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♯┆kiki .ᐟ ★ (CURRENTLY ON HIATUS!) .𖥔 ݁ ˖ fanfiction writer 𖦹 she/her ೀ more about me here: kikiiconique ۫ . 𐔌 . requests are OPEN! ✶ ˖ ࣪⊹ no consistant upload schedule

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✶ ━━‎ ‎ mdni will be labelled on my writing with smut. dni with those posts if you're under 18. it is your responsibility to consume media on the internet safely. ⤷ ┇ i take requests, and i have the right to refuse if i'm not comfortable. ꒰୨୧꒱ ┃ ◞⁺⊹．i will not write smut of characters that are canonically underage.

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mha

apothecary diaries

gachiakuta

requests (OPEN)

computer graphic by @/dollywons. other graphics by @/anitalenia.

embodement

ghostface x itafushi

belimah

art by Zei

heartkaji

18+ how to sexually harass your hot law professor, higuruma !

1. HRSS 1O1 : YA LIKE MY TIDDIES, PROF ?

law professor! higuruma hiromi is lecturing a class on courtroom ethics while you sit front row & flash your tits in his face.

let me rephrase: professor higuruma is pressed tweed suit / half-loosened tie / hair damp & sticky with afternoon sweat. you’re a third year law school student with translucent excuse for a button-up shirt & an ego bruised from being rejected by your law professor one too many times.

it’s always “you’re too young,” or “this is inappropriate.” never ‘yes y/n, i’d love to put my balls in your jaw !’

so you take matters into your own hands.

no one who’s anyone attends the 4PM lectures. so when higuruma hiromi watches you stroll in at 4:11 PM sharp, hair tied back & blazer on & looking uncharacteristically presentable, professor higuruma can’t hide the way his eyes flit to you & back to the half-empty class again. suspicious.

you sit front row & center. hiromi doesn’t react.

not until you’re flashing your breasts in his face, that is.

sweat beads on your perky nipples & you can only thank the midsummer heat. higuruma hiromi is staring—wide-eyed now, as his least favorite, much too perverted student pinches her nipples with her thumb & index & gives them a good rub for him to see.

& because that’s not enough—it never is with you—you have the audacity to soak your fingers in the wetness of your tongue & play with your pebbled nipples right in his face! two rows to your left in the half-empty classroom is a boy named mike ross who’s caught on to what you’re doing yet keeps his eyes trained straight. he’s just here to graduate. what the fuck is happening?

“class is dismissed. you may all leave.”

the lecture soon comes to an end. you’re packed books & buttoned blazer now, boobs tucked away & the picture of perfection.

“not you, y/n,” you freeze.

“meet me in my office in five.”

2. HRSS 2O1 : TUMBLR SMUT ABOUT YOUR LAW PROFESSOR ? SRSLY ?

sixxels-deactivated20260420-dea

𝐠𝐨𝐣𝐨 𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐬 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐟𝐟 𝐛𝐬𝐟!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

wc: 3.2k || ac: @/cherrybombexe || mdni || 18+

your now ex-boyfriend sukuna decides to flaunt his new girlfriend around the latest frat function, your hot best friend's take it upon themselves to show him you're completely unbothered the night after the break up... || my response to all the dumb gojo twin drama @sweethearticism this is for you my girl

to say you were fuming would be a terrible, towering, tragic understatement.

your asshole of an ex, ryomen sukuna, (whom you had only just broken up with, by the way) was making a big show and dance of flaunting his new girl in the middle of a party you now seriously regretted going to.

the theme was black-out, but the short raven dress, nor the pretty onyx heels you adorned, did anything to boost your confidence. especially not when faced with this display.

his big hands flew all over her skin as they danced and laughed together, those ringed fingers digging into her hips, not yours…

my god, it's been a week! could he have some class?

as you're seething from the kitchen with a drink in hand, contemplating stomping over and pouring it all over his fat, pink head, you're interrupted by not one, but two sets of hands smoothing over the back of your exposed shoulders.

you shiver in place, then whip your head around only to be met by two pairs of crystal blue eyes sliding up and down your pretty body.

"you're all dolled up, what's the occasion?" sato, the nerdier twin, smiles.

to the right, toru butts in, giving his fratty two cents. "holy fuck." he whistles. "you look sexy, [name]. nice to see you showing that body off instead of hiding it away because of your crazy boyfriend suku—"

"—shut up." you scold, pressing a manicured nail against toru's plump lips. "i don't wanna hear that name tonight." you sigh, the tension in your shoulders dissipating slightly as you lean against the counter, looking up into both of he boys' eyes.

kamiflix

▶︎︎ Wet Frames (starring . nerdjo & nerdcho)

synopsis . In which flirting with your tutors goes oh so horribly right wrong. content . afab!reader, oral sex (f!receiving), forgotten tutoring sesh, dirty talk, a "hint" of chojo, they both talk you through it, squirting, inappropriate use of glasses(?), praise, degrading, men kissing, fake confidence, loots of teasing, hot guys w glasses, a bit of cockiness here and there, overstim, jealousy, they kinda fight over you (just a lil bit), flirting, etc.

word count . 7.4k || author's note: This is a repost from kamitv, if it looks familiar, that's why. banner art from "Hachisuka's Family Kotoribako".

With a soft clack to your kitchen countertop, your pencil couldn't have fallen from your fingers any faster. You can't do it anymore. You can't focus.

You should’ve known better than to invite two hot guys over to your place to study.

With Gojo sitting so closely to your right, lanky leg brushing over yours every now 'n then, his perfect hands soothing just past yours to point at something, and voice as calming and directive as they come. Not to mention how good he smelled. Whatever he was wearing oozed in this rich scent that made your head spin and your figure shift against the island stool you sat on..

Being the most recently spoken, he’s the first to notice your wavering focus. Looking at you with a gentle tilt of his head, "You uh, you alright?"

Your eyes flicker over to his own the moment he decides to part those naturally glossed lips of his again—gaze focusing solely on the faint, but evermore pretty curve that lifts the corners of his lips into a soft grin. Staring, gaping almost, your words come sputtering out past your lips, “Yeah, no, I’m fine. Jus’ can’t seem to focus.”

“Why’s that?” Comes chiming in from the man sitting to your left in a rasped tone that makes your back stiffen. If Gojo’s presence wasn't distracting enough, then you should maybe just ignore the way Choso's equally as curious about your lack of focus as he is.

One hot tutor is fine, but two? Yeah, you were fucked—and not in the way you’d like (yet).

nizhspo

pairing: satoru gojo x f!reader

good news: spider!jo is an excellent boyfriend; bad news: his roommate, suguru, is trying to kill you

you trust satoru gojo a lot.

you trust him more than you trust most institutions, more than you trust your own overthinking mind at three in the morning, more than you probably should trust any single human being, and that realization arrives in waves as the wind howls around you at the top of the empire state building, your fingers curled into the coarse fabric of his suit while the city yawns thousands of feet below like an open mouth waiting to swallow you whole.

new york stretches in every direction beneath you, a sprawling lattice of incandescent grids and restless motion, headlights threading through avenues like veins of molten gold, skyscraper windows blinking in asynchronous rhythm as if the buildings themselves are breathing.

the hudson reflects fractured light in long, trembling streaks, ferries crawling across it like patient insects.

somewhere far below, a siren wails and dissolves into the vast mechanical hum of traffic, laughter, music leaking from rooftop bars, the ordinary pulse of a tuesday night continuing with cruel indifference to the fact that you are suspended at its highest point.

the observation deck railing bites cold against your thigh, and only now do you register the tremor in your legs, the way your knees threaten to buckle as though your body has finally caught up to the mathematics of gravity.

your fingers shake where they clutch at him, knuckles blanching as wind needles through your clothes and scrapes across your skin. your teeth chatter despite yourself.

your whole frame quivers with the visceral awareness that you could die here, on a random weekday when all you had intended to do was grab a bottle of cranberry juice and maybe a bag of sour candy from the campus convenience store before heading back to finish a paper due at midnight.

this was supposed to be mundane. fluorescent lights, chipped linoleum, satoru arguing about which chips were superior.

instead there is open sky and a thousand-foot drop and your boyfriend in a suit that clings too tightly to be a casual hobby.

your stomach lurches as you glance down again, vertigo snapping through you so sharply that you have to squeeze your eyes shut for a second.

you regret it now, this blind, reckless faith.

you regret every time you let him say “just trust me” without demanding a syllabus, a blueprint, a legally binding contract.

the wind roars louder, tugging at your hair, and you press closer to him on instinct even as your mind screams that this is absurd, that you are about to become a tragic headline because you believed too easily in a boy with blue eyes and an infuriating grin.

you trusted satoru during freshman fall, before he was anything to you beyond the boy who sprawled two seats over in that overcrowded applied calculus class and somehow still managed to answer every question the professor tossed into the room.

you remember the first time he leaned toward you, voice low and conspiratorial, and said, “you’re overthinking it,” tapping the margin of your notes where you had rewritten the same definition three times.

later that semester, when your statistics final loomed like an execution date, he told you he would get you through it if you stopped spiraling and let him help.

he showed up to the library some nights with faint bruises blooming purple beneath the cuff of his hoodie, claiming he had walked into a door, and once you noticed the subtle tear near his shoulder seam, the fabric stiff as if it had been mended in a hurry, he’d brushed it off with a laugh.

he sat beside you for three nights straight, messy notes spread everywhere, hair falling into his eyes, explaining regression analysis with improbable patience until the numbers stopped looking like a foreign language. he always seemed to know the answer before you finished reading the question.

you passed. you trusted him.

you trusted him later that same year, first semester still unfolding, the night you found out your boyfriend, hundreds of miles away, had been cheating on you.

you were sitting on the cold stone steps outside your intro to microeconomics lecture hall, mascara streaking down your face, humiliation thick and metallic in your mouth, when satoru crouched in front of you with an expression so focused it unsettled you.

“i’ll be back in an hour,” he said quietly. “just trust me.” he vanished before you could ask what that meant, phone off, no location, no explanation.

you remember glancing up at the campus skyline and thinking you saw something streak between buildings, something too fast to track, but you told yourself it was exhaustion.

by sunrise your ex’s smug little social empire had imploded beneath leaked screenshots and a precisely timed report to his school’s dean about academic dishonesty.

satoru returned with a split lip and a sheepish grin, claiming he had tripped on uneven pavement.

you never pressed him. you trusted him.

you trusted him sophomore year when your car died on the side of the highway, rain slanting sideways in violent sheets, your phone at one percent. he told you to stay inside and lock the doors.

you watched the clock tick forward, counting the minutes, and then he was there in less than twenty, drenched and breathing hard as if he had outrun the storm itself. his hair clung to his forehead, and there was something clinging to his wrist beneath the sleeve of his jacket, a thin filament you assumed was loose thread.

he hauled jumper cables out of nowhere, hands steady despite the thunder cracking overhead, and your engine roared back to life as if revived by willpower alone.

you did not ask how he crossed half the city so quickly in gridlocked traffic. you simply trusted him.

and then there was your first real date sophomore year, the one where he insisted on walking you back to your apartment even though it was out of his way.

the city felt quieter than usual, the air electric with an approaching storm, and he kept glancing upward as if tracking something you couldn’t see.

halfway down your block, a distant crash echoed from an alley, metal twisting, glass shattering. he stilled, eyes narrowing for a fraction of a second before he smiled at you, softer than you had ever seen him.

“give me five minutes?” he asked gently. “just wait right here.” he jogged off before you could protest.

you stood beneath a flickering streetlamp, pulse fluttering, and moments later a blur vaulted across a rooftop at the end of the block.

when he returned, slightly breathless, hair wind-tossed, he brushed his knuckles against your cheek as if nothing at all had happened.

you did not attempt to connect the dots. you only saw the boy in front of you, asking for your hand.

you took it, because you trusted him.

but this is different.

because now you are on top of the empire state building, wind lashing against your cheeks, the air so thin and sharp it burns your lungs, and suguru geto, satoru’s roommate of a year and a half, stands ten feet away in something that resembles a sleek black combat suit stitched with deep violet accents that seem to hum under the moonlight.

as far as you have known him, suguru has always been composed to the point of austerity, an almost ascetic presence moving quietly through the apartment he shares with satoru.

he brews loose-leaf tea in a glass kettle and times it precisely. he folds his laundry with monk-like precision, sleeves aligned, corners squared.

once, during tax season, he sat at the kitchen table with you for two hours, explaining deductions in a patient, measured tone while satoru blasted music in the background and forgot to separate his whites from his colors again.

suguru has always felt deliberate, restrained, someone who sighs softly before speaking and considers his words before releasing them into the room.

seeing him like this fractures that familiarity… quite a bit.

the fabric clings to him like shadow made tangible, sleek and seamless, swallowing the light rather than reflecting it. the violet accents trace along his arms and torso in subtle, almost organic patterns, pulsing faintly as if alive.

his long dark hair whips around his face in the violent wind, strands snapping against sharp cheekbones, and yet his expression remains unnervingly tranquil. his eyes glint with a composure that does not belong to the man who reminds you to label your leftovers in the fridge.

you replay the evening in a jagged loop.

you had been halfway to the campus convenience store, earbuds in, debating between cranberry juice and iced coffee, when you rounded the corner and nearly collided with him.

he had been standing there as if he had anticipated your path, hands tucked into his coat pockets, gaze lifting slowly to meet yours.

“perfect timing,” he had said mildly, as though this were coincidence. “satoru sent me. he has a surprise for you.”

you remember frowning slightly, tugging one earbud free. “a surprise?”

he had inclined his head, lips curving faintly. “he wanted it to feel dramatic.”

that tracked. that did sound like satoru.

you had laughed, rolled your eyes, and followed him without suspicion, not questioning why he chose a route that veered away from campus and toward the city, not questioning how you ended up ascending higher and higher until the skyline swallowed you whole.

and now you are here (maybe you should stop trusting people so blindly?).

“this really isn’t personal,” suguru says, voice smooth, almost regretful, as he rolls his shoulders and advances, boots scraping against concrete. the sound is abrasive against the open air. “collateral damage is simply inevitable.”

“collateral damage?” you repeat, voice cracking as you take a half-step back, the ledge alarmingly close behind you. “what the hell are you talking about?”

satoru moves in front of you instinctively, red and blue fabric stretching across broad shoulders, the suit a vivid mosaic of crimson webbing and cobalt panels that cling to him like a second skin.

the mask is off now, hanging loose at his neck, white hair plastered across his forehead by the wind, those impossible blue eyes incandescent in the city glow.

“suguru,” he calls, breath controlled even as he shifts into a defensive stance, hands flexing. “we really don’t have to do this tonight.”

suguru’s mouth curves faintly. “you always say that.”

the next few seconds fracture into motion. suguru lunges, movements fluid and almost beautiful, and satoru meets him head-on.

the impact reverberates through the rooftop, a sickening crack of force that sends dust spiraling into the air.

you stumble, heart slamming against your ribs, watching in disbelief as your boyfriend—your messy, chronically late, cereal-for-dinner boyfriend—moves with impossible agility, dodging, striking, flipping backward with inhuman precision.

your mind fractures in real time, grasping for something familiar to anchor itself to, and instead it dredges up headlines. grainy photos splashed across front pages, blurred red and blue streaks caught mid-swing between buildings, the masked figure everyone simply called spider-man.

you remember seeing him first in high school, the news looping footage of him vaulting off a bridge, reporters arguing about whether he was a vigilante or a menace, your classmates whispering theories in the hallway as if he were urban folklore made flesh.

everyone knows who spider-man is.

you remember that dinner the summer before freshman year of college, your little brother yuji leaning across the table, eyes bright with hero worship, asking, “when you move to new york, are you gonna meet spider-man?”

your mom had laughed, and you had laughed even harder, shaking your head as you reached for the salt.

“of course not,” you had said, dismissive and certain. “spider-man’s probably too busy saving the city to hang around a college campus.”

yuji had frowned at you like you were missing the point, like proximity alone should guarantee an encounter with something extraordinary.

you think about that now as satoru twists midair, body bending at an angle that should be anatomically impossible, hand shooting out to catch suguru’s strike with reflexes too fast for your eyes to fully register.

spider-man.

the masked blur from the papers. the figure who appears in the corner of live broadcasts and vanishes before cameras can refocus. the hero your brother once tried to convince you was real in a way that mattered.

your boyfriend.

the words refuse to align. satoru, who forgets to buy dish soap. satoru, who complains about early lectures. satoru, who kisses you like the world might end tomorrow. spider-man, who swings between skyscrapers and stops armored trucks with his bare hands.

you feel dizzy trying to reconcile them, as if your brain cannot process both identities occupying the same body. every unexplained bruise. every sudden disappearance. every “give me five minutes.” it all rearranges itself in your memory with brutal clarity.

“satoru!” you shout, panic fraying your voice. “what is happening? why are you dressed like—”

he ducks a sweeping kick, grabs suguru’s wrist mid-air, and throws him across the rooftop in a blur of strength. suguru recovers instantly, skidding, eyes narrowing.

“y/n,” satoru says sharply, not looking at you as he braces for another attack. “i need you to trust me.”

“trust you?” you echo hysterically. “you’re— you’re spider-man? since when are you spider-man?”

the words feel unreal in your mouth as a blast of force erupts from suguru’s gauntlet, violet light flaring bright enough to bleach the rooftop silver for half a second, the air splitting with a concussive snap.

satoru reacts before you even process the threat, his hand clamping around your wrist as he yanks you down against the concrete, debris skittering across the rooftop, shards of metal scraping past your elbow.

he curls over you instinctively, broad shoulders shielding your body, one arm braced beside your head.

“careful,” he mutters under his breath, almost reflexively, as if you are crossing a busy street instead of being targeted by advanced weaponry.

without looking, he flicks his wrist, a sharp thwip! cutting through the wind as a webline shoots outward, wrapping around suguru’s forearm and snapping tight against a steel beam. the restraint buys him a sliver of stillness as he turns to you, pouting.

his lower lip juts out slightly, brows knitting together in theatrical offense as he glances down at you, wind whipping his white hair across his forehead.

“baby,” he says, incredulous despite the chaos, “you don’t think i could be spider-man?”

you stare at him, chest heaving, adrenaline turning your thoughts into static. “no,” you shoot back immediately, pushing yourself up on your elbows, “it’s not that, it’s just— satoru, you will not make this about me right now.”

he winces faintly as suguru strains against the webbing in the background, the metal beam groaning under pressure.

“i’m just saying,” satoru continues, dodging a sudden surge of violet energy without breaking eye contact for more than a second, his tone wounded in a way that would almost be comical if you were not on the verge of cardiac arrest, “i feel like i’ve shown a pretty strong skill set.”

“you forget to pay your electricity bill,” you snap, scrambling to your feet as he flips backward to avoid another strike. “you locked yourself out of your apartment three times last month.”

“strategic distraction,” he replies smoothly, catching suguru’s incoming punch and redirecting it over his shoulder with effortless precision. “keeps expectations low.”

“this is not funny!” you shout, voice fraying as another pulse of energy cracks against the rooftop.

satoru lands lightly a few feet away, knees bending to absorb the impact, and for a fleeting second his expression shifts. the teasing edge fades. something steadier takes its place.

he steps toward you through the gale-force wind, chest rising and falling with controlled urgency, the red and blue fabric of his suit catching the city’s glow. sirens wail somewhere far below, distant and irrelevant. suguru tears free of the webbing with a metallic snap behind him.

and still, satoru closes the distance.

he lifts his hands to your face despite the chaos, palms warm against your chilled cheeks, thumbs brushing just beneath your eyes as if he can smooth away the panic lodged there. his touch is gentle, grounding, impossibly tender for a man seconds away from another collision.

the wind roars around you, tugging at his hair, at your jacket, at the fragile illusion of normalcy that shattered minutes ago.

“have i ever done anything to break your trust?” he asks, voice low and unwavering, eyes searching yours with an intensity that steadies the ground beneath you.

another explosion rocks the rooftop. suguru rips free in the background with a snarl.

you swallow hard, throat thick, tears stinging your eyes as the city spins below. “this feels like a pretty big thing to hide,” you whisper, hands gripping his wrists.

his expression softens, something almost vulnerable flickering there. “i know,” he says quietly. “and i’ll explain everything. but right now, i need you to trust me.”

suguru charges again, faster this time, rage sharpening his movements. satoru releases you reluctantly, spinning to intercept him, trading blows that crack like thunder. he lands a decisive strike that sends suguru reeling toward the far edge of the rooftop, buying another sliver of time.

he looks back at you.

“on three,” he says, breathless but grinning, that familiar reckless spark returning to his eyes like adrenaline is oxygen to him. his chest rises and falls quickly, curls of white hair plastered against his forehead, a thin streak of soot smudged along his jaw. he shifts his weight toward the ledge as if it is a starting line instead of a precipice. “we jump.”

“jump?” your voice pitches higher, bordering on incredulous hysteria as you glance past him at the open air beyond the rooftop. the city yawns beneath you in a vertiginous abyss of light and distance. “satoru, this is the empire state building.”

“i know,” he replies, stepping backward toward you with infuriating composure, one hand extending toward you, palm open, fingers flexing in invitation. the wind whips harder, snapping your hair across your mouth, tugging at your clothes like it wants to claim you early. “one.”

your lungs feel too small for your body.

“satoru,” you breathe, your voice shaking violently as you stare at his outstretched hand, at the skyline behind him, at the impossible drop waiting for you. “i love you a lot, but i really fucking hate you right now.”

his mouth softens, something tender flickering beneath the bravado.

“i know, baby,” he says quickly, words tumbling over each other as he casts a brief glance over his shoulder to track suguru’s movement. “and i’ll watch barbie life in the dreamhouse with you for the next month, i swear. i’m so sorry i didn’t know how to tell you.” he winces faintly, guilt threading through his expression even now. “two.”

your pulse hammers in your ears so loudly it drowns out the city below. the rooftop tilts in your perception, the ledge suddenly a thin, treacherous line between existence and oblivion.

your legs tremble as you step closer, the concrete rough beneath your shoes. the wind presses against your back, urging you forward.

you squeeze your eyes shut for half a second, jaw clenched, and in that fleeting darkness you whisper a frantic prayer to every god you are not entirely convinced exists, bargaining with the universe not to let this be your end, not to let your body become a grotesque headline, a splatter on the pavement that sanitation crews wash away before commuters finish their morning coffee.

“three.”

the word cuts clean through the chaos.

you open your eyes, and unsurprisingly, satoru is still there, hand steady, gaze locked on yours with a certainty that feels almost sacred.

and despite the mask and the lies and the villain monologue echoing behind you, despite the thousand unanswered questions pressing against your ribs, you know this one thing with painful clarity:

you trust satoru.

you place your hand in his, and the world drops.

your stomach lurches violently as you freefall, the city lights rushing upward in a dizzying cascade of gold and white. air screams past your ears, tears ripped from your eyes by the velocity. you clutch him, fingers digging into the textured fabric of his suit, convinced this is the end.

“satoru!” you cry, voice swallowed by the wind.

he laughs, exhilarated, and wraps one arm tightly around your waist. “i’ve got you,” he shouts, and there is no doubt in it.

a sharp thwip! slices through the air. a webline shoots upward, anchoring to steel and stone. the momentum yanks you into a graceful arc instead of a splatter, your descent transforming into a sweeping swing through the night sky.

you gasp as the city blurs beneath you, your body pressed flush against his, his grip secure and immovable. he guides you effortlessly, weaving between buildings, the rush of air turning from terror into something almost intoxicating.

he glances down at you mid-swing, grin radiant, eyes bright with adrenaline and something achingly tender, the city streaking past in luminous ribbons beneath you as another webline anchors and releases with mechanical precision.

“see?” he calls over the rush of wind, voice lighter now, teasing warmth returning to its usual register. “trust issues.”

for a second you can only stare at him, lungs dragging in air that feels impossibly sweet, the reality of continued existence settling into your bones in slow, disbelieving increments.

you’re alive. your body is intact. your heart is still pounding in your chest instead of lying pulverized on a sidewalk.

a sound escapes you that is half-laugh, half-sob. relief detonates inside you, hot and overwhelming, and before you can overthink it, before self-consciousness has time to intervene, you surge upward and press a breathless, impulsive kiss to his cheek.

satoru’s reaction is immediate.

his ears go visibly red beneath the sweep of white hair, the color blooming against pale skin even as he executes a seamless pivot around the corner of a building. his grip tightens reflexively at your waist to keep you secure, but his composure fractures just slightly.

“hey,” he mutters, attempting nonchalance and failing, the corner of his mouth twitching upward despite himself. “that’s… that’s kind of distracting.”

“shut up,” you laugh shakily, voice still trembling with the aftershock of terror as you tuck your face into the curve of his neck for a brief second, breathing him in, sweat and wind and the faint metallic scent of the city clinging to him. “we’re alive.”

“yeah,” he says softly, and there is something reverent in it, something that lands deeper than the joke ever did.

you let your forehead press against his chest, fingers curling into the textured fabric over his ribs as relief crashes over you in warm, overwhelming waves.

your heart still races, pulse erratic and unsteady, but it beats against the steady rhythm of his, syncing gradually with the cadence of his breath.

maybe you trust him too much.

maybe you hand him pieces of yourself without demanding terms and conditions.

but as he carries you through the glittering skyline, body curved protectively around yours, holding you like you’re something precious and irreplaceable, it feels exactly right.

tags: @cursedkisss @momoloverr

tonycries

TOPIA TWINS - G.S.

Synopsis. When both Gojo twins want you for Valentine’s Day, do you: A. Choose the frat boy extraordinaire you’re in a messy situationship with. B. Choose the cute nerd that tutors you but is too afraid to confess. C. Choose both of the above.

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader (x Gojo Satoya)

Content. MDNI, fem!reader, GOJO TWINS, nerd!Gojo, frat boy!Gojo, college AU, they both want you, Iove triangles, yearning Gojo(s), tutoring, FWB situations, parties, frat!Gojo is slightly toxic, named twin, fights (over you), Valentine’s Day, getting them BOTH, oraI (f + m), handj’s, fírst times (nerd!Gojo), they do you but NOT each other (pls), spítting, chokíng, manhandIing, breath pIay, p talking, p sIapping, frat!Gojo is MEAN, TONGUE PlERCINGS, possessive, cIit bíting, cervíx smoochin, vírginíty Ioss (nerd!Gojo), prem. ejac, SAME DAMN TIME, heavy overstím, fuIl neIsons, fighting over you during it, DP, anaI, SAAAAAME DAMN TIME, science Ianguage, nerd!Gojo’s SENSITIVE, big stretches, big finishes, creampíes, cùmpIay, surprise at the end, pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 14.5k

A/N. Y’ALL HAVE BEEN BEGGING FOR THIIIIIIIS- inspired by this art by the absolutely amazingly talented @/toriiartz_ + all the Iovely comments (Tonycries is listening…)

Gojo Satoru and Gojo Satoya.

The Sun and the Moon. The storm and the morning dew. The sweetness of spring flowers and the burning hand of summer skies—many things could be said about the Gojo twins.

Perhaps not everything so poetic: to most, they were those infamously handsome set of twins that sauntered about campus as if paid to be there (and to your left—keep your eyes peeled and you might just catch a flash of white hair). Of course, that campus tour would have to oscillate between libraries and frat parties at a worrying rate…

To others, they were the valedictorian of the Physics Department and the President of Delta Jujutsu Pi. To others, the region’s best Digimon player and the region’s best ragers.

Maybe someone could convince Gojo Satoru to do some research on how two men with the exact same face could be so different from one another?

But to you, they were your tutor and…the one you were currently in bed with-

nizhspo

ST☆RFUCKER!

fame is a fickle food upon a shifting plate..!

synopsis: integrity is a luxury for girls who aren't hungry, and you’ve been starving since the moment you saw your first camera flash. your ascent is written in the ink of every tabloid you’ve ever graced, a long, delicious descent into the arms of men the world already loves, with an instinct strictly for what their love can buy you in return.

stargirl interlude | toji fushiguro x f!reader

toji fushiguro; the washed-up film star everyone warns you about, and you, the rising model whose only hobby is proving them right. they call it a scandal, but it’s really just a business transaction that keeps ending with your nails buried in his kitchen counter.

90210 | naoya zen’in x f!reader

tbd.

into it | suguru geto x f!reader

tbd.

the morning | sukuna ryomen x f!reader

tbd.

kiss land | satoru gojo x f!reader

tbd.

donttrustme! | sukuna ryomen x f!reader

tbd.

the birds pt.2 | suguru geto x f!reader

tbd.

same old song | choso kamo x f!reader

tbd.

border: @strangergraphics

HR VIOLATION ::: CH 2

masterlist

"HE HAS A GIRLFRIEND?!"

art in banner created by Djuney9 on x | banner created by @kikiiconique SYNOPSIS you just started as an intern at this biggg company, hopeful for the future. you love it there! your coworkers are sooo nice to you. especially the other interns. but one of them seems too nice... CONTENT afab!reader | reader is 23, suguru is 25 | smut, literal filth in like maybe every chap | public sex | workwife/workhusband dynamic | cheating, suguru has a gf (don't do this irl guyz) | raw p in v (wrap it before you tap it irl guyz) | suguru is down bad | jealousy | angst | happy ending | use of y/n | masturbation (both f and m)

#⊹꒰ঌ⪩ kiki's works ⪨໒꒱ ᩚ༝⁺#geto suguru #geto suguru smut #geto suguru x reader #jjk #jjk smut #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader

nizhspo

pairing: sukuna ryomen x f!reader

content: 18+, scotty doesn't know, cheating trope, lots and lots of car sex.

sukuna ryomen hates a lot of things.

he hates when his job sticks him on dishwashing duty because they’re short-staffed, so much so that he’s made a habit of walking out the second it happens, apron tossed onto the counter, jaw set tight as he refuses to do anything else until someone else gets shoved into the back.

he hates mornings that start too early and end too late, especially the ones where his mom makes him walk yuji to the bus stop, insisting he’s too young to go alone even though sukuna was doing it in second grade and yuji is already in fucking middle school.

he hates teachers who talk down to him when he doesn’t turn assignments in on time, the way they insist on provoking him instead of speaking to him like he’s a fucking human, and how the moment he finally snaps and raises his voice, they send him straight to the principal’s office like the outcome was decided before he ever opened his mouth.

he hates the house he grew up in, too. the thin walls, the creaking floors, the way his mom apologizes for things that were never her fault.

he hates his stepdad’s voice when it gets sharp, hates the neighbors who keep bringing bedbugs back into the building, hates watching garbage bags full of their already-limited belongings get hauled to the curb like loss is routine.

but there is nothing in this entire world that sukuna has hated more, across all eighteen years of his life, than satoru gojo.

sukuna hates everything about satoru gojo.

he hates his too-bright white hair, hates his stupid loafers and pastel polos, hates the way he wears sunglasses indoors like he’s some kind of celebrity dodging paparazzi instead of a high school student like everyone else, hates the expensive car his dad bought him the second he turned sixteen, hates the performative niceness he puts on whenever he’s talking to someone with less money than him, and he especially fucking hates the way gojo assumes ownership over every room he walks into, appointing himself leader without asking, talking over people like their opinions are optional, and treating loyalty like something he’s automatically owed.

he’s particularly hated satoru ever since seventh grade, ever since the day he “accidentally” stepped on the new shoes sukuna got after winter break, a gift his mother had paid for by working nearly every night, scraping together money while his stepdad contributed absolutely nothing, as usual.

sukuna still remembers the way satoru’s mouth had curved into mock surprise, the lazy little “oops” that didn’t mean shit at all, the way his foot lingered just long enough to grind the sole into the pavement.

something in sukuna snapped.

he saw red and lunged before anyone could pull him back, fists swinging, breath burning in his chest, and in the chaos of the fight he heard the truth spill out of satoru’s mouth, words sharp and careless and cruel.

he remembers the way he sneered, the way satoru laughed and said he should be grateful for his “goodwill outfits,” the way he talked about sukuna like he was charity instead of a person, like poverty was a punchline instead of a fact of life.

sukuna hates that memory most of all.

he hates how the fight ended with a bloody nose and nothing else, and how satoru’s parents still insisted on pressing charges anyway, dragging sukuna and his mother through nearly a year of court proceedings over something that happened between two middle schoolers.

he hates remembering his mom renting dress clothes they couldn’t afford just to sit in a courtroom and look respectable, hates the humiliation of it, hates how easily satoru’s family wielded money and lawyers and threats.

he hates that the charges were dropped near the end, brushed off with a comment about having a “change of heart,” like the damage hadn’t already been done, like sukuna wasn’t already marked by it.

some things never leave you; satoru gojo, for example, never did.

so yes, sukuna hates everything about satoru gojo, with one singular exception; a minute detail about him that refuses to be entirely unbearable, something that might even qualify as satoru’s most redeeming quality if sukuna were ever inclined to admit it.

you.

you, and your hair that always seems to smell like the expensive, floral shampoo his mother could never justify buying.

you, and your hands that are always stained with blue ink from the way you grip your pens too tight during shifts.

you, and the way you look in that stiff, polyester waitress uniform, making a five-dollar apron look like something satoru would buy on a whim at a boutique.

sukuna hates almost everything, but he has never been able to find the energy to hate you.

he still remembers the day of your interview. he had been leaning against the back door, watching through the grime-streaked window as you sat at a booth with the manager. he could see the way you fidgeted with your hands under the table, your fingers twisting together in a nervous braid while you tried to look brave.

yuki had stepped out for a cigarette break, blowing a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling as she watched you through the glass.

"look at her," yuki had snickered, tapping ash onto the pavement. "princess won't last a day. she'll cry the first time a trucker sends back his eggs for being too runny."

sukuna didn't even look at her. he just kept his eyes on the way you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "maybe you're just pissed because she’s actually got a soul left to crush," he’d muttered, his voice a low, jagged scrape. "unlike you, who's been bitter since the nineties."

he’d ignored the middle finger she threw his way, already focusing back on you.

even before you knew he worked in the kitchen, he would watch you from the kitchen pass during your first two weeks. you were far too soft-spoken for a place as loud and greasy as this diner.

his jaw would tighten every time he saw a customer start to snap about a cold side of fries or a late refill. the second they would raise their voice, your teeth would find your lower lip, gnawing at the skin until it’s raw and pink. it made him want to vault over the counter and shove the dish sprayer down their throat, but you always handled it with that quiet, frantic dignity of yours.

you prided yourself on being the fastest at counting change, your fingers flying over the register as you murmured the totals under your breath, a small, private victory in a day full of manual labor.

it had been like this since long before the diner, though.

he remembered ninth grade math—the year he spent more time in the principal’s office than in a desk. after the two-week suspension from yet another fight, he had come back expecting to be failing every unit. instead, he found a stack of neat, organized notes slipped into his locker, written in your loopy, careful handwriting. you hadn’t said a word to him about it. you just kept your head down and let him pass the class.

on the slow shifts, when the lunch rush died down and the only sound was the hum of the industrial fridge, you played games with him. you slipped discarded receipts through the kitchen pass—the little window that separated his world of steam and grime from yours—with a single 'o' marked in the center. you always insisted on being 'x,' and he always let you, his large, scarred hand moving the pen with a gentleness he didn't use for anything else.

he’d even had a crush on you in eighth grade, a secret, burning thing that made his chest ache.

he had spent weeks staring at the back of your head, thinking you were the prettiest girl in the entire school. he would have asked you to the formal dance, too, if he’d had anything to wear besides a hand-me-down flannel and jeans with holes in the knees. he had stayed home instead, imagining you there, probably dancing with some faceless boy who deserved you.

he had assumed you were still that girl—the one who didn't talk to guys, the one who lived in her own quiet world. he thought you were untouched by the loud, arrogant boys of their town.

he believed that until two months ago, when he walked out for his break and saw a sporty, silver BMW idling at the curb; watched you climb out of the passenger seat, and for a second, he saw satoru gojo’s obnoxious, grinning face behind the wheel.

the air had left sukuna’s lungs in a rush of pure, cold venom— surely you couldn’t be entertaining that asshole.

it was confirmed an hour later as you were reaching up to tie your hair back, the collar of your uniform shifting just enough to reveal it—a dark, unmistakable red mark blooming just under the curve of your jaw. a hickey. a brand.

satoru gojo didn't just have the money, the cars, and the easy life. he had you, too. and he probably didn't even know how lucky he was.

sukuna had expected it to be a once or twice thing, one of those hookups satoru was infamous for. satoru was equally as reckless with the way he ran through women as he was with his cars, leaving a trail of broken hearts and dented fenders in his wake without ever looking back.

he figured you would be another name on a long, meaningless list, a temporary distraction before satoru got bored and moved on to the next bright, shiny thing. but satoru gojo, for all the things he was, was seemingly not an idiot, because he didn’t let you go.

hell, the asshole even went and made you his girlfriend.

you never talked about satoru at work. you kept your personal life locked away, shielded by that soft-spoken nature of yours, never offering up details about where you went after your shifts or who you spent your weekends with.

sukuna wouldn’t have even known you were in a relationship if it weren’t for the familiar, irritating sound of satoru's tires squealing in the distance every time he dropped you off. the screech of expensive rubber on asphalt became a trigger for the bile that rose in sukuna’s throat.

the only other times he saw you together were brief glimpses in the school hallway. he’d see satoru, his tall, lean frame looming over you, his hand resting possessively on the small of your back as he walked you to class. satoru would be laughing, head tilted back, while you looked up at him with that quiet, attentive expression that sukuna used to think was reserved for your math notes.

sukuna couldn’t believe it—there was no way someone like you would be with someone like satoru gojo. satoru was everything you weren't: loud, arrogant, and shallow.

he lived for the day he would see that silver BMW stop coming around, for the moment satoru would inevitably screw up. but as the weeks turned into months, the tires kept squealing, and the hand stayed on your back.

and every time sukuna saw a new mark on your neck, sukuna’s hatred for gojo grew into something sharper, something more dangerous. it was a slow-burning poison, one he had to swallow every time he watched you walk back into the kitchen to grab a tray, looking far too innocent for the reality of who was touching you.

…

it was a tuesday, the kind of dead afternoon where the air in the diner felt heavy and unmoving, thick with the smell of old coffee and fryer oil, the only sound the slow, rhythmic thrum of the ceiling fan overhead. the lunch rush had come and gone, leaving behind sticky tables, half-wiped counters, and a quiet that made everything feel suspended, like time itself had decided to take a smoke break.

sukuna was in the kitchen, leaning his shoulder against the stainless steel counter by the pass, arms crossed tight as he stared down at a crumpled math packet that looked like it had survived a small war. the pages were bent, corners torn, pencil smudges ground into the paper from where he’d erased too hard. his jaw was set, eyes narrowed, like the worksheet had personally insulted him.

“you’re going to burn a hole through that paper if you keep glaring at it,” you murmured, your voice carrying easily through the open window of the pass, soft and calm, a sharp contrast to the way his thoughts were grinding.

you’d appeared on the other side without him noticing, wiping down a stray mustard bottle with a rag, movements methodical and unhurried, like you had all the time in the world.

sukuna let out a jagged huff of air and shoved the packet closer to the edge of the counter, the paper scraping against steel.

“it’s garbage,” he snapped. “kamo is a bitch. she marked the whole back page wrong because i didn’t ‘show the work’ the way she wanted. i got the right answers. what the fuck does it matter how i got there?”

you leaned in, resting your elbows on the counter, eyes scanning the mess of equations. the corner of your mouth twitched, and before you could stop it, a small, unintended snicker slipped out.

“sukuna,” you said gently, amusement threading through your tone, “you skipped like four steps on every problem. she probably thinks you used a photo-math app.”

“i don’t need an app to do basic calculus,” he growled, but the bite didn’t land the way it usually did. something about the sound of your laugh sanded down the edge of his anger. “but if i don’t pass the final, i’m not walking at graduation, and my mom is gonna lose her mind.”

you chewed on your lower lip, gaze flicking from the paper back up to his face, eyes warm in a way that made his chest feel tight.

“i could help you,” you said after a beat. “if you want. i still have my old binders from last year. we could go over the steps kamo is so obsessed with.”

he stilled.

for a second, the diner faded out completely. all sukuna could see was you, standing there in your uniform, sleeves rolled up, fingers faintly stained blue from ink. he searched your face for something ugly, for pity or condescension, for that look people sometimes got when they thought they were doing him a favor.

there was nothing. just your usual steady gaze, open and sincere.

“seriously?” he asked.

“yeah.” you shrugged, like it was obvious, like helping him didn’t even register as a big deal. a small, genuine smile tugged at your mouth. “why not? i’m already doing the work anyway. are you free sunday afternoon? i’ve got community service on saturday mornings, so sunday is better.”

something twisted in his chest, dry and aching. of course you had weekly community service. he pictured you shelving books at a library or walking dogs at a shelter, patient and kind, doing good quietly without needing anyone to notice. the image made his throat feel tight.

he cleared it, eyes dropping to your hands, to the faint smudges of ink on your fingers. “sunday,” he repeated.

then, before he could stop himself, before he could talk his way out of it, the thought that had been rotting in his brain for months slipped free.

“you sure your boyfriend’s not gonna be mad?”

the words hung there, heavy. it was the first time he’d ever acknowledged satoru out loud, the name pressing into the space between you like a bruise.

your expression shifted, genuine surprise flashing across your face as your eyebrows lifted. your hands went still on the counter, rag forgotten. for a moment, you looked like you’d completely forgotten satoru existed in this little bubble of stainless steel and fluorescent light.

“how did you…” you started, then trailed off, glancing away for half a second, then back at him, your voice quieter when you spoke again. “well. i’m sure i don’t have to tell him it’s you.”

something dark and triumphant sparked in sukuna’s gut. he nodded slowly, fingers tracing the edge of the kitchen pass.

he knew exactly why you wouldn’t tell him. satoru hated sukuna with a deep, inherited kind of fury, the sort that came from a rich boy who once realized money couldn’t solve everything. satoru would lose his mind if he knew you were spending hours alone with the one person he couldn’t buy off.

“fine,” sukuna said, voice low.

he hesitated, posture stiffening as his mind flashed with the image of his house. peeling wallpaper. the lingering smell of grease. the cramped living room where privacy didn’t exist. embarrassment crawled up his spine.

“can we…” he paused, jaw tightening. “do it at your place?”

you blinked, a little taken aback, then nodded easily, like the answer had never been in doubt. “yeah, that’s fine. i have a golden retriever, though. are you okay with dogs?”

that dry ache settled in his chest again.

of course you had a golden retriever. a dog that was probably as well-behaved and soft as its owner.

"fine," he repeated, already imagining the pet hair he'd have to lint-roll off his only decent hoodie. "sunday. your house. just text me the address."

"i will," you said, already reaching for a receipt to scribble it down. as you handed it through the pass, your fingers brushed his—just a ghost of a touch—and sukuna felt the spark of it all the way up his arm. "see you then, sukuna."

…

sukuna’s pickup looked wrong the second he pulled up to the curb.

the rusted red body sat low and uneven, paint chipped down to bare metal in places, a jagged scar against the smooth, clean line of your neighborhood. the lawns were trimmed. the sidewalks uncracked. driveways held cars that looked washed on purpose. he shut the engine off and let it rattle itself into silence, hands lingering on the steering wheel as the weight of every dent and creak settled in his chest.

your house was bigger than his; that much was obvious. but somehow, it wasn’t loud about it.

there were no iron gates, no dramatic columns, no looming sense of ownership over the block. it looked lived-in, warm, the kind of place where the lights stayed on because someone was always home, where the walls probably remembered laughter instead of shouting.

he barely had time to brace himself before the door opened.

you stood there in sweats and an oversized hoodie, sleeves swallowing your hands, glasses slipping a little down your nose. your hair was pulled back in a messy tie that looked accidental and perfect at the same time. your face was bare, no gloss, no mascara, nothing to soften or sharpen what was already there.

his breath caught.

you didn’t look like the girl from the diner or the classroom. you looked softer somehow, real in a way that knocked the wind out of him. he might have stood there staring like an idiot if something large and golden hadn’t slammed into his legs a second later.

your dog barreled into him with unfiltered enthusiasm, tail wagging like it might take flight.

“sorry!” you laughed, grabbing the collar and hauling the dog back with practiced ease. “he’s a lot.”

“it’s fine,” sukuna grunted, steadying himself, heart pounding harder than it ever had in a fight.

you stepped aside to let him in, and the house smelled clean, faintly sweet, like laundry detergent and something baking earlier in the day. family photos lined the hallway walls, mismatched frames, years layered on top of each other.

birthdays. holidays. a younger version of you missing a few teeth, smiling into a camera like the world was kind.

you caught him looking and smiled, a little sheepish.

“my sister has a girl scout meeting today,” you said as you led him upstairs. “they’re hosting, so it’s gonna get… girl scout loud.”

he huffed something that might’ve been a laugh.

when you opened your bedroom door, something in him went tight and still. the room felt private in a way that made his chest ache.

fairy lights draped softly over the headboard, glowing low even in the afternoon light. polaroids were pinned to the walls, you with friends, arms thrown over shoulders, faces flushed and happy. everything was neat without feeling staged, warm without trying too hard.

then he saw them: two photos of satoru taped neatly above the vanity.

just two, but enough to punch the air out of his lungs.

satoru’s arm around your shoulders in one, grin wide and careless. satoru kissing your cheek in the other, your head tipped back in laughter.

sukuna’s jaw clenched before he could stop it. he wondered how many times gojo had stood where he was standing now, how many times he’d stretched out on that bed, expensive clothes wrinkling your sheets, loud presence filling a space that felt like it should’ve stayed quiet.

the thought made heat crawl up his spine.

“you can sit at the desk,” you said, pulling him out of it. “i’ll be right back. i’m just gonna grab a chair from my sister’s room.”

he nodded, dropping his bag down a little harder than necessary, eyes flicking back to the photos once more before he forced himself to look away.

the hours blurred.

without a manager hovering or customers snapping their fingers, you were different. looser. sharper. you explained things slowly, patiently, never talking down to him, never sighing when he asked the same question twice.

you leaned over the desk when you pointed at equations, shoulder brushing his, and every time you smiled, it felt deliberate even when it wasn’t.

at school, sukuna was the guy who took a minimum of two "bathroom breaks" just to escape the boredom of math, but with you, the three hours passed in what felt like minutes. you were a natural at tutoring—patient, encouraging, and surprisingly funny. you were witty and sharp, and he found himself leaning into the desk, hanging on every word.

he couldn't help but stare whenever you smiled. it became a game to him; how he started dropping corny joke after corny joke, half-insulting the textbook and half-mocking his own mistakes just to hear you laugh. when you finally checked the time, you both jumped.

"oh my god," you whispered, eyes wide. "we're twenty minutes over. i didn't even realize."

sukuna looked at the clock, then back at you. for the first time in his life, he didn't want to leave a math lesson.

…

the study sessions became the secret architecture of sukuna’s weeks, the only part of his existence that didn't feel like a grit-toothed endurance test. the routine set in with a domesticity that felt dangerous: the rusted red truck parked two blocks over to avoid the neighbors' gossip, the golden retriever waiting at the door, and the quiet sanctuary of your bedroom.

he started bringing you little things—a specific soda he’d noticed you sipping at the diner, or a bag of the expensive jerky he’d swiped from the stockroom because he remembered you saying you skipped lunch. it was his way of paying rent for the space he was taking up in your life, even if he’d never admit it.

but soon, once a week wasn't enough to satisfy the hunger that had started to grow in the pit of his stomach. he started inventing reasons to see you—half-baked excuses about a pop quiz or a formula he "just couldn't get"—and you, ever the "good" girl, always found a way to squeeze him in.

you’d meet him in the cramped break room at the diner, sitting on milk crates while the smell of old grease hung in the air, or you’d slip into the passenger seat of his truck for thirty minutes before your shift started.

he relished in the secrecy of it. he loved that he was a hidden line in your daily schedule, a secret debt you were paying in time that rightfully belonged to satoru. he loved knowing that while gojo was likely taking you to five-star dinners or beach houses, you were sitting in a rusted-out truck with him, sharing a lukewarm soda and talking about trigonometry.

he even started bringing yuji along once he realized how much you adored him after the day he’d been forced to bring yuji along because his mom had to pull a double shift. he had been braced for your judgment, certain you’d see the loud, energetic middle-schooler as another burden of his messy life. instead, you had beamed, sitting on the floor of the diner’s back office with yuji and teaching him card tricks.

sukuna had watched from the doorway, chest tight, realized that you didn't just tolerate his world—you fit into it. and after that, he’d watch, both baffled and secretly softened, as you helped his little brother with his own homework or laughed at yuji’s ramblings about middle school drama.

using yuji as a shield was low, even for him, but it worked. it gave him a reason to see you that had nothing to do with math and everything to do with the way you looked when you were being kind.

he started to learn the small things satoru likely never noticed, details that didn’t announce themselves and therefore never asked to be claimed. he learned that you took your coffee with too much sugar, stirred until the spoon clinked against the mug and left faint rings on the surface. he learned the way you hummed under your breath when you were thinking hard, a quiet, unconscious sound that slipped out when you didn’t realize you were doing it. he learned how your eyes traced the scars on his knuckles without flinching, lingering with a kind of careful curiosity that felt closer to reverence than judgment.

somewhere along the way, the tutoring stopped feeling like it had its own purpose. it became an excuse, a shape you both agreed to step into, a reason to sit too close and let silences stretch. the air between you thickened until it felt almost tangible, heavy with something unspoken and electric, charged enough to make his skin prickle and itch, like he was standing too near a live wire and choosing not to move. it became obvious that others had noticed too, like during friday’s double shift, when the diner air hung heavy with the smell of burnt coffee and floor cleaner.

the manager had already barked at you twice to "stop flirting" through the kitchen pass. sukuna had been mid-sentence, complaining about a physics lab, when the man’s voice boomed from the office, telling you both that if he wanted someone to stand around and look pretty, he’d hire a mannequin.

you’d jumped, your face instantly hot as you scurried off to refill a napkin dispenser, but the damage was done.

later, while you were in the back stocking the heavy gallon jugs of ranch, yuki leaned against the industrial fridge, blowing a bubble with her gum that popped with a sharp crack. she leaned in, her eyes trailing down to the high collar of your uniform.

"so," yuki started, her voice a low drawl. "was it the grease monkey who gave you that mark on your neck? honestly, i didn't think he had it in him to be that... marking."

sukuna had been right there, hauling a crate of potatoes into the walk-in. he stopped dead, his fingers digging into the plastic, his jaw set so tight his teeth ached.

"no," he grunted, the word sounding like a threat. "wasn't me."

yuki blinked, her eyebrows shooting up as she looked between his bitter, dark expression and your wide-eyed silence. "huh," she muttered, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across her face. "who would’ve thought. i guess i owe choso twenty bucks. he bet me you were finally getting some from the help."

she sauntered off, leaving a vacuum of heavy, suffocating silence in her wake. sukuna didn't look at you. he just stared at the crate of potatoes like he wanted to crush every single one of them.

it was the reminder he didn't need: satoru’s mark, satoru’s girl, satoru’s world.

it was moments like that where the illusion—the false bubble the two of you had created in the quiet of your bedroom or the privacy of his truck—was popped by the ever-persistent reminder of your boyfriend. it was a nagging, physical weight in sukuna’s chest. no matter how you looked at him, no matter how much he was sure that you felt the same pull he did, he began to convince himself you’d never actually give in.

that wasn't the type of person you were. you were the girl who did the right thing, and to sukuna, it started to feel like a form of torture—you were so close he could smell your shampoo, yet always just out of reach behind the wall of your own loyalty.

after too many nights spent shoulder to shoulder, it began to wear on him. he’d sit there while you traced the ink on his arms, your touch light as a feather as you asked absentmindedly which ones hurt, which ones had meaning, and which ones were just there. you’d linger on the jagged lines, your eyes soft, and he’d have to grit his teeth to keep from grabbing your hand and demanding you choose.

then the shift would end, and the illusion would shatter. he’d watch you walk out to that familiar silver bmw idling out front, the headlights cutting through the dark like a spotlight on his own failure. he didn’t like feeling used. he didn’t like being the "distraction" or the rough-around-the-edges break you took from the expensive, polished world of satoru gojo. leaving your house half-hard and incredibly frustrated was becoming a routine he was starting to loathe.

so, he slowly gave up.

he went back to being the old sukuna—the one who didn't care, the one who was too busy to be bothered. the study sessions that used to happen three or four times a week were strictly reserved for sunday afternoons now, and even those were hit or miss. he’d spend the afternoon sleeping off a double shift instead, sending a dismissive sorry forgot text three hours late without a hint of a real apology.

at the diner, the kitchen pass became a wall again. conversations were no longer soft or lingering; they were reserved for business, sharp and short. he stopped dropping the corny jokes. he stopped leaning against the counter to watch you count change.

he could tell you noticed. through the window, he’d see you trying to catch his gaze, your eyebrows furrowing in that concerned, quiet way of yours.

you’d hover near the pass a second too long, looking as if you were waiting for him to say something—anything—while you gnawed on your lip. it was the look of someone who had lost a comfort they didn't realize they were addicted to, and sukuna, bitter and tired of being second best, just kept his head down and scrubbed the dishes until his knuckles were raw.

the day you’d finally confronted him, it was late, the kind of hour where the diner lights hummed too loud and every sound felt amplified by exhaustion. the overhead fluorescents cast everything in a sickly yellow, reflecting off stainless steel and scuffed tile. the air was thick with floor wax and old grease, the kind of smell that never really left no matter how many times they mopped.

you found him in dry storage.

the room was narrow and cramped, shelves packed tight with towers of paper napkins, boxes of plastic cutlery, industrial-sized cans of tomatoes stacked three high. there was barely space to stand without brushing something. sukuna was leaning back against one of the shelves, clipboard in hand, shoulders tight, jaw clenched so hard you could see the muscle ticking in his cheek. he looked like he was holding himself together by force alone.

“are you avoiding me?”

your voice came out quieter than you meant it to, swallowed by the walls and the hum of the building. still, it landed like a shove.

sukuna didn’t look up. he flipped a page on the clipboard with unnecessary force, paper snapping under his fingers.

“i’m working,” he muttered, his voice low and rough, like it scraped on the way out.

you swallowed and stepped further inside. the door swung shut behind you with a soft, final thud, sealing the two of you in. the sound made your stomach tighten.

“you haven’t looked at me in three days, sukuna,” you said. your hands curled at your sides, nails biting into your palms. “you didn’t show up sunday. you didn’t even text me back.” you hesitated, then pushed on, heart pounding. “if i did something to upset you, just say it.”

that finally got his attention.

he lifted his head slowly. his expression didn’t look angry. it looked flat, bored in a way that stung far worse. one dark eyebrow arched, his gaze sliding over you with deliberate detachment, like he was inspecting something already decided.

“excuse me?” he asked, voice edged with mock confusion. “upset? i work in the kitchen, and you’re a waitress. we’re at work. what is there to be upset about?”

your chest tightened.

“don’t do that,” you whispered. your pulse thudded in your ears, loud enough to drown out the hum of the lights. “we were fine last week.” you took another step toward him, shoes squeaking faintly against the floor. “we were—”

“we were what?”

he turned fully then, dropping the clipboard onto a crate with a loud, echoing clatter. he leaned back against the shelving, crossing his arms over his broad chest, the movement pulling the fabric of his hoodie tight. his eyes were dark, unreadable, fixed on you with an intensity that made your breath catch.

“studying?” he continued, voice sharp. “is that what you call it?”

you flinched despite yourself.

“you know it’s more than that.” the words came out steadier than you felt.

“i know it’s a waste of my time,” sukuna shot back. he dragged a hand through his hair, fingers catching at the ends like he wanted to rip something out. there was a jagged edge to his laugh, humorless and brittle. “i’m not interested in being the guy you come to when you’re bored of being with your boyfriend. go find satoru. i’m sure he’s got a shiny new car or some bullshit to show you.”

“it’s not like that,” you said, barely louder than a breath. you stepped closer, close enough to feel the heat coming off him, the tension coiled tight in his frame. “i just… it’s not that easy to change everything.”

“it’s actually real easy.” his voice dropped, flattening into something dangerous. he stepped forward, closing the distance until you had to tilt your head back to look at him. the space felt charged, claustrophobic, every breath shared.

“you either want to be with him, or you want to be here,” he said, his face inches from yours, his eyes darting with a jagged sort of loathing toward the collar of your uniform. "i’m done watching you walk in here every other day with a fresh mark on your neck like you're his property." he let out a sharp, breathy sound that was nowhere near a laugh. "i’m not sitting in that truck anymore just to be the guy who cleans up the mess satoru leaves behind. i'm not your therapist, and i'm definitely not his runner-up."

“you think i don’t want to be here?” you shot back, your voice cracking with anger and something close to panic. “you think i’m not thinking about you the whole time i’m with him?”

sukuna let out a short, harsh laugh, shaking his head like he’d expected nothing else. “then do something about it,” he said. “or go back to your ‘perfect’ boyfriend and leave me out of it.”

he turned away with a scoff, angling back toward the crates. it was a dismissal so final it felt like a door had been slammed in your face, leaving you standing in the cold draft of his exit.

the part of you that had always been good—the girl who was careful, who followed rules and kept the peace—knew you were supposed to walk away.

you were supposed to go back out front, pick up a damp rag, and wipe down counters until the feeling in your chest went numb. you were supposed to pretend your hands weren’t shaking and accept that sukuna was right. you had a boyfriend. you had no business being upset with him for refusing to be your secret anymore.

you stood there, your face burning with a heat that had nothing to do with the cramped storage room and everything to do with the sheer, jagged anger bubbling up in your throat.

part of you was being unbelievable, you knew that. but wasn’t he, too? he was the one who had let the tension build for months; he was the one who had invited you into his space, only to throw it back in your face the second it became real.

and satoru… satoru wasn’t perfect, but he wasn’t terrible either.

yes, he was loud, he was self-absorbed, and half the time you felt like an accessory to his life—a pretty girl to sit in the passenger seat of the car his father bought him—but he wasn't bad. he was kind to you in his own shallow way, even if he didn't truly see you, and you knew, deep down in the dark parts of your mind you tried to ignore, that sukuna was not better.

that half of sukuna’s interest in you was rooted in his pure, unadulterated disdain for satoru. it was in the way he looked at the silver of his BMW, the way he sneered at satoru’s name like it was a slur. part of this was a game to him—a way to win a war that had started long before you ever entered the picture.

you were a trophy. a prize to be stolen.

but as you watched the back of his hoodie, the way his shoulders were bunched with tension, you realized you didn't care about being a prize.

if he was using you to be selfish, why couldn’t you be selfish, too?

why did you have to be the only one who played by the rules while everyone else took what they wanted?

the frustration of the secrets, the stolen looks, and the heat that had been building since ninth grade finally snapped the last thread of your restraint.

you reached out, your fist bunching into the thick, dark fabric of his hoodie, and yanked him back toward you with a strength you didn't know you had. sukuna stumbled back, his eyes widening in a flash of genuine shock. you didn't give him time to recover. you stood on your tiptoes, your fingers white-knuckled in his clothes, and crashed your mouth against his.

sukuna went rigid. for a heartbeat, he was as still as a statue, his hands hovering in the air as the sheer, desperate pressure of your lips against his registered. then, a low, guttural sound broke from the back of his throat—a groan that sounded like a surrender. his hands came up, his large palms sliding down to your waist and hauling you flush against him until there wasn't a breath of air left between you.

t was as if he was trying to kiss the memory of satoru out of your system, trying to overwrite every touch, every laugh, and every brand that arrogant bastard had ever left on you. he wanted to taste the part of you that didn't belong to high-school royalty, the part that was messy and dark and belonged only to him.

his tongue slid against yours, demanding and possessive, and when you made a small, muffled sound of surrender against his lips, sukuna knew.

he backed you up, his boots heavy on the linoleum, until your spine hit the steel shelving with a sharp clatter of tomato cans. he didn't care. he pinned you there, his body a solid, burning weight against yours.

one hand moved from your waist to the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair to tilt your head back, exposing the curve of your throat—the place where those marks always sat. he kissed you like he was starving, like he was trying to swallow your very breath.

the world outside the storage room—the hum of the diner, the clink of silverware, satoru’s waiting car—ceased to exist. there was only the rough texture of his tongue, the heat of his skin, and the frantic, syncopated rhythm of two hearts beating in a space they weren't supposed to share.

you kissed him back with a feverish, uncharacteristic hunger, your fingers digging into the muscle of his shoulders, your mind finally quiet for the first time in months. you were breathless, air becoming a luxury neither of you could afford. when he finally pulled back, just an inch, the silence of the room was filled with the sound of your heavy, ragged breathing.

your lips were swollen, stained a deep, kiss-bitten red, and your cheeks were flushed with a heat that made your skin tingle. sukuna’s eyes were dark, roaming over your face with a predatory, satisfied intensity. he looked at your mouth, then up at your eyes, a slow, jagged smirk pulling at the corner of his lips.

he leaned in, his forehead resting against yours, his thumb tracing the swollen line of your lower lip. "so," he rasped, his voice a low, triumphant vibration. "you still think it’s 'not that easy'?"

…

when you left, sukuna watched the storage room door swing shut, the faint click of the latch sounding like a starter pistol in the ringing silence. he leaned back against the steel shelving, his chest still heaving, the metallic taste of you and the faint tang of your lip gloss lingering on his tongue.

he’d seen the way you scrambled to fix your hair, the frantic way you’d tried to smooth out the wrinkles in your uniform with trembling hands, and that look in your eyes—wide, dark, and utterly shattered by guilt.

he was sure he’d won. he’d felt the way you came apart under his mouth, the way you’d nearly climbed him like a tree just to get closer.

he walked back to the kitchen with a predatory swagger, convinced that by tomorrow morning, satoru gojo and his stupid ass silver BMW would be a memory and you’d be standing at his locker, finally done with the charade.

but nothing in sukuna’s life had ever been that easy.

the next morning at school was a slow-motion car crash. he was leaning against the lockers, eyes narrowed as he scanned the crowd, waiting for the moment you’d walk in alone. instead, the double doors swung open and there you were—tucked firmly under satoru’s arm. gojo was laughing, probably some loud, obnoxious story about his weekend, his hand splayed possessively over the small of your back.

your eyes met sukuna’s for one brief, agonizing second; your pupils blown wide, a flash of pure terror crossing your face before you schooled your expression into something blank and stone-cold. you looked at the floor, at your shoes, at anything but the boy who had had his hands up your shirt less than twelve hours ago.

the bile rose in his throat, hot and bitter. but then, three minutes into first period, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

can we talk? after school? back lot?

he spent the whole day imagining the rejection. he had his defense ready, his walls up and reinforced. when he saw you walking toward his rusted red truck in the far corner of the lot, looking frantic and checking over your shoulder every five seconds, he rolled down the window and let out a harsh, dry sound.

“let me guess—” he started, his voice dripping with the armor of his own spite. “it was a mistake. you were caught up in the moment. satoru is such a great guy and you just can’t—”

you didn't let him finish. you reached through the open window, grabbed the front of his shirt, and pulled him into a kiss that tasted like desperation and salt.

before he could even process the shift, you were opening the heavy truck door and climbing over the center console, ignoring the gear shift poking at your thigh as you scrambled into his lap.

you weren't talking. you weren't explaining. you were just there, your hands buried in his hair, your body trembling against his in the cramped cab.

sukuna didn't waste another second on words. his hands already under your skirt, his fingers hooked into the elastic of your underwear and pulling them aside with a brutal lack of patience, your "good girl" mask seemingly gone with the ring of the last bell.

the second his fingers slid into you—slick, hot, and already yielding—your head fell back against the headrest with a sharp, broken gasp. the sound was like discovering a goldmine. he watched your face as he worked two fingers deep inside you, his thumb grinding against you with a rhythmic, punishing pressure.

your hair was stuck to your forehead with sweat, your lips swollen and kiss-bitten, and you were making these soft, high-pitched whimpering sounds that made the blood roar in his ears.

you weren't just taking it; you were chasing it. you were grinding down on his hand, your eyes rolled back, all that middle-class poise and church-girl modesty melting away into a puddle on his truck seat, and when you finally came, it was violent—your body locking up, your fingers digging into his shoulders until his skin broke, your voice muffled against the crook of his neck as you sobbed out a quiet, wrecked moan.

and then, just like that, the bubble popped. you sat up, your face pale and your breath hitching. you used the rearview mirror to fix your hair, tucking it behind your ears until you looked like the girl in the satoru gojo photos again. you got out of his truck without a word, the silence in the cab suddenly heavy and suffocating as you straightened your skirt with trembling hands. you were already starting to walk away, your head down and your pace hurried, before you abruptly turned back and tapped on his window.

sukuna rolled it down, his expression a jagged mess of confusion and lingering heat. his brain was still foggy, thick with the echoes of your moans and the way you’d just come apart in his lap.

he looked at you, waiting for the apology, the "never again," the shattering of the glass—but instead, you just bit your lip, looking at him through your lashes.

"i'll see you sunday?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper, as sukuna, ever the fucking dumbass, just sat there.

his dick was still tenting his pants, his fingers were still damp with the slick, salt-sweet taste of you, and his pulse was still thundering in his ears. he should have said no, he should have told you to go to hell. instead, he just nodded, a slow, numb movement of his head.

"yeah," he rasped. "sunday."

he watched as you turned and ran off, disappearing toward the other side of the lot to meet with your boyfriend, leaving him alone in the truck with the scent of you on his skin and the taste of his own stupidity in his mouth.

he supposed it was better to have some of you than none of you?

it didn't matter what you did with satoru gojo after that. because every sunday, like clockwork, the same script played out. satoru still believed the "church" excuse you’d fed him months ago—the pure, sweet irony of it making sukuna laugh out loud sometimes.

while satoru pictured you kneeling in a pew, eyes closed in pious prayer, you were actually kneeling on the floor of sukuna’s truck. he’d shoved the passenger seat all the way back, creating a cramped, dark sanctuary where the only light came from the dim glow of the dashboard.

you were good—terrifyingly good. it wasn't the tentative, shy way he’d imagined a girl like you would handle him; it was hungry and deliberate, sukuna watching you through heavy, hooded lids, his head lolling back against the headrest as your mouth worked over him. the sounds were wet and rhythmic, a soft, slick suction that echoed in the quiet cab. he could feel the heat of your throat, the way you didn't shy away even when he pulsed, and the sensation was so intense it felt like it was hitting him right in the pit of his stomach.

god, if this is how satoru is living, then maybe he really does have it all, sukuna thought, the realization hitting him with a jagged edge of envy. if this was what satoru woke up to, or what he went to sleep with, sukuna could almost understand why the bastard walked around like he owned the sun.

but then he’d look down at the way your fingers were buried in his thighs, the way you were looking up at him with those wide, teary eyes while his cock was buried deep in your throat, and the envy would turn into a sick, twisted pride.

he always tried to save face, gripping the armrest so hard the plastic creaked, biting back the raw grunts and groans that threatened to spill out. he didn't want to give you the satisfaction of knowing exactly how much power you had over him, but when your tongue swirled around the head of his cock, his hips almost always bucked involuntarily, a low, guttural sound escaping his throat despite his best efforts.

it was filthy. it was perfect. you were filthy. you were perfect.

when he finally came, he would watch, mesmerized, as you took every drop, your waterline turning pink and teary from the depth of him, and when you would finally pulled away, your mouth slick and filled with his salt, a thin, silver string of spit still connecting your bottom lip to the crown of him, you looked wrecked—utterly debased and beautiful.

sukuna couldn’t help but stare at you, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. he was a fucking goner.

he took you in the work parking lot with the engine still idling, in the back of the school lot under the shadow of the bleachers, and once—the riskiest, most delicious time—right outside your own house in the middle of the night. satoru had been away at some leadership conference, and sukuna had pinned you against the side of his truck, the metal cold against your back while he was hot and heavy between your legs.

he watched you try to keep your moans down, your eyes darting toward your parents' darkened windows, and he felt a sick, triumphant thrill.

satoru might have the car, the expensive watches, and the official title, but sukuna had the sounds you only made in the dark. he had the way you shuddered when he whispered filthy things in your ear. he had the truth of you.

satoru didn't know. and sukuna was going to make sure it stayed that way for as long as he could keep his hands on you.

he relished every moment he bumped into the smug bastard in the hallways. satoru would look at him with that characteristic, lofty amusement, his eyes hidden behind those designer shades as if sukuna were nothing more than a stain on the floor he was forced to walk over.

gojo would offer a lazy, two-finger wave or a condescending pat on the shoulder if they were close enough, acting like he had everything over sukuna—completely and utterly clueless that it was his girlfriend being fucked senseless by the very guy he thought so little of.

there was one specific afternoon at the diner that sukuna replayed in his head like a favorite movie. satoru had swung by to drop off a textbook you’d forgotten in his car, looking entirely too polished in a white button-down that probably cost more than sukuna’s truck.

sukuna was leaning against the kitchen pass, his arms crossed, a smudge of grease on his cheek and his eyes narrowed. satoru spotted him through the window, and that familiar, annoying twinkle of amusement lit up his eyes.

"still back there, ryomen?" satoru drawled, leaning against the counter and flashing a grin that was way too bright for a greasy diner. "man, i don't know how you do it. the smell of old fries and desperation would've killed me by now. it’s a good thing someone like you is around to do the heavy lifting, though. keeps the world clean for the rest of us, right?"

you were standing right there, your hand hovering over the textbook satoru had just set down. your face went pale, your fingers twitching.

sukuna didn't even blink. he just let out a low, dry chuckle, his gaze shifting from satoru’s face to yours—lingering just a second too long on your mouth.

"yeah, satoru. i'm real good at cleaning up," sukuna replied, his voice like velvet over gravel. "it's funny, though. you'd be surprised how much dirt people manage to hide even when they look 'clean' on the outside. but don't worry—i make sure to get into all the spots you seem to miss."

satoru just laughed, completely missing the subtext, his ego too big to even imagine a world where he was the punchline. "good man. keep up the hard work."

but you didn't miss it.

sukuna saw the exact moment the words hit you, your entire body freezing, shoulders going rigid as you stared at the counter. you knew exactly which "spots" he was talking about. you knew the way his hands felt when they were buried in you, the way his voice sounded when he told you to forget satoru's name.

satoru patted the counter one last time and walked out, the bell above the door chiming with a cheerful ring that felt like a joke.

sukuna just stayed there, watching you through the glass. he watched the way you finally exhaled, a shaky, trembling breath, before you tucked the book under your arm and hurried toward the back.

satoru didn't know—but you sure as hell did, and that was so much better.

…

the windows of the van were completely opaque, slick with condensation that blurred the world outside into a dark, grey nothingness. you were pressed face-first against the cool glass, your knees digging deep into the cracked seat as sukuna loomed behind you.

his hands were clamped onto your waist, his fingers digging into your skin with a bruising, possessive grip that anchored you as he drove into you with a steady, punishing rhythm.

"fuck, kuna… right there," you managed to choke out, your forehead thumping against the glass as a wave of heat rolled over you. your fingers were clawing at the headrest, your back arched, and every time he hit that specific, aching spot, your toes curled against the seat.

then, the sharp, upbeat ringtone of your phone pierced through the humid silence of the truck.

the sound was like a bucket of ice water. you froze, your muscles locking up around him as your eyes went wide, reflecting in the dark glass of the window. sukuna didn't stop, but he slowed down, his chest huffing against your back as he leaned over to look at the screen lighting up on the dashboard.

satoru's face was grinning back at him from the caller ID.

"shit," you hissed, reaching out with a trembling hand to grab the device.

sukuna let out a low, dark chuckle against the shell of your ear, his breath hot and smelling of mint. he didn't pull out. instead, he stayed buried deep inside you, his hands migrating from your waist to your hips to hold you still. you swiped the screen, your heart hammering against your ribs so hard you were sure satoru would hear it through the speaker.

"h-hey baby," you breathed, trying desperately to steady the ragged, heavy hitch of your lungs.

sukuna stayed perfectly still for a second, watching you with a predatory intensity. you couldn't hear satoru’s exact words, but the low, cheerful vibration of his voice hummed against your ear, sounding so oblivious and bright that it made your stomach flip with a fresh wave of guilt.

you went to respond, your mouth open to say mhm, but sukuna chose that exact moment to slowly, agonizingly sink back into you.

"m-mhm," you stuttered, your voice breaking as your internal walls fluttered and spasmed around him. a long, shaky exhale left your lips, and you squeezed your eyes shut, trying to fight the urge to moan.

sukuna was being relentless. he began to move again—not with the fast, driving force from before, but with a slow, grinding thrust that felt twice as deep. he was watching the back of your head, a slow smirk spreading across his face as he felt the way you were struggling.

you twisted your head back, shooting him a frantic, watery glare, but he just leaned down and grabbed your waist, pulling you back even harder against him. his other hand reached around, pressing flat against your lower stomach to feel the solid, rhythmic slide of himself moving inside you.

"you okay?" satoru’s voice crackled, sounding a little more focused now. "you sound out of breath."

"y-yeah," you gasped, your voice trembling as sukuna hit a shallow, sensitive angle. "i'm okay. my mom is... she's making me take nobara's bike out of s-storage so she can go with her—” you paused taking a deep, shuddering breath, “—her troupe. and the stuff is... um, it's heavy."

on the other end, satoru let out a light, airy chuckle. he said something else—something about seeing you later, something about how hard you always worked—while sukuna’s thumb began to work in circles against your hip bone, his rhythm picking up speed.

"okay, love you, bye!" you blurted out, the words tripping over each other in your rush to end the call.

you hit the end button and threw the phone onto the seat, spinning around as much as the cramped space would allow to curse him out. "sukuna, you fucking—"

your words were cut off by his mouth crashing against the side of your neck. he didn't let you finish, his hands hooking under your thighs to lift you up and pin you against the side of the vehicle as he drove into you with a renewed, frantic energy.

"shhhhh," he murmured against your skin, his voice a dark, vibrating command as you let out a string of soft, broken ahs against his shoulder. "he doesn't know, remember? keep it that way."

…

and that was how things would usually go—a cycle of high-stakes risk and jagged, heavy heat.

sometimes you’d show up with a fresh mark on your neck, a pale, fading hickey from satoru that acted like a red cape to a bull. sukuna wouldn't even say a word about it; he’d just stare at it with a dark, simmering possessiveness before pinning you down and kissing right over it, his teeth grazing your skin until his own brand had completely overwritten the other.

he fucked you harder on those days, his movements filled with a silent, vengeful energy that left you shaking for an hour afterward, your legs feeling like lead and your mind a complete, static-filled mess.

he relished in the way you’d have to fix your makeup in his cracked side-mirror, the way you’d have to scrub the scent of him off your skin before going home, and the way you still couldn't look him in the eye at the diner the next morning.

he loved that he was the secret that was slowly eroding your "good girl" foundation, the one thing in your life that satoru's money and family and lawyers could never touch.

you were his. even if the world didn't see it, even if you were still wearing satoru’s promise ring, even if you still sat in that silver BMW every single morning. sukuna had the parts of you that mattered. he had the truth.

and even after all that, satoru still didn’t know.

tags: @cursedkisss @momoloverr

HR VIOLATION ::: CH 1

masterlist

"FIRST DAY WAS UNREAL... WAIT, HOW'D THIS GUY GET MY INSTAGRAM?"

#⊹꒰ঌ⪩ kiki's works ⪨໒꒱ ᩚ༝⁺#pssstttt the section dividers are kenjaku stitches psssssttttt #jjk x reader #geto suguru #geto suguru smut #geto suguru x reader #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #suguru geto x reader #suguru geto x y/n #suguru geto smut #suguru geto x you

jjk masterlist: 1 2/1/26 -

୨୧┇hr violation

୨୧┇more to come...

HR VIOLATION

1 ꨄ first day felt unreal... how'd this guy find my ig?

2 ꨄ he has a girlfriend?!

3 ꨄ everyone's so nice! ... he's nicer

4 ꨄ he loooovessss staring

5 ꨄ coffee runs

6 ꨄ stop walking me to my desk!!!

7 ꨄ break room fun...

8 ꨄ 3am texts

9 ꨄ jealousy by olivia rodrigo

10 ꨄ just pretend that he isnt staring

11 ꨄ just stop pretending, sweetheart...

12 ꨄ tension

13 ꨄ bad decisions

14 ꨄ another bad decision

15 ꨄ she's getting suspicious.

16 ꨄ she's asking questions.

17 ꨄ he hates my excuses!!!

18 ꨄ i care so much im gonna kms

19 ꨄ fuck my fucking chungus life

20 ꨄ we shouldn't talk

21 ꨄ he doesn't want to lie anymore

22 ꨄ i'm done running

23 ꨄ i'm done pretending. actually this time.

24 ꨄ i love my amazing chungus life

WRITTEN AND CREATED BY @kikiiconique. DO NOT FEED MY WORK INTO AI, REWRITE, OR COPY.

#⊹꒰ঌ⪩ kiki's works ⪨໒꒱ ᩚ༝⁺#geto suguru #jjk x reader #geto suguru x reader #geto suguru smut #jjk smut #jjk x you #jjk #jjk fanfic #suguru geto smut #jjk geto #geto x reader #jujutsu geto #geto smut #suguru #suguru geto x reader

a/n: first fic/1shot, kinda nervy. critique is appreciated! graphics by @/bhavihelps

badbf!satoru who you've been with for six years; freshmen year in highschool to your sophomore year in college. in the past two of those six years, he's forgotten two anniversaries, ditched out on ten dates, and forgotten one of your birthdays. badbf!satoru who you always forgave, because he's "with the guys" or "forgot" (yeah obviously) or was "too busy." he always apologized. always made sure he makes up for it. you, at first, felt a bit stupid, being upset that he had a tendency to forget a lot of things. at first, you felt that way. but then when utahime points out that he always apologized and never made any changes, something clicked. badbf!satoru who you finally realized is a bit of a bad boyfriend. suddenly, those missed dates and those forgotten anniversaries didn't sit well with you anymore, even though they happened a while ago. badbf!satoru who you barely see anymore. he barely read your texts and never apologized for it. he never came to class and stayed out till the early hours of the morning. badbf!satoru who misses another date because he's out partying with suguru and sukuna at sukuna's frathouse and makes you wait at a cafe for three hours. badbf!satoru who stumbles into your shared apartment drunk, smelling like alcohol. he kicks off his shoes, stumbling into the bedroom to find you studying in bed, crashing onto the mattress with a thud. "party was insaneee... you shoulda come," he slurs, a goofy grin gracing that stupidly pretty face of his. you could smell the cheap alcohol. "couldn't come. i was busy waiting for you at that cafe you promised me you'd be at." you mumble, shutting your laptop and putting it away. he thinks for a moment. "... ohhhh. yeah, sorry about that. got a bit carried away, you understand right?" "... yeah. i do." you respond, settling into bed and pulling the covers over yourself and turning your bedside lamp off.

#⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢 kiki's oneshots ⋆˚꩜｡#can u guys tell i sprinkled some nerdjo references in there #satoru gojo angst #jjk x reader #satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo fanfiction #satoru gojo fluff #jjk #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk fluff

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