, nothing to nurture your fantasies, and so you have to believe that they will wither and die with time. 

of course, while you tie the ribbons of your pointe shoes around your ankles in the empty studio, you pray this fantasy death will happen sooner rather than later. it’s completely exhausting to be so constantly wondering what his cock feels like, and mr. geto likes to remind you that exhausted is no state to dance in.

you love arriving to the studio early like this. before the room is overtaken with the smell of sweat and resin, you can breathe in the marley flooring and stretch your legs wide, grateful. you seek out lonely moments to appreciate how rare it is that you’ve succeeded in ballet enough to make a living from it; you close your eyes and get overdramatically philosophical, and it’s a privilege. you love it.

and yes, fine, it secures mr. geto’s first five minutes in the studio for yourself. this cannot be helping your attempt to suffocate your wanting, you know, but then he’s walking through the door draped in fine linen and hair pulled messy to the crown of his head, and you go boneless.

“good morning, dove,” he calls over his shoulder, turned away from you as he sets his things down.

you don’t remember when he started calling you that, and you don’t know if he uses it with other dancers, but god how can you blame yourself for getting sticky for him when he addresses you that way?

“good morning, mr. geto,” you call back, trying to sound lazy with the dawn as you continue stretching. you watch your fingers splayed on the floor, the borders of each vinyl panel, anything other than his strides towards his seat at the front of the room.

he plops rather unceremoniously down, legs spread slightly and head tipped back as he groans something truly criminal. you can feel something hot and biting between your legs but you try to ignore it, looking up at him.

“exhausted is no state to dance in,” you say with a smile.

he does not lift his head—you wonder if he wants to cause you pain by forcing you to watch the curved tilt of his throat and jaw—but you can see from the movement of his cheeks that he is smiling a little.

“i’m not dancing, dove, you are.”

you roll onto your back and starfish out, sufficiently limber. “what sort of terror will rain down on us today?”

he does look down at you then, lip still curved enough to look like a smirk, and when his head tilts just slightly you die a little death. “terror? i’m never terrible, i know i’m not.” his fingers make a soft sound against his thigh as he taps on it mindlessly. “you’ll like the combos today.”

you can’t help but bark a little laugh. “you don’t mean that. that’s something you only say when they’re hard.”

a chuckle pushes out through his nose. “yes, i know.” and then, matter-of-factly, he adds, “you like it hard.”

and god you try not to draw attention to the innuendo in that comment. just as he says it the doors are pushed open with a low thunk and the rest of the dancers come filtering in, and so you have every possible opportunity to be normal and professional and not silly and terrible, but you are a silly and terrible woman, so your chest stutters on your next breath. and he watches. 

you choose to believe, for your health and happiness, that he still couldn’t quite discern what your reaction was, or why it would have happened. but you cannot deny the fleeting scent of smugness on him, or the way his jaw twitches when his eyes flit to you between greeting your colleagues. 

he must be, you decide as you come to take your place at the barre, a cruel and unusual man who has recognized your unrequited lust and wants to punish you for it. 

yes, that must be it, you assure yourself. 

the rest of class is excruciating. all the typical torment of watching the man whose bones you are so desperate to jump contort himself into beautiful shapes is mounted further by the way he watched you this morning, the way his head dropped to the side just so to see you fluster for a moment. 

you try to channel it into the combos. as you travel across the room, you work to carve the feeling from your chest and toss it outwards, anywhere else. your legs burn with your leaping and turning but you push harder, hoping you’ll reach some critical point at which the physical soreness of your muscles eclipses the fluttering behind your navel, but you can’t quite catch it. and every time you hope you might be close, you feel your fingertips just grazing a moment of forgetting, you catch his eye again, and something hungry pulses in your stomach.

you probably need to get fucked. you definitely need to get fucked, actually, because you’ll ruin all your leotards if this continues. 

sweat shines down your body by the time class is finally, mercifully over, and the plan has already solidified then. you’ll go out tonight, you’ll get well and sufficiently railed, and at long last you will be able to address your fucking ballet instructor properly. 

even collecting your bag from the floor makes your muscles scream. your steps drag as you shuffle about, removing your pointe shoes and slinging your purse over your shoulder in the waning light of the day. 

“was that your attempt at proving me wrong?”

you straighten, inhaling sharply. when you look over your shoulder, it’s only you and mr. geto in the studio again. he’s standing in the threshold now, body leaned against the door as he watches you finish packing. 

fuck.

normally you might relish this sort of attention from him, but at this point you feel overfilled with the smoke of your desperation and you need to breathe. you need to go to the club and release some of this pent up sexual energy. you need to get out before you spread your legs for him in front of the fucking mirror. 

you try to laugh lightly, but it sounds tired and reedy. “yeah, i guess not.” shrugging a little, you add, “couldn’t help it.” and you tried to use that tone of voice one uses when a conversation is over, for the first time since meeting him hoping he simply turns and leaves, but he stays static there, watching you.

you flounder, looking for anything else to say. you want to lighten the tension that’s pulling your hips towards him, so you put on a wry smile. “i’ll try less tomorrow.”

that makes him chuckle as he brings a hand up to massage one shoulder. inevitably you think of how it might feel under your fingers, how it might tense if you were riding him and he was using that arm to lift and drop you on his—

“i do have one note for you, actually,” he murmurs, and you try to mask the horror on your face as he begins walking towards you. “show me your grand adage from the last combo.”

you hesitate a moment, clutching your purse tightly with one arm and opening your diaphragm so he doesn’t see your lungs constrict. this is normal, you remind yourself, he is being a normal instructor.

and it’s true, this is normal, but he has abnormal sex appeal and you are abnormally tightly wound and and he has never adjusted you with his hands before. this is a terrible, horrible, grotesque idea, but what are you supposed to say? no?

you drop your things slowly at your feet, tracking the sweeping of his eyes along your movements. with your hands empty again you stand still a moment, surely looking as bewildered as you feel, but he nods slightly: go ahead. 

you steady the soft tremble of your fingers as you extend your arms outwards, aligning your spine as your leg extends behind you. your core engages to keep your hips from tilting upwards, chin high to create a sloping line from your neck and down your torso. even though you do not—cannot—look mr. geto in the eyes you can feel him watching, your muscles twitch when he assesses them, fluttering like little birds under your skin.

“yes, that’s it,” he says, low, behind his teeth. he begins to walk around you, and if you didn’t know any better you’d think he was trying to make you feel predated. 

two things happen at once. you realize—and the weight of it nearly buckles your knees and takes you through the floor of the studio—that he is not going to show you want he wants by doing it at precisely the moment one long finger brushes the under side of your thigh. there isn’t even anything promiscuous about where he grazes the fingerpad, but nevertheless you feel like an open wound, a nerve, only barely restraining a full body shudder at the feeling. what the fuck is he doing?

“you can lift this higher.”

you’re almost thankful that you scoff on instinct; it makes you sound less affected by this than you are. “i’m—i’m trying, but–”

and then you really do shudder, hot and tacky from the nexus of your legs as his hand grips your thigh in full, pulling it a centimeter higher and watching your body absorb the movement to balance. your breaths puff sharp and you can’t even attempt to stop them now.

his voice is no louder than a whisper but there’s no breath in it, all timbre and sound. “there, dove. hold that.” his hand pulls away torturously slow, and at such an angle that you feel the point of each fingertip as his palm falls away. you hope he’s spontaneously blinded so he can’t see the goosebumps erupting down your arms, but instead he leans an inch closer to you, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, watching you strain to keep the position from just behind your shoulder.

“it makes it harder if you hold your breath.” you can hear the twitch of his lips in that and it makes it no easier for you to take in air, but you pull a trembling gulp of air in anyways. to please him, you suppose, because apparently that’s all you’re capable of doing.

he hums in approval, “that’s good enough, dove, thank you.” 

and no sooner do the words leave his lips are you dropping your leg and fleeing out the door, only barely remembering your bag.

~~~~~~~

you’re learning that your desperation for your ballet instructor is an exceptionally powerful tool.

earlier today, you pushed your body beyond its limit in the name of exorcising yourself of the curse of him. you were an outward force then, expanding and swelling and trying to expel the dark sweetness between your thighs.

now, haunting the neon shadows of this club in your highest, most painful heels, you think your desperation has a scent. you can’t remember ever being looked at in this way; from across the dance floor and behind the bar and in a far away corner, you catch men’s glances, all of them wolfish and interested. they can tell you need to be fucked, immediately.

you select the largest specimen you can find; a hulking mountain of a creature with a scar down one side of his mouth. he’s not quite handsome in the way suguru is handsome, it’s a louder, more insistent sort of attractiveness, but nonetheless you eye fuck him until he approaches you, knowing his weight will feel nice enough from behind.

he grabs at your side when he arrives in front of you, sliding a paw down your lower back. “come dance with me,” he rasps into your ear, and while normally you’d ask for the decency of exchanging names, tonight you’re sold.

you laugh as he tugs you into the fray, a throng of bodies pressed close and tacky with sweat. there’s a strange relief as he settles behind you, strobes flaring in your vision and his thick fingers around your waist. you can already feel how this ends, something sloppy and vaguely grotesque but you don’t even mind, you’re so coiled and greedy for this man you cannot have.

the music pulls you together and he grinds with you in time with it, pulling your ass against his jeans and twisting your hips back and forth. 

he runs his nose down the slope of your neck, feeling how pliant your limbs move for him. “you’re flexible, huh?”

with your head tilted back against his shoulder he brings one hand slowly up the front of your body, grasping loosely at your neck. you grin and nod into it, letting your eyes go hazy as you look up at the rigged lights and the rising fog.

you’re fucking soaked. you really would just like it if he’d bully his cock into you here in the middle of the dance floor so you can finally think straight, and you’re considering pulling him into the bathroom to do something truly indefensible against the dirty basin of a sink, but you feel his tendons tense around your throat and it makes you tilt your chin back down on instinct.

into your ear he asks, almost amused by what he’s seeing, “d’you know him?”

your heart sinks. 

whatever buoy you had wrestled between your arms was dissolving back into salt water, you’re slipping, you’re frantic, you’re looking across the dance floor and fucking suguru geto is there.

his hair is down and silky over his shoulders, which pull a white t shirt taut across the planes of his chest. you can see, even from here, the shadows of lean muscle, his body’s capacity for dance. the sleeves of his shirt are short enough that you can see, for the first time, the head of a snake tattoo peeking just below the hem. 

fuck.

and no wonder your enormous dance partner figured you knew each other; the way he’s looking at you is lethal, a sharp slice of a stare from across the room, a pointed watching. his lips twitch when he sees you notice him, something conspiratorial and entirely his own there. it looks as though he’s holding a live animal in his mouth, sly and coy and biting down on a moving thing behind his tongue. a single, sinewy hand lifts from his side and he waves.

fuck fuck fuck.

in a fleeting out-of-body event, you can appreciate the hilarity of this moment. it pulls a sound from your throat, almost a laugh, almost a scoff, too, and you stumble slightly out of the hold of the man behind you. “i—well, yeah, actually.” you have no idea what look you’re wearing, but when you turn to face your dance partner, it makes him chuckle under his breath. 

“you uh,” he scratches at his scar with his thumb, “you wanna go over there?” 

he’s teasing you—this much is obvious to you—and so much of you is desperate to tell him no, i’d like to stay right here, and grip to the veins of his forearms and let him take you home. but then you think of mr. geto’s hands along your thigh as he adjusted it and it’s almost like he has you between his fingers again, towing you towards him. 

“i–i’m sorry, i just think i should go and–” you gesticulate behind you, vaguely, reaching for something dignified to say, “and say hi.” a failure of the highest order.

the man in front of you laughs again, deep and from his stomach this time. he’s already tilting his body away from you, already letting you go, already sensing that the smell of your pussy was meant for the long-haired figure a few feet away. “you go right ahead, ma,” you think if he wasn’t so huge a person, his laughing would sound like giggling, “i’ll be fine.”

the sight of him slipping away from you makes you nauseous. you’re watching your own failure, all six feet and four inches of him, dissipating again into the sea of people, already under the manicured fingers of other women who aren’t waiting to arch for someone who essentially equates to their boss.

but there’s something secret and sweet to watching him go, too. standing resigned on the dance floor, accepting whatever honeyed trap fate has set for you, you can unburden yourself from this taxing process of trying so hard not to embarrass yourself. yes, you think, i will simply embarrass myself, and maybe whatever follows won’t feel so excruciatingly painful. 

geto watches you carefully as you slink to his table. he keeps the muscles in his face slack, neutral enough to obscure the meaning from his expression, but the faint pull of his jaw reminds you of this morning, of after class. despite yourself, you align your body properly as you take the six odd steps to stand at his feet, extending your legs the way you know he’d want in the light of day. 

he smells like musk and something botanical when you get close enough. you hope you don’t smell like your own slick. 

“it was sort of deja vu, watching that,” he begins. even under the beating of the music he refuses to shout, voice unfurling from behind his lips and just barely reaching your ears.

you wrinkle your nose a little. “how do you mean?”

the ice in his drink chimes with a flick of his wrist. “watching you dance.”

you tilt your head back and forth, feigning some sort of consideration. “no, i think this might be different.”

he’s smiling enough now that you can almost see his teeth. the part of you that is desperate to be cautious screeches that he’s playing with you, he doesn’t want you, but with each tip of your skull you can feel that voice liquifying. you hope it slips out your ear.

“how so?” he asks.

you do your best to keep a straight face. “well, for one, i don’t want your notes.”

he looks almost joyful to spit this back at you: “oh i have a few, actually.”

your laugh is too breathy and real to truly hear it against the ambient noise of the room, but he tracks it anyway, swishes his ice again. “you’re unqualified, unfortunately. this type of dancing isn’t your expertise, mr. geto—”

“suguru,” he interjects. “suguru here.”

your thighs twitch, almost stinging with need now, but you steady yourself with a breath, humming, “okay, suguru, this type of dancing isn’t your expertise. i only accept edits from experts.”

“i might surprise you, dove.”

you run your tongue along the front of your teeth. he’s asking you to play, you think, and so you raise your eyebrows and tilt your chin the way he does when he wants you to begin.

“well,” he takes a fraction of a step towards you and you match it backwards, pushed by the heat of him and the smell of his cologne, “i think you moved a little too quickly.”

you’re moving entirely in tandem now, him forward and you back, all the way until your head bumps a wall. cornered like this, he eclipses almost your entire line of sight, a vignette of dark hair.

“the part when you tilt your head back here,” and he gestures to his shoulder, “that’s the best part. you fell straight into it.”

something shudders up your legs and you squeeze them together, desperate for a moment of anything against the swelling button between them.

“they need to wait longer for it. makes it better.”

his smirk is slowly fading, something more intimate making space for itself across his mouth. if he recognizes the irony of this, he doesn’t show it, demanding simply: “show me.”

you have half a mind to gape at him, at what he’s offering, but instead you turn—stupid, whorish thing—as he asked, pressing yourself slowly to him. when your ass bumps against his pelvis he groans low. he’s rock hard against you, and a gasp moves up your windpipe but he has his free hand on your chin first, forcing your head back to his shoulder.

contorted like this, his nose grazes your cheek, his breath filtered into your ear. you whine, feline and soft, and he hums in return.

“yeah, it’s good, huh?” and he ruts his hips slightly into yours to emphasize his point, nosing your cheekbone. “so you have to start somewhere else.”

the hand on your chin falls away, moving to the small of your back where it bends back for him. he pushes his thumb to your spine, and then the rest of his palm, bending you forward at the waist. your hands come up to brace on the wall and you let your forehead fall there, too, letting the cool concrete tether you to whatever sanity you have left.

he exhales like veneered restraint watching you tilt, feeling the extra push of your thighs against his cock twitching in his pants. “yes, dove, like that.” he grinds against you in earnest then, dragging the clothed shaft of him over the globes of your ass. “he should work for it a little.”

he pushes again and you moan fully. it leaps from the wall to his ears and it earns you another drag, his fingers bruising against your waist.

“and then,” his composure is dwindling, you can hear it, and he ruts again, “once he’s worked up,” he drags the hand at your hip up your side, around your front, between your breasts to arch you back to him again. your back bows taut and impossible to meet him, head falling immediately to his shoulder this time, eyes squeezed shut. you wonder if your slick is running down your legs now, or if it’s still pooled in your panties. he finishes into your ear,  “then you come up here.”

you wiggle your hips against him, needy, and he grunts. “what did he say to you?” he grits out.

your capacity to think is low, practically panting like he’s already inside you. “huh?”

“when he had you here, he said something that made you laugh, i wanna know what it was.” with his hand fanned across your stomach he can pull you tight against his thrusts.

“h-he, he said i—fuck suguru, i-”

“come on, little dove,” he coos.

your eyes flutter open to find him watching you, purple eyes skidding across your skin. “he said i was flexible,” you huff.

he smiles like he’s going to eat you. “oh yeah? and did you tell him it’s because your mr. geto stretches you?”

your fists bunch and pull against the wall. you’re certain he can feel you clenching through your dress. your mr. geto, jesus. “n-no,” you breathe.

“oh, that cuts deep, dove,” he tuts, but he fucks against your ass again anyway, “i work so hard to stretch you open and you’re not giving me credit?”

you find yourself with the fleeting and miraculous wherewithal to laugh, light and towards the ceiling. “i’ll tell him next time, then.”

that makes suguru laugh, too, the both of you almost manic with the truly absurd suggestion that you would ever be touched by anyone else.

you feel very suddenly like a stray dog at his doorstep, scrap-fed by his hand, bony and waiting for something warm to be tossed out again. the fear that he doesn’t mean this the way you’re taking it, that he wants you only briefly, chokes you still.

“are you drunk?” you ask him.

he lets you feel the frenetic pattern of his breathing against your neck. “no.”

and then even smaller, you can’t help it: “are you messing with me?”

slowly, he brings the hand with his drink up, extending his forefinger out around your front. it’s cold from the glass as it taps on your chin once, twice, and then drags down the line of your throat. “no.”

and you aren’t quite sure how you would describe what you feel move through him then, a trembling sort of shake, maybe, but as it buzzes through his hips he thrusts the momentum up into you. later, you would come to realize this was the sensation of him, at last, deciding something he could not take back.

“i think you left something with me at the studio today,” he murmurs. the electricity of knowing you did not leave something at the studio takes hold of your ribs and tugs. “you left in such a rush.”

“i think you know that’s you’re fault, suguru.”

he smiles small into the side of your face. “yes, i know.” a finger brushes under the swell of your breast. “i can drive you there to come get it.”

you’re beginning to squirm in his hold now, the beastly thing between your thighs drooling in full, usurping control of your limbs. “haven’t you been drinking?”

and suguru is all too pleased to bring his glass to your lips, tipping it slowly onto your tongue.

he’s drinking fucking sparkling water.

he isn’t even tipsy.

you’re nodding before you can even gulp enough air to say yes.

~~~~~~~

you barely make it out of his car before he’s on you. pressed against the passenger door, he kisses you like he wants to reach inside and pull out a rib. it’s teeth and tongue and your mewls in his mouth, and it makes him pull one leg up around his hip to grind slow against your clothed pussy.

he strokes his tongue along yours as he guides you to the front door, bucking into you when you bite down soft on his bottom lip.

“fuck,” he pants. “get inside.”

seeing the studio at night is strange. the moonlight glints off the mirror, bathing the room in silver streaks. stranger still is hearing geto come in behind you, locking the door with a low snick.

he passes behind you like a memory, stepping just to graze your back and shoulder before pulling away and towards his usual seat at the mirror. “stand center floor for me, dove,” he instructs.

your body moves without much thought. it’s so easy to do as he says here, to pervert the habit of following his directions as you stand at the center of the vinyl.

suguru runs a hand across his jaw, over his lips, watching you stand static as asked. you know how lust blown your eyes are already because you can see the black depth of them in the mirror behind his head. “stretch for me,” he sighs. 

a strange confidence feeds and swells in your belly, something alight and excited as you bend at the waist. your movements are no more salacious than they normally are, simple contortions to warm your hips and thighs, but you slow them enough to match the moment. your dress, too, heightens it; the hem teases the curve of your ass, your swollen mound, tight against you in ways your dance clothes aren’t. geto has sharpened the air to a fine point, and you teeter on it.

your head flips over, legs softly bent and then straight again, swishing open and closed. between each movement you glance up at him, swallowing thick at the shadow behind the tent in his jeans, the clench of his fist as it approaches his length. when you open your legs past second position and bend to stretch between them, he moans, unashamed, and you can tell from the lilt of pain in it that he’s stroking himself over his pants now. your pussy nearly opens in this position, faced away from him, and you feel the fever say his name. 

“your middle split now, dove,” he grips himself like he means to strangle, tipping his head back against the mirror to watch you over the bridge of his nose, adding, “please.”

with your hands splayed on the floor, you drop simply into it. when your clit bumps the cool flooring you whine in your throat, settling your weight. suguru is stroking himself in earnest over the denim when you peer up at him. “uh huh,” he pants, “and bend the knees now, just a little.”

your knees cant up and you tuck your tailbone, forcing your dress to ruck up around your hips and display, fully, the wet mess of your panties. the suffocated whine suguru sounds punches the air from your lungs, and you lean back onto your elbows behind you, looking to breathe, looking to survive for another moment.

you wish you could have a picture of the two of you this way; you entirely on display for him—and for yourself, too, as you cannot avoid your own reflection beside him—and your unflappably composed instructor, squeezing down the veins of his cock through the rough pull of his jeans, watching. and because you spend hours every day being directed by him, you know what he will ask you next before he even voices it, but you wait to hear it anyway.

“touch yourself for me.”

your fingers fly to your clit, drawing slow circles around, crossing over to feel yourself jolt. your hole pulses and spits, and suguru growls like he can see it from halfway across the room. the utter relief of friction, fucking finally, makes you tip your head back, moaning wild into the still air.

but then you hear his lips part to say something and you’re pulling your head back straight, still circling over your clit and then your entrance, meaningless patterns over your thong that make your toes curl in your heels.

“you know i never once—ngh, fuck—had the urge to adjust a student with my hands? i always hated that when i was in class,” he grits. with trembling hands, he begins to unbutton himself, pulling his cock out and tugging on it immediately.

god, he’s pretty. long and soft and leaning the way the rest of him leans, gliding between his fingers with the pearls of pre beading at his tip. 

“but i thought that if i,” he pauses to groan with you, “if i touched you once i could fucking forget about it.”

you speed your fingers with each word he says, each stroke of his hand over all eight inches of his cock. a far away voice registers that you’re whining, too, but your mind filters it away, tuned completely to suguru’s confession in the dark.

your smile is wry, and reveals as much as anything. “did it work?”

he laughs then, almost at you. “no, you know what dove, it didn’t really—hah—didn’t really work for me.”

your hips buck into your fingers, a buzzing coil now. “suguru,” you begin, but he doesn’t need to hear any more.

“i know,” he moans.

you have transcended his direction, you think, merged into him enough to comply without listening. he’s tearing his shirt and pants off as frantically as you tug your dress up and over your shoulders, and you’ve only barely shimmied your panties down your legs when he arrives in front of you, completely bare. you think suguru geto, tacky with sweat and need and cock nearly swollen purple, has achieved his own pinnacle, descending to his knees to meet you.

and there’s an ephemeral, fleeting moment, when you both simply watch each other in all the places you’ve kept obscured for so long. his eyes circle over your tits, the pert peaks of your nipples, the gleaming of your slit. you track the snake tattoo from the bulge of his shoulder and around his back, pupils flitting between him and his reflection.

suguru takes hold of both your ankles on each side of his narrows hips, squeezing once, and then gliding them up, up, around your knee, along the inside of your thighs. it dawns on you that he knows exactly where to press, where each muscle begins and ends, because of how much he watches you flex and extend. your breathing comes labored and round, small yips and whines when goosebumps push into his fingers.

he can’t help but tug your hips towards his bobbing cock when his hands arrive there. you squirm and twist to try and sink him inside but he holds you to the floor, jaw tight. 

“not yet, dove, i need to stretch you,” he grunts.

and you’re giggling before you can stop it. “you use a lot of double entendre, is that on purpose?”

he’s smiling now, too, but more than anything you think its a wicked joy with how your mouth drops open as he circles two fingers around your entrance. your arousal is so hot and so everywhere that you think you can hear it dripping onto the marley.

“keep your legs open.” he uses the tone of voice he employs during class and it only makes you gush more, but you do as he asks, tightening your outer thighs to hold yourself spread as he pushes two fingers inside.

“oh fuck,” you pant.

it seems to affect him in equal measure, cock twitching with each pull of his digits, lips parted ever so slightly. he scissors his fingers apart and back again, feeling along the inside of your walls, looking. 

“ah—yeah, yes, there,” you mewl, and he moans something sincere in turn. the pads of his fingers brush and swish along that spot and something behind your ribs is turning over, growing teeth. you whine out a small fuck and that’s it: suguru is gone.

in a single motion, he pulls his fingers from you, breathes in your protest of a whine, and lowers his hips to run the ruddy tip of his cock over your clit, down, down. you run your nose along his forearm as he braces them on each side of your head, feeling the brush of his hair along your shoulder.

his mouth parts directly over your ear like this, and you feel his hand squeeze your left thigh. “lift this for me.”

and as you extend it up to hook over his shoulder, legs spread in almost a full split below his hold, he notches his head inside, a lewd pop that echos up your spine and between your ears.

suguru’s head drops to your shoulder as he bares his teeth. “fuuuuuuck jesus christ.”

you’re no better, winding your right leg around his left and bucking your hips to slide him home. he indulges you this time—perhaps for the first time since meeting him—and cants his hips again. you’re so fucking wet and ready and open for him that he slides to the hilt that way, and both of you are reduced to animals then. the sounds between you are completely inhuman, and you can’t tell where yours end and his begin.

and suguru fucks you like he teaches: not slow, but intentional, precise, every movement with an insurmountable sense of purpose. 

and fucking bossy.

“ngh yeah, squeeze me like that again, dove.”

“oh f-fuck, baby, align your hips.”

“c-can you—haah—arch into me a little more? yeah, that’s right.”

with each driving thrust of his hips you rub your clit along his pelvis, warmth spreading behind your belly button and down each leg. suguru never quite recovered from that first thrust, forehead damp and still at your shoulder as he groans directions into the soft skin there. and your hands grab anywhere they can reach: into the roots of his hair, down the planes of his back, along the slope of his ass to feel the muscles grind.

the friction his happy trail makes with your clit is driving you wild, you’re fucking close, and he can feel it in the way you pulse around him.

with the sudden capacity to mock you he coos gently, “oh, little dove, are you close?”

and you can only nod and pant and whine like a bitch in heat, the crest of your pleasure tapping leisurely on the wing of your shoulder, ready to round the corner.

“hah—yeah, i can fucking feel it.” he adjusts his weight to one arm so he can band the other around your back, pulling your tits flush to his chest. the leverage only grinds him harder into you and you’re nearly screeching with the pressure. he wants to kiss you and you want to return it, but your lips meet open, exchanging air to be puffed back and forth.

“make a mess for me,” he encourages, each thrust more erratic than the last—he’s close, too—and every moan pitched higher. “c’mon, i—shit, unh—i wanna feel your pussy choke me.”

you come so hard you feel like you’re spinning, like you’re on stage, like there’s some great applause awaiting you. it detaches from deep in your groin and pulses outwards, gushing arousal and cream over suguru’s cock and entirely fragmenting you, boneless as he fucks you through it.

“fuckfuckfuck,” he bites the juncture of your shoulder with your neck, “i made this body, dove. you’re mine, huh?”

and hearing it, even from his own lips, takes him over, too, hips stuttering to a stop as he growls wild, seed spurting inside you, warm. your name, your real name, unspools from his mouth, and it sounds like thank you.

part of you expects, sweaty and still and plugged with suguru’s softening cock, that a great shame will dawn upon you now. you think maybe you should feel ashamed for letting him fuck you here, raw, his student.

but as you’re whining into each other’s mouths when he pulls out, as he smooths his hands over your stomach and thighs, as he kisses you again without the sort of demands he had before, the guilt doesn’t arrive.

suguru watches you closely—he’s good at that, you’ve determined—as he sits back on his haunches. you realize he’s waiting for that guilt to come, too.

“okay?” he asks softly.

you could laugh at him for that question, but you grin instead. “mhm.”

his chest unburdens a weight seeing that look on your face. you can see something gathering on his palate, too, something he likes the taste of. 

and then he spits it: “there’s a shower in my office bathroom.”

you really do laugh this time, full-bodied and sore and wet again.

~~~~~~~

you don’t think you’ve ever seen mr. geto with eye bags before. you don’t think anyone has. though, you suppose he seems the type to prioritize his beauty sleep.

or, most of the time, anyway. you couldn’t help that he wanted you again in the shower, and then at his desk chair, and then from behind with your knee propped against the barre, and then—

nobara bows into a pigeon stretch next to you, snickering as she assesses him in his seat. she heckles him: “exhausted is no state to dance in.”

your body seizes with embarrassment and delight all at once, and even though your chin drops to your chest as you stretch your hips, you can feel him watching you all the same.

nobara is watching you now, too, but you notice it too late. she stifles a giggle next to you. “is that a fucking hickey?”

~~~~~~~

thank you for reading !!! comments and reblogs always appreciated >:)

taglist: @themoonshiners @qkrwidn @presssedsunflowers @selenethinksalot @realalpacorn @cathedral-spires @imyourightnow @arizona13

[froggykarma]

Licked my screen after reading this

[v3is]

TO BUILD A HOME

ⓘ SUMMARY ，in all your life, people have condescend you, treating you as nothing but an obstacle in the way. so, why does one of the most popular fraternity member treating you as . . . well, you. however, your happiness doesn't last long when you realize that he's just indulging in his friends' laughter and admiration in an exchange for your already tarnished reputation.

ⓘ PAIRING ，frat! jo x fem! reader

──── ⓘ TAGS : 13k ，satoru's a dick but he changes in later part lolz, cursing, angst, fluff kinda at first (?), non curse au, doesn't follow the jjk plot, sukuna and suguru cameo, dickhead rich kids stuff, corny flirting from satoru, reader and satoru fights a lot (one sided), satoru's egotistical, mentions of bullying (sukuna bullying u he doesn't directly... no physical stuff), u slapped satoru in reflex, long oneshot (maybe this is p1, was gonne make it a one part thing... change of plans so its a twoshot) · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · art by @/hanamisoo_ on ig!

You've always wondered how life turned out this way. Back when you were younger, you've always dreamt of making friends, being the non-popular but well known person, the smart girl who aces all her test and will graduate with a magna cum laude. Then again, you were young, and dreaming isn't a sin.

It just happened to hurt more when nothing you dreamt of come true. Barely no friends to talk to, well known for all the wrong reason, a "used to be" smart girl who fluctuated into nothing but Cs and Ds and barely passing by with an additional point essay.

When your mother had passed away when you were 12 — your father spiraled into debt. His credit cards eventually got blocked, the both of you were barely passing by, sometimes you eat nothing but rice and water. He eventually passed after an illness gone too bad to be cured, but even if it was possible, you knew he wouldn't have chosen to live. You knew that him dying was what he wanted.

It just happened to be that all his problems are now yours. His friends —who now don't think of him as friends because of the debt— refused to let their kids near you, apparently in their eyes, your family was nothing but a fraud. Honestly, anger was an understatement. Then again, you do understand where the title 'fraud' was coming from. It wasn't the easiest after the two left.

Micro-managing three jobs all at once while you enroll in a community high school, barely getting sleep, body running on caffeine. It was utterly, tremendously horrible!

You studied hard for a scholarship and landed one in a fairly known university an hour away from where you live. It was a hard month, drowning your nose into books filled with a mix of numerals and alphabets, and you almost got fired twice because of it. None of it matters now that you had resigned and moved to a different place, way cheaper, and less money to spend.

You've never thought of college life as depicted in the movies — but, to your surprise, people in this university . . . seem to rely a lot on their social status. The rich, of course, rules everyone here. Whatever they do, everyone follows, everyone laughs, everyone averts their gaze away. Surprising, it was political. Most of the board members of the university were from rich families, so it was no wonder that the university fear them.

Then there's the middle —average— status students. The not rich, but not poor ones. Nobody minds them, they don't try to appeal to anyone and live their life like normal people would. The rich don't mind them, but they don't like to be dumped into a group with them, because according to their ways, it was a punch to the ego.

Lastly, there were the poor ones. You, included. There weren't much people in this status, how do you know? Well, one, it's a prestigious university. Two, if it weren't for your scholarship, you would have to pay at least a decade of your past three jobs. Three, people in this status were considered as "the black sheep", the ones to take the bait and suffer the consequences on their own. You knew after the first semester here, the ugly way.

In a way you never expected. For 6 months since you first came in, you tried to lay low. You try not to earn attention from the people around, you go through classes, leave after it ends, go work, go home, sleep, repeat. What you never expected at all was to tarnish one of the fraternity boy's car — you didn't intend to, and if you narrow your eyes, you didn't really do anything.

No scratch, no messed up paint, nothing. He just happened to assume that you've tarnished it because your hand landed on his car while you were trying to catch yourself from a fall. It was just supposed to be a little leverage for you to catch your weight, but you end up getting accused of ruining his hundred thousands of dollar car.

Sukuna Ryomen — the girl who showed you around, apparently appointed during orientations day had told you a bit about the fraternity boys. You remembered something along the lines of, "The dreamiest, sexiest, most jaw dropping body boys around campus."

You don't dare ask her about it, but she just rambled on. You remembered the name Sukuna Ryomen come out of her mouth for being the most boisterous party holder. He makes the party, everyone on the rich side is automatically invited — while middle class people are only allowed when one of the frat members invite them. The poor ones are strictly forbidden from entering the frat house during parties. Who made that rule? Sukuna Ryomen.

You just "tarnished" his car, and now every single person in campus knows about you. Not in a good way, but as the poor person who ruined his brand new sports car. Gosh.

Now, everywhere you, people's head turned, whispers erupted in a way you hoped that they were talking about the poor girl who managed to land a very hard scholarship — but, of course, no. You can't even walk to the cafeteria without people suddenly putting up their bags onto the vacant seats. You thought this was supposed to be college, not high school anymore.

From the corner of your eyes, you could see Sukuna and his group of friends. The fraternities. You never knew why the concept of frat boys are a thing, surely they could have done so much better. Like, a book club maybe? Or a spelling bee? Mathematics? Yes, it's pretty boring, but surely it's better than intimidating people on campus ground.

And as far as you go, you remembered the prices of the cafeteria food being affordable. However, today, the prices had spiked up five times than the usual. You shook your head nervously, asking the lady standing behind the counter with a meek voice, "Is there a mistake with the price . . ? Why is it so far up compared to yesterday? I bought the same thing, can you please help me check?"

The lady gave you a look of pity. She sighs out softly, "Sorry, your students number was listed this way, I'm afraid it's out of my control — you can try checking with the head of the university regarding prices. We're just inputing what is listed in the computer," it seemed that she knows what was happening — but downright refused to talk about it because she knew that she was forbidden to tell you.

You weren't stupid, this kind of things isn't the first rodeo. Clearly Sukuna had done this, and if not him then maybe someone under his commands. Stupid. And there goes your lunch savings. It was embarrassing to stand there, holding the tray of food when you couldn't pay for it at all. Putting the tray down felt even more shameful when people behind you decide to ash you down with their quiet laughter. Well, it wasn't quiet if you could hear it.

And so, you spent the rest of the day hungry. Only being able to tase something once you reached your part time workplace. Sometimes, you thank your boss for actually giving out snacks and actual "heat up" bento stocked up in the fridge.

"Hoo, you work here, huh?"

Just your luck. Fuck my life, you'd like to yell out right now if losing your job was out of the box. You couldn't understand why Sukuna Ryomen had showed up right in front of you along with another frat boy you were aware of —Gojo Satoru— standing there with a sly smirk. Sukuna dropped a couple cans of beer, a few packs of gums and mints, chips, and . . . a few boxes of condoms for God knows what.

You scanned them with awkward silence, "Do you need a bag for these—"

"Use your pretty little head," Sukuna leaned on the counter, taking out his card, "course I need a bag for these. Do I look like I want people to know I just bought condoms, eh?"

What a dick. You chant to yourself, plastering that sweet smile on your face that's special for customers spawned from hell, "That'll be—"

He cuts you off, "You know what? Since you touched my brand new car the other day," he points out, pulling his card back from your fingers, "you can go ahead and put this in the house, yeah? That's the least you could do since you're too broke to pay for my shit. You can afford beers, gums, and condoms, right?"

Before you could say anything, he was halfway through the store, already reaching out to grab the handle of the door. You caught your breath and call out to him, "No, I can't pay for beers, gums, and condoms," Sukuna halts, looking over his shoulders.

You weren't half lying when you said that — money clearly isn't your strongest area, and the bill had add up to at least a good 200 gram of wagyu steak. Why did he have to choose those brands anyways?

Satoru nudged him out of the door considering the fact that there were a couple people watching them from afar, "Leave this here for you, yeah?" he pulls out a bill from his wallet and left it on top of the basket stack before following Sukuna's steps.

You thought that would be the end of it all. The second you stepped into campus ground, the whispers grew louder — no, they weren't even making it subtle that they were shit-talking you. These people spoke and made sure that you heard every single thing about it.

How pitiful this, serves you right that. How about considering shutting up and study? Your grip on your bag strap never faltered until you reached into the first class of the day. The class felt more hollow than usual. Before everything with Sukuna happened, people didn't actually mind sitting next to you — but, the dirty look you get now when they were forced to sit there was humiliating, almost.

You felt small in this moment. Like, nobody was on your side just because you lacked the money to defend yourself. Had you came here with a bit more money, a bit richer, would Sukuna still of react that way? Or would he have brushed you off like you did nothing wrong.

"You."

Your head rose from the short slumber of 'what ifs' when your professor called out on you — he had never called out on you before, not on anyone. He specifically said that he'd rather continue teaching rather than testing his students, so why was he calling to you now? Looking side to side, the looks from students around you confirmed that your professor was indeed calling out to you.

" . . . Me?" Your voice was slow and unsure. Maybe it was the fear of getting judged just for confirming.

Your professor looked dissatisfied, his eyes narrowed, "Yes, you. I am pointing at you, correct?" You nodded, already feeling the heat of embarrassment sloshing on your cheeks, "The Tsar had sent out orders to the governments of different provinces of the empire requiring each of them to send his quota of artificers and laborers to assist to build the city. This, they could do with ease because in those days, all the laboring classes were little better than slaves, and most entirely at the disposal of nobles, who were deemed their masters. In the same manner, he sent out agents to all the chief cities in Western Europe with orders to advertise for carpenters, masons, engineers, ship-builders, and person of all other trades that are likely useful to help build the city. These men were to be promised good wages and very kind treatment, and were to be at liberty at any time to return to their homes."

What the fuck was he talking about? You fiddled with the edge of your book, folding the pages anxiously as he looks at you, "Peter the Great in 1859 has an attitude towards foreign workers described in the passage I just read before differs most strongly from that of which of the following states during the period 1450-1750? A, the Songhai Empire in West Africa. B, the Tokugawa shogunate in Japan. C, the Qing Dynasty in China or D, the Safavid Dynasty in Persia?"

What. The. Fuck. Internally, you were panicking at the sudden question. You were unsure of how the topic of World War had suddenly turned into . . . this. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you mumbled out, more of questioning him, "A?"

"Incorrect. The Songhai Empire and the Savafid Dynasty relied heavily on foreign trade to support their economy, this indicates that they are willing to cooperate with foreigners. On the other hand, the Qing Dynasty also engage in foreign trade — hence, the answer is B. The Tokugawa shogunate in Japan," he explains out roughly, scribbling on the whiteboard, "the passage describes Peter the Great offering to provide good wages and kind treatment to foreign workers, especially high skilled ones who assisted in the construction. This attitude is generally positive and consistent with his eagerness to accept foreign influence, especially Euro-pean influence, in order to modernize Russia. This attitude differs strongly from that of the Tokugawa shogunate, which adopted isolationist stance, expelling most foreigners from Japan and closed off Japan to foreign trades. Also, forbade Japanese citizens from traveling abroad. Thus, B is the correct answer."

He finished with a sharp look towards you before speaking in a gruff tone, "Read your books well next time or leave my class."

Everyone is such a dick in here. You mutter to yourself, looking back down onto your notebook in annoyance, ready to just storm off and die in a ditch. Maybe getting too excited about college applications don't always turn out well — you just wanted to crawl away and disappear right now.

When class ended, you stood up, not bothering to pack. Your books hung in between your armpit as you walked down the hall, timidly looking down. Guess, you should have watched where you're going. The next thing you know, your books were sprawled all over the floor, a soft curse escaped under your breath as you bent down to pick it up.

"Watch where the fuck you're going," doesn't take you a good look to know who it was, by the voice, you just knew you bumped into trouble. Sukuna's foot trampled over the cover of your AP History book, his crude laugh echoing when he walks by. Then more foot trampled over your belongings, your fingers twitched at the sight of your now dirty book. At least they didn't step inside.

Your fingers clawed on a book, huffing. As you went to grab the second book, another hand beats you to it. Looking up, you met Gojo Satoru's cerulean eyes. He has a cheeky smile on his face, "You alright?" He questioned like he cares, but you knew people like him all too well.

" . . . Yeah," you don't bother thanking him, immediately jolting the book out of his fingers like he's toxic.

"You're welcome," he spoke, sarcasm lacing in his voice.

Your shoulder tingled when he brushed by you with that sweet smile of his that never left from earlier. He connected back with his group of friends, laughing like he didn't just stop to help you pick up a book, the hell is this now?

Satoru briefly glances at you over his shoulder, his feet continued to bring him further away from where you stood, brushing the covers of your books. He turns to focus on his friends, "Party is gonna be awesome, can't fucking wait," Sukuna sipped on his energy drink, skipping slightly, "I call dibs on—" Satoru had lost interest then.

He knew Sukuna would talk about the new girl he's inviting to the frat house tonight. The condoms he bought the other day solely for this matter, Satoru hasn't invited anyone. Sure, he's had flings here and there every once in a while. Sure, he's had sex with different girls he doesn't bother remembering. Though, it's been at least half a year since he last slept with someone.

"You good?" A friend of his —Geto Suguru— nudged him. If Satoru were to be honest, he'd choose Suguru to hang out with rather than Sukuna.

While Sukuna's a tornado wagering down the halls with total confidence and boisterous chaos, Suguru was silent. Quiet chaos, he doesn't bother people who done him no wrongs, but Satoru does know that Suguru tends to pretend to be sweet when he's seething. A double face, not that it's any of his business.

"Just peachy, no worries."

Suguru raised a brow, he knew Satoru better than anyone. They had spent their whole high school together — they're practically two peas in a pod, "Sure? You look worse than 'just peachy'."

Satoru shrugged, "Just noticed that (Name) girl."

"The one who ruined—"

Satoru never understood why they used the word 'ruined'. He took a good look at that car and it still looks as new as when Sukuna got it, that guy just wants a reason to fuel his dickhead-ness, "Yeah," he forced himself to answer, "her."

"She's in some deep shit."

"Right?"

"Who's in some deep shit?" Sukuna asks, looking over his shoulder from the front of the group, "And why the fuck would you notice that . . . low class bitch. How do you even know her name?" It was on her nametag at work, Satoru couldn't blame anyone for looking at every single details around him. He's always been that kind of person.

"Eh, just thought she fucked up bad," Satoru shrugs his shoulder sheepishly, "it was pretty rad."

"I'm still not satisfied," Sukuna grins, almost like a maniac. Satoru's so accustomed by his shit now that he wouldn't be surprised if Sukuna turns up in prison tomorrow — or even worse, dead, "you should fuck her up."

Satoru retracts back, "Beat her up . . ?"

Sukuna rolled his eyes, "No, mess with her. Coddle her, then break her heart, it'll feel pretty fucking good," Satoru knows this type of stuff is what the pink haired love most — he's lost count of how many girls have fallen for his charms, only to be disappointed then.

"I'm not interested—"

"Not interested? Or scared?"

See now, Satoru wasn't the type of person to back down. Especially when it involves his ego, "Scared? Pfft, the fuck do I get from this?" He mutters out, wanting something physical wise to be returned to him for doing whatever the fuck this is.

"Whatever the fuck you want, I could buy," a new car sounds awesome, or maybe a new PS5? Oh, a private jet maybe? Sukuna's money is relentless — his parents own probably one of the biggest electronic company in Japan, and Sukuna's the heir to it. Of course, he has the money and power to rule over this campus, not to mention the fact that his parents are the top one donators for events.

Satoru smirked, "Could do that. No time limit?"

"Eh, just make her feel all high and then drop her, don't care," Sukuna waved his hand, walking away. Satoru has seen his fair share of dickheads, but Sukuna has got to be at the top of the list.

That should be fairly easy.

Work has been hell. First, a lady blamed you because she didn't bring the right amount of money, somewhere along, she told you it was completely your fault and that you humiliated her. Second, you burst a water bottle inside your bag, didn't know how that happened. Lastly, Gojo Satoru paid you a visit.

This time, he was alone. He drops down a few packets of chips and a cold water bottle right on the counter, you'd like to retort, "No condoms like your friend?" But, it would just spiral everything worse.

"So," he started.

Uh-oh.

"I saw your water burst," what? How did he even know that? You cleared your throat, "the door was open and I saw. Bought you another one, and the chips too."

"Um, why?" You muttered out unsure.

He doesn't say a word but slipped a bill onto the counter with a smile on his face. Satoru looks around and tapped on the bill, "Text me."

He left without another word — prick. Just as you pulled the bill, a piece of small paper fell from under it. And of course, a series of numbers were written on top of it, his number, you assumed since he said to text him. Honestly, you didn't bother with it and let the paper rest there until closing hours, where you crumpled it and tossed it in the bin.

Because, what made him think that you'd text him when his friends are complete dickheads? Somewhere deep in your mind, you knew he was just pretending to be nice. There is little to no chance that he's genuine, and you wondered what his intentions really are.

Sex? A kiss? Money? Or is it still because of that stupid fucking car of Sukuna?

Anyways, it didn't matter now. After all that, all you wanted to do was to transfer away — if money wasn't the reason, you'd totally be in a different place right now. Surely, your time will come, right?

The place you live in currently wasn't even a living area, it was a space people use to fuck. Sex workers mostly, so most of your nights were filled with the raging sounds of skin against skin, the loud curses asking for more, and different pitches of moans from left and right. At this point, you weren't even in a place to complain because the owner lets you have the room for a good price, and who were you to judge these people when you don't know anything about their lives?

Your bed wasn't even a bed. It was makeshift one, a thin mattress and under it was a piece of wood so you could just plop down with ease. Thankfully, the room has its own bathroom and a little kitchen by the corner, it wasn't much; but it was enough.

While brushing your teeth, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. You looked . . . older, and more tired. The dark circles under your eyes were worse than high school despite the fact that you were juggling three jobs in the past, and now you were juggling one job with a dozen of dickheads on your ass. No, actually — if you think about it, it's not even a dozen, the whole campus was on your ass.

Wouldn't this be considered as illegal? Professors shouldn't even be involved just because you couldn't defend yourself from some frat boys you were sure they shit talk about too. Your skin was rougher on some parts, and there were a few rashes from scratching earlier, it will disappear, hopefully. Spitting out the toothpaste, you touched your face, feeling the soft patch under your fingertips.

Sometimes, you wondered if your parents hadn't died, would you still be living in that not too big house in the very nice neighborhood, with nice neighbors, and a small yard on the back? Would people still look at you like you mattered? Or was it just another play because your world's still colors and sparkles — unlike now.

Sleep was an escape, only if you could do it longer. After work, you spend most of time tossing and turning, if this bed wasn't so thin, maybe you wouldn't feel your back aching and actually get a good night rest. But, no, this was all you could get by. And by the time you got some sleep, the alarm blared, reminding you of the mystery ahead.

Whenever you turned around the corner near campus, you find yourself taking deep breaths and chanting a mantra to be patient — being patient is so much better than spending a whole life in jail. You try to tell yourself that once this was all done, you go find an old rich guy, take his heart, and make him give all his assets to you. Boom, rich. Then again, somewhere deep in you, you knew that this was just a way for you to remind yourself to go on and keep living.

"You never texted me."

Not even inside campus grounds, yet. You pretend it was just the wind and continued walking. Satoru pops a smile and matched your steps with ease, damn his long legs, "So, I waited all night and never got one. Did you intend to do that or were you just too shy to text me?"

Your steps slowed down into a halt, "Do I even know you?"

Satoru shook his head, "Why'd you think I gave you my number, sweetheart? I want you to know me, and I want me to know you," he points at your head, "so? Why'd you not text me?"

"Because I didn't see a number," you lied through gritted teeth.

He cocked his head, "Oh," no, Satoru's not stupid, of course he knows you're lying. He saw it with his own eyes that the paper had fallen and you left it there — no worries, he left after, "let's rephrase that, sounds a bit bland. How about, to prevent that from happening again, you put your number in my phone. Or mine in yours, your choice."

"Don't have a phone," you mumbled.

"Lies, people have phones—"

You pulled out the old flip-phone passed down from your former grandmother, which managed to shut him up deliberately, his blue eyes looking in awe at the device, "Oh, you actually meant that, are you that broke?" He spoke in a sympathetic tone that made you despise him even more, "I can buy a new phone for you—"

"Absolutely not, do I look like I need a new phone?"

He looks at you, "Um, yeah. Who still uses . . . flip phones? Unless, you're ninety or dead," okay, he's an obnoxious little brat who's obviously choking on daddy's money, his parents are to blame!

"Leave me alone, Jojo."

Satoru blinks, "Gojo," he corrects, "I prefer Satoru, or baby works too."

"Jojo it is."

You've never noticed that he sits in the same AP History class as you do — no wonder he followed you in, his steps matches yours. People stared you down, girls especially. Burning in jealousy at the sight of you walking beside what they thought is one of the hottest person on campus. And right then, you'd already decided that you're utterly more fucked than before, "Can you . . . not sit beside me?"

"Why not? I'm trying to flirt, can't you give me a chance before deciding?" He puts his chin on top of his palm, looking at you.

You grumbled, moving away slightly only for him to follow your movements, inching his body closer to yours, "I am uncomfortable with you being so close to me, can you move away?"

Satoru inched slightly away with a teasing smile. Your professor, today, decided it was another day to humiliate you even more, "(Name)," he calls out to your name, surprising that he even knows it to begin with, "In Philosophy of Manufactures, steam engines furnish the means not only of their support, but of their multiplication. They create a vast of demand for fuels and while they lend their powerful arms to drain the pits and to raise coal, they call into employment multitudes of miners, engineers, shipbuilders, and sailors and cause the construction of canals. Therefore, in enabling these rich fields of industry to be cultivated to the utmost, they leave thousands of fine arable fields free for the production of food to man, which must've been otherwise allotted to the food of horses. Steam engines moreover, by the cheapness and steadiness of their action — fabricates cheap goods, and procure in their exchange a liberal supply of the necessaries and comforts of life produced in foreign lands."

You scratched the back of your head, his words already leaving your brain. Worse, you don't even know what he was talking about, "The passage I just read is best seen ad evidence for which of the following? A, the implementation of the factory system led to increased demand for skilled laborers. B, the limited supply of fossil fuels led to innovations in transportations. C, the rise of industrial technology improved living conditions for all members of society; or D, the development of machines led to increased agricultural production and population growth."

God, all you wanted to do now was to throw a book straight to his bald head and call it a day. As you were about to shoot and try your luck, a tap on your thigh under the table made your eyes look slightly to the paper Satoru was holding, 'D'.

It wasn't much of a help when you're skeptical about it too, but at this point, you'll take it. With a slight tremble in your voice, you answered, "D?"

To your surprise, your professor looked fairly satisfied. He nods his head and turns towards the whiteboard, "D is correct. The passage I just read claimed that advances in transportation and mechanical production allowed for more intensive agricultural cultivation, thus D is correct. Good job, (Name), I expect a lot from you."

The burden on your shoulders visibly lifted up and you coaxed yourself to look at Satoru, who had a smile on his face, proud of himself, " . . . Thanks," you mumbled out, as much as you hate it, he did just save your face from another round of humiliation.

"No problem, sweetheart. I guess I get a free pass to sit next to you from now on then?" He whispers softly, with a cheeky smile.

"Don't push your luck."

"Won't stop trying."

Satoru is a leech. You could see his group of friends sitting in another corner, but they didn't seem like they cared about Satoru sitting away from them; which made you suspicious about the whole thing. Satoru seemed to notice, clearing his throat, "What class do you have after this?"

You shook your head, "None."

"Sweet, wanna hang out?"

"Got work."

Satoru puckered his lips, "After work then?"

"Too late."

"The Weekend?"

"Rest day."

Satoru chuckled under his breath at your vague answers, he was honestly confused to why you weren't affected by his charms like all others would, "I'm free whenever," because you're rich, why can't he just understand that he's practically saying that he's so rich so he doesn't have to break bones and work all night long, "so, just shoot me a letter. I can write my address—"

"My flip-phone can text fine," you retort back a bit offended.

"Well, why didn't you say so, input my number then," he scribbled down on your notebook, his writing is messy, like him, "text me for real this time, yeah?"

No, you did not text him. You didn't know why you'd text him — his friends are a group of bullies, and he probably is one too! You stood by the counter of the cashier, tapping on the metallic surface in a random tune, "So, I've received no texts so far from you, sweetheart."

"I don't have anything to ask you, nor am I interested in texting you," you replied back, ringing his sandwich and energy drink.

"Why? Is it because I'm Sukuna's friend?" He was smirking widely, like he knows it's part of the answer.

You narrowed your eyes at him, "Yes, that's one. Two, I know you want something from me, I just don't know what. Three, you're not as . . . charming as what people portray you to be, anyone who is friends with bullies and douchebags makes them the same. And all three points to you," he blinks, suppressing his smile from growing wider.

Satoru finally laughs, "You haven't even gotten to know me."

"Don't need to, I judge books by the cover, and your cover isn't really the best—"

"I can name a few books with shit covers that has treasures inside," he offered in a challenging tone, you furrowed your brows in annoyance, "one—"

"I don't need a fucking list, you're holding up the line," Satoru looks back to see nobody standing behind him, "fuck off."

"Ouch, harsh."

He slides the sandwich and energy drink towards you, "I don't need your pity."

Satoru raised a brow, "What's your definition of pity?"

"You, giving me these—"

Satoru cuts you off, "Pity. Noun. The feeling of sorrow and compassion caused by the suffering and misfortunes of others. Example, he looks at me with pity because I just lost my wallet," he defined with a lop-sided smirk, "and I," he slowly spoke again, "don't feel sorrow because you have a shitty life — I actually do care for you, you're different. Unlike people on campus who flocks over my extremely good looks, you actually hate me. And it's fresh, this is not pity, it's love."

You grit your teeth, "There's a borderline difference between love and lust, and you seem like the type to sugarcoat your words to lay a girl. Is that what you're trying to do? Did your jerk of a friends tell you to do this just because you helped me pick a book up the other day? Do I look fucking cheap to you?"

Satoru shrugs, "Believe what you want, all I'm saying is that —" he gestures to himself then at you, "I'll try my best to earn your trust, then I'll officially court you after, cool? And who cares about what they say, I'm probably not going to talk to them after we graduate anyways."

You look at the sandwich, "I ate."

"Then eat more."

"Can't."

"Heat it up for tomorrow then, breakfast, silly," he flicks your forehead, making you stare at him in an uncanny way that he raised both his arms in defense, "personal space, got it."

"You bring it home or I throw it away," Satoru raised his brows, grinning, "I'm serious, Jojo."

"Gojo. Let's start there . . . Gojo," his finger flicked to himself, "(Name)," his finger flicks towards you, "not so hard, right? Gojo and (Name)."

What the fuck does he want? You asked yourself internally. Frankly, you've stopped listening to what he has to say after 'Gojo and (Name)', the smile on his face burnt the already raging fire in you. You just wanted to wipe that off his face, "Alright, I'll make one thing clear, I am not interested in you nor do I want anything to do with you."

"Like I said," he sighs, "I'll try my best. Which means, I'm not gonna stop until either you do trust me — or I get tired, a man can't always run, you know?"

Does he think saying that made him look cooler? You cringed back slightly, "Go home."

"Yes, ma'am. Also, bring home the sandwich, I'm not taking it home!" He waves his hand, walking out of the store.

"Morning!"

You would have turned back and leave if you know another way to reach campus — turning around the usual corner, you never expect to see Gojo Satoru leaning on the wall, air pods stuffed in his ears. He wore a bright yellow colored hoodie and a grey jogger. In an instant, you were left silent, not knowing what to say.

"I'll just pretend you said hi back, alright, let's go to campus—"

You brushed by him, walking inside the gates. Satoru huffed, swinging his bag over his shoulder, "C'mon, can't we at least speak like normal humans? Or are you seriously going to ignore me the whole time I'm trying to talk to you?" He walks beside you.

No matter how fast you try to go, he was matching your speed with ease. Quietly whistling a tune you assumed was the melody from his air pods. Thankfully, you got no class with him today — so, he was left stranded outside your class, "Thematic and Social History 201 on Thursdays, got it," he calls out to you.

You halt, a feeling of dread like a blanket over your shoulders. Fuck. Now he knows where you go to on Thursday, "Don't worry, I'll just have to slip out faster than usual," you reassured yourself.

No. By the time the class ended, even being the first one to escape it doesn't make Satoru lose sight of you. In fact, he had already been waiting outside since half an hour ago because his professor ended class earlier, bouncing his head to the beat. The second the door pops open, his eyes were intently looking for you.

You walked the other direction and he pushes himself off the wall, excusing himself through the sea of humans, "Excuse me, sorry," he slithered his way to your side, a sly smile on his face as he leans down close enough to your ear, "boo!"

The sight of your jolting body made him giggle, "What the fuck is wrong with you? Can you stop bothering me?"

"I'm not bothering you, I'm trying to earn your heart," he shrugs.

"You're patronizing me."

Satoru clicked his tongue, "Patronizing. Adjective. Apparently kind or helpful but betraying a feeling of superiority or condescending. Example, I occasionally experienced patronizing attitudes from teachers around," he defines again, how annoying, "I'm not patronizing you, I'm teasing you — it's my love language. Teasing."

"Don't define it."

"Since you insist. Teasing. Adjective. Intended to provoke or make fun of someone in a playful way. Example, Gojo Satoru's teasing (Name)(Last Name) to show her his love," he grins. A stupid grin, "if I perchance, shower you with gifts, and expensive items, or luxurious vacations, would you go out with me?"

See now, the topic of financial stability made you feel ashamed. You knew he wasn't (probably) intending on going that way, but something in you just wanted him to leave you be, "Expensive items? Luxurious vacations? Gifts? Am I that cheap to you that you think my trust could be earned by burning money? Huh?"

Satoru held back a smile, "Well, no. But, that's my other love language, giving gifts to my significant other. And I'm trying to make you one, in case it's not noticeable."

"Yeah? It's pissing me off, I get it, I'm poor, you're rich. Wow, money," you mutter.

Satoru finally clicks the puzzle, "Oh, I'm not trying to go that way. You need to understand I don't give a flying fuck about my woman's money . . . because I'm gonna be paying for you anyways, that's how I do it," he smugly said as if it was something to be particularly proud of.

"How egotistical," you rolled your eyes, pushing the doors to the cafeteria open.

"Egotistical. Adjective. Conceited or absorbed in oneself, in other words, self-centered. Example, he is so full of himself, he's egotistical! Arrogant. Adjective. Having an exaggerated sense of one's own importance or abilities. Example, Gojo Satoru's not arrogant, he knows his worth and he doesn't look down on (Name)(Last Name)."

"What's the difference?" You mutter, grabbing a tray.

"Example, an egotistical person will talk about his hobbies only. However, an arrogant person will come up to them and tell them that their hobbies are stupid, that's the difference," for a fraternity boy, usually laced with stupidity and haughty, Gojo Satoru doesn't lack in anything (you hate to admit), "and I'd like to remind you that, I, Gojo Satoru will never tell you that your hobby is stupid."

For awhile, you forgot about the raise of prices on your student number. Sukuna probably was the main reason — Satoru noticed the way you were about to put your tray back onto the stack, "I'll pay, grab anything you want. I want you to not skip lunch just because you touched someone's car and he thinks you ruined it."

Your head turned towards him, "So, you're admitting that I did nothing and all I've received the past few weeks were straight up menace and bullying?"

Satoru shrugs, "Between you and I, yes."

"And you've said nothing to defend me at all? Even when you admitted you wanted to get to know me? How cool of you, and no, I don't need you to pay me. I can feed myself, thank you," you swat his hand away, putting the tray down and leaving the line.

Satoru bit the inner of his cheek, already feeling the frustration bubble up. Why were you being so hard?

"What the hell was that?"

Suguru appeared right by his side, holding a tray. He had pushed himself to the middle, where Satoru was. Satoru grumbled under his breath, "Nothing," but nothing sounded like something.

"Mhm, guess you won't be getting that perk from Sukuna—"

"Yes, I fucking will. She's easy, I'll just have to say stuff, sugarcoat words, and boom, she'll fall for me in no time," Satoru found himself rambling out to his best friend, even if, a part of him maybe did want to get to know you better. He was just too scared to admit the fact that his friends would probably make fun of him for being interested in someone like you, "thank God, there's no time limit."

"Break a leg."

You end up sitting in a store nearby, eating a sandwich that felt stale — for a cheap price, you weren't surprised. This was so much better than eating rice with water. The sun was shining brightly contradicting your mangled feelings; somehow it felt like the sun was taking part in assaulting your feelings. It was humiliating to say the least, your skin burnt, but you will take every second of it before you find yourself in that damned hellhole of a campus where everyone thinks of you as an obstacle because Sukuna said so. His car doesn't even look good!

Thursdays were officially your most hated day. You've got a total of three classes from 8 to 5. This probably meant a higher chance of Satoru following you around with his tail wagging — which is the worse case scenario.

Walking back into campus felt like a chore, you just wanted to go in a hole and stay there for the rest of the day. Halfway down the hall, someone tapped on your shoulder, you turn back, ready to accept the fact that it was Satoru. But, no, this time, it wasn't. It was a girl — whom, you don't recognize at all. She has a small smile, "Hi."

" . . . Hi."

She has got no business to be talking to you, either she's here to make fun of you, or she wants something. You wait for her to speak, "I'm Professor Hanami's student assistant, you're in his AP History class, right? He told me to find you. I tried asking about your schedule to the information desk, and they told me you have a class in a bit, they wouldn't give me your phone number since it was private information. I was hoping to find you before then, been walking around non-stop since before," she waves her hand, "anyways, he's telling me that he wants you to participate in a competition with two others. He'd like to talk to you right now."

A competition? Me? You asked yourself. However, you were ready to decline when she pulls you down the hall, jogging. You try to halt her into a stop, "I'm not interested in a competition," you tell her.

But, she doesn't seem to care. And you were starting to think if this is true, why was she so adamant? Plus, you've never actually seen her in AP History, "I've never seen you in AP History."

The girl looks back, "Oh, yeah. Because I'm not really his student assistant. Sukuna paid me to do this, sorry about it. You seem like such a sweet girl, but my reputation is on the line," she pushed you inside a room.

It was empty. And it stinks of time long ago, the cobwebs on the corners of the ceiling seemed to show how the room had been stuck like this for a while now. The soft click from the lock told you that you'll be stuck in here for a while, so why not just enjoy it? Someone will eventually find out and open the door for you, right?

Wrong. When the fourth hour passed by, you began wondering if someone did hear you knock on the door; or they prompted not to care after hearing because in a way, they were probably too scared to open the door because Sukuna pointed the girl to do this. You couldn't blame her, he was a prick for gosh sake.

The small rectangular window that poured a bit of light in began to dim, which signified the sun setting. The room gradually grew darker by the passing second, and you sighed, trying the switch. Flipping it up, then down, then up again, then down — in a way, you're trying to convince yourself that the switch was malfunctioning and that it will work the third time. Third time's the charm, right?

Again, wrong. Third time is in fact not the charm. The light was completely busted. You felt the growing puddle on the back of your shirt from how humid the room is, fanning yourself. In the first hour, you contemplated in calling the cops, but honestly, you'd just have more attention to yourself, and the whole campus would probably find out. You thought these kind of things only happen in movies or drama series, this is stupid. Rich people are stupid.

Your flip-phone was not a good use. Your contacts only had three people in, your boss and two of your co-workers, none which you could ask for help from. Though you did send a call to your co-worker asking to cover a shift and that you will cover hers tomorrow because you were stuck in a room — she doesn't believe you at first, but the blurry picture you sent her made her worried. She was asking if she should come, but you didn't want to bother her and said no.

When the room grew pitch dark, the dim light from the window being the only source of light. You walked right under the light, pulling your bag open. You fished out a notebook and flipped to the latest page, there was Satoru's number right on top, still messy and still intact.

Your thumb began punching in his number. Much to your annoyance, maybe you do need his help right now. The call went through, ringing once, ringing twice, thrice— then, "Hello?" his voice was bland and unwelcoming.

"It's (Name)."

The he beams, "Ah, seems like you finally used my number for a good use. What can I do for you sweet thing?" For someone who was deemed as Sukuna's friend, he's sure clueless of what the pink hair does daily.

"Are you still on campus?"

"No, why would I? It's like . . . nearly six, the last class ended like an hour ago. Why? You wanna hang out or something?" He teases out, singing his words like all of this is fun. Well, he doesn't know the predicament you're in, can you blame him?

"I've been locked inside this room for hours."

" . . . What?"

"Like . . . at one, I think. I was walking to class and this girl came up to me saying she's Professor Hanami's student assistant, she said he wanted me to join some kind of competition, I was about to say no but she dragged me away. Told her I've never seen her in AP History and . . . well, she kinda just threw me in here," you fessed up, "nobody opened the door even when I knocked."

It was hard to keep it together because why were you in this predicament to begin with? Surely, touching a car shouldn't mean this kind of attitude from everyone on campus? The other line was silent for a bit, and for a second, you thought that he had hung up on you, "You're serious? Right?"

" . . . Why would I be lying?"

"Can your flip-phone send locations?"

"No."

"I'm coming, wait," he muttered, hanging up.

You sat under the moonlight, looking up the ceiling. It took another half an hour for a call to come up, you accepted it, "Hello?"

"First floor?"

"Yeah. It's an abandoned room or something — it stinks here," you add.

"Knock on the door for me."

You stood up, walking to the door and your knuckles rapped against the smooth surface. The other line was filled with rustled noises, and then he perks up, "Hear you, I'm coming, wait there."

The door bursts open, and Satoru stood there like he had just ran a marathon. With ragged breaths, he stepped towards you. His expression contorted into one of anger as his hands gripped your shoulders, shaking you lightly, "Why didn't you call for help sooner?"

"Sukuna told her to do it, you could have been a part of it," or maybe you just forgot you had his number.

"Don't bullshit me, you know I don't fuck with his ways. I told you before, why didn't you fucking call me, (Name)?" He angrily questions you.

You mumbled, "I forgot I had your number."

His eyes softened, "You idiot . . . Did you even know how fucking worried I was? You were stuck here for what— six hours? Almost six? Doesn't make it any better. You were here alone, what if I nobody opens it until tomorrow? Huh?"

Your brows furrowed, you didn't need a lecture. All you want to do now is go home, get a cold shower, and sleep. You had missed two classes because of his friend. And the only reason why you called him was you were forced to, or you would probably be stuck here until tomorrow. Or worse, the next few days, "I don't need a lecture."

"I just saved you. You're welcome."

"So, you wanted something in return? Name it, I'll give it to you—"

He snaps at you, "That's not my fucking point and you know it. My point is that you could have called me sooner and you could have been out! You worried me, that's my point," he looks at you from head to toe, "and look at you. Look how tired you look, how sweaty you are. I'm walking you home, no questions. I don't care what you say."

"I can walk home just fine."

"Nu-uh, not after what happened," he grabbed your bag, swung it across his shoulder and grabbed your wrist, "I gave you my number for a reason. Yes, I want to get close to you, but I don't want you to feel like that's the sole reason why I gave you that. I want you to rely on me and call me whenever you need help without thinking that I want something in return."

His thumb brushes over your wrist gently, "Please?"

Immediately you pulled your arm away from his grip, "Don't touch me. I don't like getting touched," he still stood close to you, keeping a good small space in between, "and . . . thank you for helping me."

Satoru didn't know if he was more surprised at the fact that you were still as stubborn as ever or the fact that you said thank you to him. He parts his lips slightly, but nothing comes out, so he just nodded his head as he walks alongside you, "You haven't eaten, I assume?"

You shook your head, "I got instant ramen."

"Uh-uh," he shook his head, taking out a handkerchief from his pocket and wraps it around his hand, "technically, the cloth will be touching you — so, I'm not the one— yeah, well you get me. I'm not touching you, so don't pull away," he grabbed your hand again.

"Why do you have a handkerchief —"

"I get sweaty. And it's a drag if I have to use my shirt to wipe my sweat all the time," he said.

"Jojo—"

"Gojo," Satoru clarified with a small smile as he brought you out of the campus building, "and I'm bringing you to eat. What are you craving? Steak? Sushi? Sashimi? Ramen? Wagyu? Burgers? Mention it, I'll treat you to anything."

You mumbled incoherently, "Don't need you to treat me. I can cook."

"Yeah, instant ramen? No."

You tried to pull your hand away from his grip, but his grasp on you was tight. Satoru whistled softly as he brought you down to the nearest ramen shop, it was crowded considering it's almost dinner time. He sat you down in the bar seat, taking the honor to order for the both of you. Then he faces you, "I'll talk to Sukuna about it."

"About what? Him locking me in that room? I'm fine," you retort back, "and for the record, I don't have the money to fix his car—"

"There's nothing wrong with it. He just needs a reason to make fun of you, and that's unfair," he sighs softly, pulling his handkerchief away, "listen, I'll talk to him and tell him to stop whatever the fuck this is. Hopefully, it will knock some senses into him. I'm afraid his audacity has been shoved up so far up his ass that the cops don't really scare him anymore."

"Yeah? Tell me how it goes," your voice was laced with sarcasm.

"Sarcasm. Noun. The use of irony to mock. Example, (Name) used sarcasm to show that she doesn't believe that I'll talk to Sukuna," he grins sheepishly, "I'm gonna prove it to you. No worries."

"Are you going to define everything I say?"

Satoru looks at you, "Everything. Pronoun. All things or a current situation. Example, (Name) asked if I was going to define everything she says, but to answer you, no, I just do it when I feel like it," he shrugs.

"How do you even know all these—"

"I studied."

"I died," you mutter.

A sly glint appeared in his eyes and he said again, "Died. Verb. Past tense of die, shows when a person, animal, or plant stops living. Example, (Name) said she died, in reality she's still alive — maybe she is dead inside," you rolled your eyes at his example, looking down at the table.

Satoru noticed the sudden change and blew out a soft sigh, "Does this all bother you?"

"The defining?"

"Sukuna," he clarifies.

Who am I kidding? Your face contorts into one of disbelief, "Yes, it is. It bothers with my daily life and my academics, if you haven't noticed," yet again, he's not surprised by the sarcasm lacing under your voice . . . and the slight annoyance too, "and to think that everyone can't do anything just because his parents contributes a lot to the university. If I were to tell my testimony here, I promise you it's gonna be the end of this school and his reputation."

"Think he'd be scared of that? People have tried, you know?"

Were you surprised? No. Were you intimidated? Maybe. However, you masked your worry with anger, "So, what? Everyone should bow down to him every single time? Like you? You keep licking his shoes like he owns you—"

"I'm not scared of him," Satoru cuts you off, offended.

"So?"

He cleared his throat, "It just happens to be that . . . I need this diploma for the occupation I'm aiming for, and if he were to hold a grudge on me, he'd definitely suspend my diploma," in other words, Sukuna is a big dick, "I'm not scared of him hurting me. I'm scared of him suspending my diploma."

"But, you got money."

"Why would I waste money to fight over my diploma when I can just study well? That dick's going to spend how ever much money until I give up," He muttered, "I can use the money for different things. Plus, his parents contributes more to the campus — they'd definitely choose him over my family."

"Who's them? The campus?"

Satoru rolled his eyes, "Well. Duh, silly. The campus."

"You got the money to transfer, why not?"

"It'd be a waste to start from the first semester."

Satoru watches as the old man served you the first bowl of ramen before eventually serving his. The steam brushes over your face like a gentle caress, and your mouth started visibly watering at the sight of the creamy bone broth. Not everyday that you could get a taste of savory, rich, and creamy broth like such — the most broth you've eaten was salt broth mixed with water and rice.

Even it tasted like heaven. As much as you hate to admit, you wanted more of this, being able to eat what people normally eat without feeling guilty of actually spending money. Satoru stared at you, "You know? I actually just ate dinner, wanna have some of mine?" You looked at him slowly, eyes narrowing, a piece of noodle stuck in between your lips, "I swear, not doing this to make you like me, I'm just really full. I'm not much of a big eater."

"You play basketball."

"It doesn't mean that I eat much," he snarkily replied back to you, a smirk appearing on his face, "please? Or I'll just throw it away—"

You immediately shook your head, "Give it to me."

"Listen, I need you to stop fucking with her—"

"What?" Sukuna yelled, the music in the background clearly drowning the voice belonging to Satoru on the other side of the line, "Can't hear ya' dude, shoot me a text or something."

Satoru scowled, ending the call. His thumbs moved in a rush.

Gojo Satoru: Stop fucking with (Name), makes it harder for me to get close to her, since she doesn't trust me Sukuna: That's part of the challenge, ps ur rich enough for a new porsche Gojo Satoru: Why waste money when u can buy it for me? Sukuna: Haha, sick fuck Gojo Satoru: Told her I'll make u stop fucking with her, just for a couple of months bro, for my porsche Sukuna: Whatever lol

Satoru grinned, giddy. Knowing that 'whatever' means Sukuna was agreeing — even annoyed. Satoru had dropped you off approximately ten minutes ago, the apartment you lived in was disgusting. Horrendous, he wondered if people actually could find peace in that cramped space. Not to mention, the very thin walls. It was lively even at this hour, the more doors he walked by, the more he gets disgusted.

How could you even live in this hell? Satoru remembers the days his maids come with noise cancelling headphones the second it starts getting too noisy, whether it being the rain or just windy. He did ask you if you could sleep with all the . . . lewd noises happening. You bluntly put out that you were somehow accustomed to sleep with those, they were practically white noise to you now.

Satoru felt a pang of guilt when he looks back over his shoulders. The worn out building looked abandoned from where he stood, and if it weren't for the lights to signify life, he would have thought it was abandoned in the first place. But, he shook his head and continued walking back home.

He had the call log still stuck to the top of his logs, other than your number, all the other rows were occupied by either Suguru or Sukuna. He tapped long enough on your number to press on the edit contact, naming it after you, "(Name) porsche". Eliciting a smile on his lips at the thought of a brand new car.

You stood by the railing, eyeing his back. Just seconds ago, you tried calling out to him but stopped when he had already disappeared into the night. Satoru had took off jacket and forgotten it during his very short stay, apparently the noises were too much for him that he had decided to leave quickly, chugging his tea down. In the heat of moment, the thought of his jacket left his mind.

I'll just give it to him tomorrow.

Actually, you thought of calling him. But, opted not to because he would definitely make fun of you for calling him after he had just dropped you off. For the first time, you slept an actual sleep — maybe it was the ramen that helped you, instead of the store's leftover goods that are way too close to the expiry date or a few days ahead of it. They were delicious nonetheless.

When the sun spilled in through your window, you awoke from a deep slumber. For the first time after so long, you were refreshed. Remnants of time stocked in your body still aching — but, you were definitely a bit livelier than yesterday, or the week before. You brushed your teeth, narrowing yourself at the sight of your reflection. Still the same, but somehow different if you squint the slightest bit.

"Morning, cutie."

You walked by Satoru, "Don't call me that."

"You're not telling me to go away," he follows you, "have you accepted me? Have I been promoted to friend status? I told Sukuna to stop bothering you, have I been promoted to bestie now?"

You scoffed softly, "No."

" . . . Friends, then?"

You pondered a bit before sighing, "No, we just talk. Is that even considered as friends—"

"Yes, so we're friends," he pumped his fists slightly, "we can start hanging out then. Mind if I start bombarding you with texts and calls? Actually, I think I prefer calling rather than texting—"

"I don't use my phone a lot."

Satoru grins, "Considering you can't really do anything with it, if I was in your shoes, I wouldn't use it as much too," he bluntly puts out, as if indirectly saying how the flip-phone you owned practically is up to no use, "can I bring you to class?"

"No," you rejected.

You never understood why he was so intent. For the next few weeks, he continuously trailed after your steps. Even waits for you outside the door of your classes, and shows up at your work place, buying sandwiches and rice bowl sets along with different beverages, only to give them to you. To this point, you still don't understand why he was doing that. Surely, he's got a motive, right?

"I told you, I want to court you. So, if you feel comfortable enough to let me in, I'll gladly do it," you stare into his eyes. He doesn't waver at how intensely you seem to be looking into his eyes, unblinking. Satoru stands there right outside your apartment with you, "so, I'll wait as long as possible until you say yes."

"I don't like people who party."

Satoru shrugs, "I'll stop."

"And I don't like piercings."

"I'll get rid of them."

"And I hate people who smoke."

"I'll get rid of them. I'll stop smoking."

"And drinking."

"Haven't drank in weeks — actually, ever I started chasing after you," he smugly said.

It was the truth. He had stopped appearing in Sukuna's party (with a side note that he texts them to say that he's with you, and they understood why). He hasn't drank alcohol along those weeks, and as much as he wanted to, he thought that the car was more important than some cheap ass alcohol off from the convenience store.

"Okay."

Satoru raised a brow, "Okay as in . . ?"

"We can start slow, right?"

He couldn't actually believe the fact that you were agreeing to him, after weeks of chasing and rejections. You had finally agreed. Technically, he still had to show you and ask you to be his girlfriend, but this makes it so much easier now that you're actually cooperating, "Really . . ?" He made sure.

You look away, "I'm not good at this. It's the first time someone's actually chased after me, so I'm sorry if it's not up to your expectations."

Satoru felt his heart ache, " . . . Don't worry, we could go slow," he murmured, a tinge guilt actually washing over him.

But, he shook his head, "I'll . . . see you tomorrow then?"

You nodded, waving, "See you tomorrow."

He watches you walk inside the building. Until you finally disappeared into the elevator, he fishes out his phone.

Gojo Satoru: She said she'll let me court her, ur totally buying me the porsche lol Sukuna: Good for u

For some reason, the smile slowly faded away at the sight of Sukuna's text the longer he stares at it. The wave of guilt slowly blanketing him like a cocoon, Satoru shoved his phone into the depths of his pocket before he walks home.

More weeks go by. Satoru noticed the change in you, the way your smile grew wider the more time you spent together. If he were to be specific, he'd stop showing up in Sukuna's party for the past month he's been hanging out with you. His piercings were all out. He had threw his cigarettes away. And he hasn't drank alcohol the whole time.

"Listen, all I'm saying is that, you look pretty in that outfit. No fingers crossed, no strings attached," he compliments the sight of you in that beautiful outfit he had gotten in the mall — in his defense, he thought that it would look great on you, so he bought it.

"How much did it cost?"

Satoru scoffed, "Didn't see the tag. Just bought it."

"You're crazy."

"For you," he winks, "do a little spin."

You complied, a smile on your face. He stared in awe, smiling at you, "I should bring you more outfits often. You look fucking crazy, in a good way. In a you look fucking beautiful way," your cheeks felt warm at his compliment, "alright? Let's go."

Ever since he started courting you, he has made it his job to provide. Even when you forced him not to — he forced you back that he insists. In a way that he has suddenly paid for your electric bills, water bills. God knows how he knew the number, but it all came back paid every month, never a day too late. In a way he sends you food and drinks at random times of the day to your apartment. In a way he sends you random pictures, that you can barely see through your flip-phone. Believe me when he tried to buy you a more modern phone, and you had to physically restrain him from doing just that.

In a way he's suddenly out of your door holding bouquets of flowers that you never thought you'd receive from anyone. In a way that he whispers sweetness and delight to make you feel important. Satoru had shown you love in so many different ways that you had forgotten about what it felt like to be lonely.

"Satoru?"

"Mm?" He asks, chin on your head.

"Why me?"

Satoru was blank in flash. What was he supposed to answer? That he wanted a new porsche from Sukuna? He chuckled, his chest vibrated against your back gently. His hands were flat against your stomach, "Why I chose you? Or . . ?"

You nodded, "Why do you choose me? There are so many girls out there that could match you—"

He shushes you softly, rubbing the skin under your shirt. Satoru shook his head, "I chose you because I want you, you don't see me as just a pretty face and sex. You see me as me, and that itself means a lot to me — people flock to me for money, for my face, for the sex. But you? It took me weeks to actually earn your trust and months for you to fully trust me to take care of you. Even then," he breathes out softly, "you still never let me pay for anything unless I do it quietly. I like that. I like giving, but not when people ask for it. You never ask for anything, and I want to just . . . take care of you."

You look up, Satoru pressed a kiss to your forehead gently, "I'm glad that we're each others' first real ones then," Satoru's smile faltered slightly, but he forced them to rise up.

Satoru buried his face into your hair. Refusing the fact that he's starting to feel guilty about this. Does this car really balance your real feelings towards him? Was it worth the exchange? You squirmed slightly, "You okay?"

Satoru hums softly, "Mm, why'd you ask?"

"Just worried."

Worried, he thought. Has his past significant other ever been genuinely worried for him? He knows that they were with him mostly for his money — and yet, he still stayed. Satoru's has grown so accustomed to the fact that people in his life stay only for 3 things: face, money, and dick. And if he thinks about it, it's pretty sad.

"Don't worry about me, baby. I'm just thinking," he chuckled softly against your skin, shutting his eyes.

"Thinking about?"

"You."

You groaned, "You're so cheesy."

"That's 'cause I love you," he coo softly, his fingers inching under your shirt, "you love me anyways," he grin, digging your fingers into your sides, pressing on your flesh almost in a cheeky way.

You laughed loudly, "Hey, no tickling!"

Days have been brighter ever since he was by your side. Satoru wouldn't admit it directly, but ever since he hung out with you, he had put more time in his grades and less on spending his money on useless things like party needs and alcohol. He'd say that this was totally the best outcome he could get from this.

Satoru frequently spends his days in your worn out apartment. Actually, if you take a good look, it doesn't look half bad as when you first moved in. He had taken the time to paint the walls so it looked brand new, and while the paint dries, he brought you to his house. Apparently, he lived hours away from his parents because of work — though, they visit sometimes. Satoru had learned and remembered your schedule, and while you were gone, he added some additional things into your apartment.

Whether it being a new dresser, a new simple bedframe, and a new fluffy mattress that doesn't hurt your back when you lie down on it. He even bought new bedcovers for you. And he'd gotten all that done in barely four hours in a day. Smaller things such as utensils, accessories, and simple labels he bought before he comes by your apartment.

It doesn't even look like the cheap apartment you bought at first. At first, Satoru offered you space in his house — asking you to move in with him, but you blatantly refused and told him that it would be a burden. He doesn't even feel like you're making any sense. You? A burden? He'd love to laugh.

"Baby, what do you think about this?" He raised a little picture frame, "I wanna put our picture in it. In your room apartment, by the television."

You took a glance at the frame, "Oh, the baby blue one is cuter. Matches you, I like it."

He wastes no more seconds and grabbed a couple of the blue colored ones, only leave one left on the shelf. You walked down the aisle with him, "I'm glad I decided to give you a chance."

Satoru froze on his spot, watching you walk down the aisle with a big smile as you check out different things. His heart fluttered gently at the sight of you — since when have you been this beautiful? His fists opened and closed a few times. His steps slowly followed yours, " . . . I'm glad you gave me a chance too."

He doesn't remember when the last time he felt like he's had this much fun. With a big smile, he follows you.

For the next few months, Satoru had completely forgotten about the whole porsche. Anytime Sukuna or Suguru sent a message, asking him to drop by a party, Satoru declined with a made up excuse. First, it was him under the weather, then it was him not feeling like parties, then it was him having to travel hours away to meet an old friend. Then, Sukuna finally realized that they were just made up excuses.

"You know, funny thing is that you told us that you had to drive hours away two days ago —" Sukuna smirked, scrolling through his phone, "why were you with that loser? Decided to ditch us for her, eh?"

Satoru looks at Sukuna, " . . . And if I did?"

"Downgraded. Could've had that hottie from the marching band," Sukuna reminded of the girl whom he had invited — and not to mention, who seemed to be interested in Satoru very much. Satoru couldn't give a shit about her, he doesn't even remember her name to begin with. To top it off, she had tried to flirt with him all night and her jokes were ridiculous. It was obvious that she's trying to get into his pants all night, every time he moves away, she followed.

"Think you have fallen?"

Satoru blinked, looking at the apple slices that you gave him this morning. Soaked in salt water to prevent it from oxidizing, he didn't know what to say. Has he fallen? How does he know that? Satoru bites into the apple, letting it crunch under his teeth, "Fallen for what?"

"Her."

Sukuna was relentless, smirking. He knew the answer damn well, but he wanted to hear it directly from Satoru. He's a prick, and he knows it, "I don't know," Satoru replied.

"That's what confused people say," Satoru glares at him.

"The fuck do you want me to say?"

"Can't hurt to be honest."

"And so what if I love her? Why the fuck does it matter, huh?" Fuck Sukuna, and fuck that diploma if he were to sabotage it — Satoru had the money, and why should he give up either when he can actually earn both.

Sukuna lets out a loud cackle, "Her? Out of all people?"

"Yes, her out of all people."

Sukuna raised a brow, "Yeah, what will you say if she finds out about the whole bet, huh?" He threw an arm around Satoru's shoulder, "Think she'll stay around once she finds out you're datin' her for the brand new porsche?"

Satoru froze, "She doesn't have to know . . . That's all in the past, I love her for who she is," he muttered out, munching on the apple, "you guys wouldn't mind if I invite her to the frat house to party, right?"

Sukuna stood up, "Don't mind. You know who'd mind though?"

Satoru stays quiet, as if asking him to continue. Sukuna stared at someone behind him with a sly smirk, "Her, probably."

Satoru looks over his shoulder slowly, his cheek puffed out from the apples he had been shoving into his mouth relentlessly. His eyes widened at the sight of you standing there with a tray of food — that he paid for every month through your student number, so you could get the food you needed during your free time, "(Name), hey baby," he stood up, shutting the lid of his —your— lunchbox, leaving a couple of apple slices inside.

Sukuna left with his friends —and Satoru's— cackling loudly. Satoru wiped his hands on his pants, stepping towards you to help you with your tray. But, you stepped back, "Really?" You asked him, your eyes were filled with betrayal and resentment.

You knew you hadn't gone crazy because the last time you checked, your ears were working just fine. Initially, you were trying to find him to spend your free time together, d found you was the truth Satoru had kept silent throughout the past few months while you were together — you knew something was wrong, but you gave him a chance anyway. Screw his sweet talk and actions.

Satoru's eyes stared into yours, waiting for you to speak. You didn't, you put the tray onto his table and walked out of the cafeteria. Satoru was frozen, the apples were a mush on his tongue. After a few seconds, he chased you out of the cafeteria, catching you right out side the lobby, "(Name)," he breathes heavily.

You pulled your hand away in anger, "I knew something was fucking fishy about you, I stayed anyways. Fuck you, Gojo."

The use of his surname instead of the usual 'baby' or 'Toru' made his heart ache. His hand shoots out to grab your hand again, but in reflex, your palm swung against his cheek. The action itself shocked you as well, his face was strewn to the side. Satoru said nothing, but he slowly coaxed his head to turn towards you with a solemn look, and for a second, you thought that he was angry.

"I deserved that," he whispered, guilt lacing in his voice, "I wanted to tell you. I knew you'd get angry and it'll change everything we worked on — I didn't want you to leave me, so I figured that I should just keep my mouth shut and go on like nothing happened . . ."

Your brows furrowed, your palm stung. Looking down at the red skin, you bit your lip, "I didn't mean to do that."

"It happens, I'm okay," he murmurs out softly, reaching out for your hand yet again. But, the second you pulled it away out of his line of sight — he understood that he was crossing a boundary, so his hand went limp and fell back to his side, "can I explain?"

You clenched your fists, "Explain what, exactly?"

"Why I did this—"

"For the brand new porsche, I get it, congratulations on your new car," he grit his teeth in annoyance when you implied on it, "don't ever come near me again, I wish I never gave you a chance. Should've known you're just like them!"

His heart sank when you said that. And he watches you walk down the street, turning around the corner where he always waits for you. This time, he was rooted to where he stood — he doesn't chase you, he doesn't know if he deserved to. His feet wouldn't move, and the sting on his cheek was a constant reminder of his fuckaroo.

By the next two days, a box was delivered to his house. It sat there on his porch. Satoru doesn't remember ever ordering anything, but when he slit the tape open with a box cutter, his heart races just a little quicker. The box was filled with the accessories he had bought for your apartment, starting from the smallest trinkets he used to silently sneak in on your shelves to the biggest frames.

He never expected that he'd actually see a whole television, deconstructed shelves, and an actual mattress on his porch. In a fit of disbelief, he reached for his phone, dialing your number. On the third call you answered him, "What?"

"Why?"

"Why did I return your things? Because I'm petty—" You were cut off by his words.

"I bought them for you."

"To earn my trust so you could get your porsche, I'd say you didn't buy it from the heart, Gojo. Let's just make one thing clear, don't ever talk to me again from this point on," Satoru bit his lip in anger, "it was a mistake. And this shouldn't have happened, I knew you were just messing with me. But, this was disappointing because I genuinely thought you liked me, you know?"

Satoru mutters out, "I genuinely love you. I don't care about the fucking car, I just want you, please," his fingers were hurting from how hard he was gripping the phone, "please, (Name). Can we please talk about this?"

"Whatever electrical and water bill you paid for me, I will give it to you back by cash. And the paint money, and my lunches, I'll need time to return it all. But, I'll have it sent to your house," your voice leaves no room for an argument, and then you hung up.

Satoru stood there for a little while, his lips trembled at the hanging tone. What the fuck just happened?

© sashinemis, 2026 ﾒ do not copy, reconstruct, or upload on another platform + do not feed my works into AI.

[froggykarma]

OMG I LOVE ME A GOOD YEARNER UGH

[slowburnmuse]

Thinking about High school Robert with a corruption kink for “religious” shy reader

CW: Both Robert and reader are 18, reader has AFAB anatomy, reader is (was) a virgin and Robert is not, masturbation, fingering, oral (both receiving), nicknames, Robert is a bit of a dick but tries to be nice (key word is try), smoking, public/car sex

High school Robert who while not being the sweetest person, tries to be softer and gentle with you. He’d still do shit like smoke around you but is sure not to blow it right in your face, or keep the windows open if you’re in his car.

High school Robert who has a hate-love relationship with how innocent you are. On one hand he loves how squeamish and flustered you get when he makes dirty jokes and stuff. But on the other hand, you two haven’t done anything past making out and while he would never pressure you, he’s getting impatient.

“Religious” shy reader who hates their innocence, period. They feel left behind and like an idiot that doesn’t understand how basic sex works (which isn’t too far from the truth). They wanna please Robert but they don’t know how.

“Religious” shy reader who’s only just started masturbating. All they can really do is play with their clit and tease themselves until they come. They have to start doing it everyday just to focus. They get addicted to it.

”Religious” shy reader who accidentally moans while on call with Robert as they’re humping their pillow, but instead of being weirded out, Robert tells them to go faster and to not hide a single sound.

High school Robert who starts to realize how inexperienced you are and is oddly turned on by it. He starts loving how he’s the one to make you turn over a new leaf and take your innocence away bit by bit. You didn’t even know how to finger yourself until you let him do it for you.

High school Robert who’s in love with the sounds you make as he’s knuckles deep in you, thrusting his fingers while you’re whining, teary eyed, and begging him to let you have an orgasm. Only for him to take his fingers out and start all over, purposefully make you go crazy

High school Robert who, while wanting to please you like there’s no tomorrow, also wants to tease you and hear you beg for it. You looked fucking breathtaking when you were submissive for him, sucking off the same fingers covered in your cum, cleaning his skin.

High school Robert who’s fucked around with a few classmates and thought he wouldn’t care for sex outside of a meaningless hookup, but starts taking it much more seriously for you (though that doesn’t mean he starts being vanilla)

High school Robert who teaches you all sorts of things like how to suck his dick. You two do it while his parents aren’t home. He’s guiding your head up and down, trying not to thrust into your mouth until he can’t take it anymore and makes you swallow his load. He makes up for it by laying you on his bed and going down on you.

“R-Robert! G-God!”

“Hm?” He mumbles, his lips in the midst of sucking and kissing your clit. “Did you say something, dollface?”

You whimper as his tongue drags across your pussy in one long stroke, slow and lazy. “You’re so mean.” You managed to say.

He chuckled. “And you love it. Fine. Wanna come, baby? I’ll make you come so hard you’ll see the Lord himself.”

High school Robert who starts getting a bit too comfortable and starts getting more daring. He starts putting his hand on your thigh in class or putting on arm around you in the hallway. Everyone stares. He doesn’t give a fuck.

High school Robert who even starts fingering you under the table in the library when you’re trying to help him with his homework. He loves watching how your face heats up and you start stammering. You get so nervous but he doesn’t miss the way you shift your hips so he goes deeper.

High school Robert who won’t peer pressure you to smoke with him but teases you about how your clean little lungs wouldn’t be able to handle a single drag. Determined to prove him wrong, you smoke with him. You last two minutes. He laughs at how you cough but ends up buying you a milkshake or whatever you want when you pout.

“Religious” shy reader who slowly starts getting braver at telling Robert their sexual fantasies. At first they feel awkward but soon they get over the embarrassment. Soon telling Robert all the ways they wanna get fucked is like telling him what they had for breakfast.

High school Robert who loves having sex in his car because he can be as loud as he wants. He starts keeping spare blankets and clothes for you and him in the car just in case you two decide to do the deed.

High school Robert who loves the idea of picking you up after you went to your local place of worship and fucking you dumb. He knows it’s wrong but it turns him on and eventually he confesses. It didn’t take much to convince you to make his fantasy come true.

“Robert! F-Fuck, please!” You begged. His hips thrusted at a godly pace, his length filling you up over and over again. You were getting dizzy.

“Please? Please what baby? Please stop? Please keep going? Please slow down?” Robert purred, grabbing your chin and making you look at him. “I can’t keep going if you don’t tell me what you need. Use your words, dollface.”

You swallowed a whine. “P-Please, go harder.” You begged. A wolfish grin spread across Robert’s mouth before he began to piston his hips. His cock made the walls of your pussy flutter and you mewled. “Oh god!” You moaned.

Robert laughed. “No baby. Robert. You call out my name. No one else’s. Not even god. God isn’t the one fucking your cunt and making you scream, is he?” He grunts as he goes faster. “No. I am. You’re mine to fuck. Mine to ruin. Mine to corrupt. You’re not god’s little angel anymore. You’re fucking mine.”

“Religious” shy reader who now screams out Robert’s name every time they come. Robert absolutely loves it.

A/N: Can you tell I’m projecting? Also I lowkey wanna make a fic about this waitttt

unofficial part one; masterlist

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[froggykarma]

This shit is so peak omg I’ve been looking everywhere for it again