✰ SAVE A HORSE, RIDE A COWBOY (satosugu x fem!reader)
✰ DELICIOUS (kobeni x fem!reader)
✰ SL*T ME OUT (oliver aiku x fem!reader)
✰ I’LL DO IT (light yagami x afab!reader)
𝐓𝐁𝐀...
𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 ~
✰ FRIENdSTER!
-> 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 :
"☆☆ “ a new chapter of your life begins! heading into college with only one other friend is daunting. worst of all, he's not even on your course! when the trials of college life drown you, will you be able to believe in your new friends and push forward?" ☆☆"
✰ KINKTOBER 2025
✰ WHERE OUR BLUE IS (jjk smau)
-> 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 :
~☆☆"In an attempt to reach the full potential of her sorcery, she moves back to Japan after 12 years and enrols in Jujutsu High. Luck just so happens to be on her side as she is accompanied by her childhood best friend and two others. The memories they make together are priceless and unforgettable. When an unforeseeable cast of despair is placed upon them, will they be able to maintain their unbreakable bond and defeat the source of evil? Will they find their blue? "☆☆~
✰ COLLAPSE ( three part series )
-> 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 :
~☆☆" Their different ideals had led them down different paths in life. A fight following a crime of mass murder caused resentment to build between the two. End of story, except not really. What happened between these two foes that caused their relationship to collapse? Did they ever find the answer? Or would they continue to spout misdirected hatred at each other, leading to the downfall of Jujutsu society? "☆☆~
✰ THE SEIKO DIARIES (requests are open)
-> 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 :
~☆☆" A series of headcannons, short stories, and more based around the story of Okumoto Seiko. We venture into untouched areas of her life."☆☆~
✰ WHO’S YOUR FRIEND? (bllk smau)
COMPLETED
-> 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 :
~☆☆"word got out that y/n had a HUGE teensy tiny crush on one of the boys in the blue lock facility, a friend of the famous tik tok creator, Eita. will she block him and never look at his page again, or will she try and shoot her shot to save herself from embarrassment?" ☆☆~
okay in bed thinking about this. what if i write insecure/jealous karasu for one of the friendster chapters
yk what i mean, like he gets jealous bcs he thinks he isn’t good enough which is perfectly in character for him ( well just a little bit)
the way i’ve written the story/ the next chapter would lead perfectly into this, but i’d need at least MAYBE 3-5 chapters following it the lead up to this
i will also consider the fact that some people do not want to read smut, so i’ll make a smut version and a version in which it’s just comfort
you NEED to write more karasu smut omlll preferably nipple play? Where his nipples are like really sensitive and mind u he’s NEVER known this so he’s like in shock but it turns him on a lot and then he cums dry.. BYE
brother just another me.
i was even thinking about adding a smut chapter to friendster but maybe i’ll keep it separate. TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK GUYS
also next friendster chapter is written and will HOPEFULLY be out later today
You’re only here because of a friend. You don’t play soccer, you don’t train, and you definitely don’t care about formations or tactics. But the field becomes familiar quickly—the smell of grass, the repetitive rhythm of drills, the distant echo of shouting that fades into background noise.
And then there’s Hugo.
He doesn’t sit next to you at first. The first few days, he’s just… there. A presence on the field. Reading before matches. Watching everything like it’s already been solved in his head.
Then one afternoon, he sits beside you.
Not close enough to be intrusive, but not far enough to ignore either. It feels intentional, like he’s measured the exact distance needed to be noticed.
You keep your book open, even though you’re not really reading.
He glances at it once. Then again.
And then—
“Tu viens souvent ici?” Do you come here often?
You turn the page like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.
Silence stretches. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t fill it. Just… waits.
“…You don’t understand?” he asks in English, voice calm and even.
You glance up, blink once, and shrug. “Sorry?”
There’s a pause, just long enough to feel deliberate.
“…Interesting.”
You go back to your book, your heart beating a little faster than it should. You don’t look at him again, but you can feel it—his attention, steady and unmoving.
Internally, you are sweating.
It becomes routine in a way you don’t question until it’s already normal.
You arrive. You sit. Hugo eventually sits beside you.
Same distance. Every time.
It should feel strange. It doesn’t.
He starts talking more, too. Not in English—Never at first anyway.
“Tu es jolie aujourd’hui.” You are pretty today.
You freeze for half a second before forcing yourself to turn the page. Your eyes skim the same sentence three times without processing it.
“Tes yeux… ils sont magnifiques.” Your eyes… they are beautiful.
You cough lightly, like something caught in your throat. It’s fake. You know it’s fake. He probably knows it’s fake.
“Tu m’écoutes?” Are you listening to me?
“Hm? Sorry, I don’t speak French.”
“…Right.”
The thing is—you do understand him. Fluently. Effortlessly. And that’s exactly why you pretend you don’t.
Because Hugo doesn’t flirt like a normal person. There’s no hesitation, no awkwardness, no attempt to soften what he’s saying. He delivers compliments like they’re objective truths.
“Statistically, you are the most aesthetically pleasing person within my immediate radius.”
You stare very hard at your book.
Your ears are burning. Your face is warm. You refuse to look at him.
Who even says that?
And worse—why does it work?
Around the fourth month you start noticing things, and that’s when it stops being harmless.
You notice that Hugo always brings a book, and that he actually reads it—like the world doesn’t exist for a few minutes at a time. You notice the quiet sounds he makes sometimes—soft, mechanical little hums under his breath.
You notice the way he watches the field. Like he’s already predicted everything that’s about to happen.
And somehow, without realizing when it started, you begin to look forward to sitting down.
To the quiet. To him being there. Which is a mistake.
A very obvious mistake.
One afternoon, he leans closer than usual. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, close enough that your focus slips for just a second.
“Tu fais semblant.” You’re pretending.
Your heart stutters.
You lower your book slowly, carefully controlling your expression. “…Sorry?”
His face is neutral, but his eyes are sharp—focused entirely on you.
“You’re pretending,” he repeats in English.
You laugh, a little too quickly. “I don’t know what you mean.”
He tilts his head slightly, studying you.
“You reacted three seconds too late when I said belle beautiful yesterday. That indicates comprehension.”
Oh.
Oh no.
You shrug, forcing yourself to stay casual. “Lucky guess?”
“You also flinched when I called you insupportable.”
“…That could mean anything.”
“It means ‘unbearable.’”
“…Well now I know.”
Silence settles between you, thick and deliberate. He keeps looking at you, and you keep pretending this is fine.
This is not fine.
Finally, he leans back.
“…Fine. We will proceed under your… hypothesis.”
Around the fifth month it turns into a game.
And Hugo treats it like one—structured, intentional, and very unfair.
“Tu es d'une beauté à couper le souffle” You are breathtakingly beautiful.
You hum lightly. “Sorry?”
“I said the weather is nice.”
You glance outside. It is very clearly raining.
“…Sure.”
He watches you more openly now. Less subtle. Less restrained.
“Tu rougis.” You’re blushing.
“I don’t know what that means.”
“You’re blushing.”
“I am not—”
“You are.”
“I am NOT—”
“Your ears are red.”
You immediately cover them, which is the worst possible move you could make.
“…Shut up.”
There’s a pause.
Then—“…Ah.”
You freeze.
“…You understood that.”
“…No I didn’t.”
“You responded appropriately.”
“…Coincidence.”
“…Fascinating.”
You hate him.
Except you don’t.
Because now he’s getting bolder. Closer. More deliberate in the way he speaks, the way he leans in just slightly when he says things like—“Tu es adorable quand tu mens.” You’re adorable when you lie.
Your brain stops working for a second. You stare at your book, but the words blur together, completely unreadable.
Your heartbeat is loud. Too loud.
And the worst part is—you don’t want him to stop.
By month seven you don’t pretend as well anymore.
You still say you don’t understand. You still act confused. But your reactions give you away—just a little more each time.
You stay longer after practice now. You don’t rush to leave. Sometimes you don’t even pretend to read—you just sit there, aware of him beside you.
You’re packing your bag, but not very quickly. You’re stalling. You don’t acknowledge that you’re stalling.
Hugo sits beside you.
“You stayed longer today,” he says.
You shrug lightly. “Didn’t feel like leaving yet.”
There’s a small pause. Then—
“je t'aime bien.” I like you.
Everything stops.
You look at him, your brain lagging behind the words you clearly understood.
“…What?”
He tilts his head slightly. “I said that I like you.”
There’s no hesitation in it. No buildup. No warning. Just a statement.
“Yeah, I got that part—” you start, and then immediately freeze.
Silence falls hard.
Hugo’s gaze sharpens.
“…You got that part.”
You close your eyes briefly. You’ve made a mistake. A very obvious, very irreversible mistake.
“…No,” you say weakly.
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“…Okay, maybe a little.”
“…A little?”
You drag a hand down your face, groaning softly. “This is so embarrassing.”
“For you, perhaps.”
“You’ve been flirting with me for months.”
“Yes.”
“And you KNEW I understood.”
“Yes.”
“And you still kept doing it.”
“Yes.”
“…Why?”
He actually thinks about it, like it’s a question worth analyzing.
“Because you never stopped me.”
You stare at him. “…That’s your reasoning?”
“Yes.”
“That’s terrible reasoning.”
“It is efficient.”
“It is NOT efficient—”
“You continued to sit next to me.”
“…You kept sitting next to me.”
“You didn’t move.”
“…I like that spot.”
“You like me.”
Your face heats up instantly.
“I—what—no—”
“You are a poor liar.”
You groan. “…I hate that you’re right.”
There’s a pause, softer this time.
“…So?”
You look at him properly then, and something in your chest settles in a way you don’t want to overthink.
“…So what?”
“Do you like me too?”
Of course he asks like that. Direct. No hesitation. No room to dodge.
You let out a small laugh, looking away. Your heart is beating too fast.
“…You’re so annoying.”
“That is not an answer.”
You glance back at him, and this time, you don’t pretend.
I like you too.
He pauses, just for a second.
“…Good.”
You stare at him. “That’s it??”
“Yes.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
And that should be it.
Except it isn’t.
You stand, brushing off your clothes, trying to regain some sense of normalcy—like your heart isn’t still racing, like your face isn’t still warm from everything that just happened.
He grabs your wrist. Not rough. Just precise.
You blink. “What—”
“You’re not finished.”
“With what?”
“You deceived me.”
“You were fully aware—”
“Yes. But I want compensation.”
“…Compensation?”
“Yes.”
“That sounds wrong.”
“It is not.”
“You’re insane.”
“You can attempt to escape.”
“…Excuse me—?”
He pulls.
You yelp as you’re dragged back onto the grass, completely losing your balance. You try to shove him, but he’s steady—grounded in a way that makes it unfair.
“You started this.”
“I did NOT—”
You grab his sleeve, trying to push him away, but it only makes things worse. Your balance slips again, and suddenly you’re both tipping sideways, landing awkwardly on the grass.
Now you’re half on the ground, half on him.
Your heart is racing. Your face is burning.
“Let go—!”
“Admit it.”
“NO—”
“And say it in French.”
“You’re insane—”
He shifts slightly, pinning your wrists—not forcefully, just enough that you can’t immediately shove him away.
You freeze.
He’s too close.
Close enough that your thoughts stop cooperating.
“Say it,” he murmurs.
“I hate you.”
“Incorrect.”
“I regret everything.”
“Also incorrect.”
You twist your wrists, trying to pull free, but it’s useless. He adjusts without effort, like he already predicted every move you’d make.
“Say it properly,” he says, quieter now.
You glare at him, stubborn. “No.”
A pause.
“…So you don’t like me.”
Your chest tightens.
“That’s not—”
“You hesitated.”
“I did NOT—”
“You did.”
You huff, turning your head away. “…You’re annoying.”
“That is still not an answer.”
Silence stretches, thick and charged. You can feel his gaze on you, steady and unrelenting, waiting for something you refuse to give.
“…Fine,” he says after a moment, almost thoughtfully.
You narrow your eyes slightly. “Fine what?”
Instead of answering, he shifts closer.
Closer.
Your breath catches.
“What are you—”
He leans in.
And for a split second—just one—you realize what he’s about to do.
Your brain short-circuits.
You panic.
“WAIT—”
You jerk your head to the side.
His lips brush your cheek instead of yours.
Everything stops.
Silence.
You freeze.
He freezes.
Slowly—very slowly—he pulls back.
“…You avoided me.”
Your entire face is on fire. “I did NOT—”
“You turned your head at a 37-degree angle.”
“WHY ARE YOU CALCULATING IT—”
“You rejected me.”
“I panicked!”
“That is equivalent.”
“It is NOT equivalent—”
He stares at you.
Then, very calmly—
“…That was offensive.”
You blink.
“…Offensive?”
“Yes.”
“You tried to ambush me—”
“It was not an ambush. It was a logical progression.”
“You don’t just progress into a kiss—”
“You confessed earlier.”
“That does not COUNT—”
“It counts.”
“It DOESN’T—”
You’re both still too close.
Still tangled awkwardly on the grass.
Still looking at each other.
And suddenly, neither of you is laughing anymore.
“…You hesitated,” he repeats, quieter this time.
Your chest tightens again.
You look at him—really look at him—and for once, he’s not analyzing. Not calculating.
Just… waiting.
And something in you softens.
“…I didn’t hesitate,” you say, softer now.
“You avoided it.”
“…I panicked,” you admit. “Because you do things like that out of nowhere.”
“That is efficient.”
“It is terrifying.”
A small pause.
“…Noted.”
You huff a quiet laugh despite yourself, your nerves still buzzing under your skin.
“…You’re unbelievable.”
“And yet,” he says, “you are still here.”
You are.
You haven’t moved.
You haven’t pulled away.
Your hands are still caught loosely in his, even though he’s not holding you down anymore.
“…You’re really not going to let this go, are you?”
“No.”
“…Of course you’re not.”
Another pause.
Then—
“…je t'aime bien.” I like you.
This time, it’s quieter.
Less like a statement.
More like something real.
Something that settles right in your chest.
Your heartbeat stumbles.
And you don’t look away.
“…You’re really persistent,” you murmur.
“Yes.”
“…That’s annoying.”
“Yes.”
“…I like it.”
A flicker—small, but unmistakable—passes through his expression.
You take a breath.
Your nerves are still there, fluttering, restless, but they don’t feel overwhelming anymore.
Just… warm.
“…je vous aime aussi.” I like you too.
The words come out softer than you expect.
But they’re real.
He stills.
Just for a second.
And then—he leans in again.
Slower this time. No sudden movements.
Just… giving you time.
Letting you decide.
Your heart is pounding, loud and uneven, but you don’t pull away.
You meet him halfway.
And when his lips finally press against yours, it’s soft. Warm. Gentle in a way you didn’t expect from him.
Your stomach flips, something light and dizzy blooming in your chest, spreading all the way to your fingertips.
It’s not rushed. Not overwhelming. Just… right.
When you pull back, your face is warm, your thoughts a little scrambled, your heart still racing.
“…Better,” he says quietly.
You stare at him, breathless, then shove his shoulder lightly.
“…Shut up.”
But you’re smiling.
Hellooo I am back ✌️
* I used Google translate - I don't speak french of any kind. :)
