“okay! i finally have a plan for your bachelorette party!” shoko exclaims, rubbing her palms together gleefully.
“shoko, no,” you start, closing your laptop with a sigh. “i already told you, i don’t need a party!”
with the wedding only a week away, the excitement was beginning to sink in for you, satoru, and all your friends.
“at least hear my plan first,” she insists. “i’m thinking male strippers, penis straws—”
“count me in,” satoru says, joining you on the love seat. your fiancé wraps an arm around you, kissing your temple before looking to shoko. “what time should i be there?”
“no,” she huffs, crossing her arms over her chest. “no boys allowed at the bachelorette.”
“could i come if i was the stripper?”
that is an awful idea for so many reasons, the most prevalent being the time satoru tried to do a strip tease on your anniversary and broke his…you know.
but you promised you’d never talk about it again, so you’re relieved when shoko comes to the conclusion on her own.“you have the grace of those inflatable men at car dealerships, so absolutely not.”
gojo mocks her absolutely not in an obnoxiously high pitch, sitting back and fixing her with a petty glare. “who put you in charge?”
“i’m the maid of honour, which means i’m in charge of everything that happens at this bachelorette.”
you hope that she misses the quick glance you and your fiancé exchange, wincing when you see she doesn’t.
“what? what’s with the looks?”
“it’s just— tsumiki’s my maid of honour…”
you feel awful when her expression drops. “oh…”
“i’m sorry, i’ve been meaning to tell you,” you apologize quickly. “but she’s like our—”
thankfully your best friend recovers quick, shaking her head and sending you a smile. “you don’t have to explain. it’s okay, i get it. i’m okay with just being a bridesmaid.”
satoru takes a long sip of his drink. you look away guiltily.
“i don’t even get to be a bridesmaid?!”
you scramble for an explanation, looking to satoru for help. “well, he only has one best man and no groomsmen, so it’d be asymmetrical—”
“because that loser doesn’t have any other friends i don’t get to be in the wedding party?!”
“hey, i have friends!”
“you have nanami,” she deadpans, unimpressed. “you guys don’t even hang out.”
“actually, we’re planning on getting lunch tomorrow.” then, after a moment, “if we’re both free…”
“you can be our flower girl!” you blurt before satoru can embarass himself further.
shoko sits back, considering this.
“do i get to pick my own dress?”
“sure,” you agree.
“alright, deal. but i’m still throwing you a bachelorette party.”
“shoko!”
_____
“we are not crashing your fiancée’s party.”
“we don’t have to. i can crash it on my own.” satoru points out.
nanami deeply regrets agreeing to be best man. deeply. “shoko specifically instructed me to stop you if you attempted to pose as a stripper.”
he only scoffs as if he isn't afraid of shoko ieiri himself. “only because she’s scared my pelvic sorcery is too powerful.”
“no, because you lack the grace of a dancer and broke your penis last time you attempted a strip tease.”
“what?! you guys know about that?!”
"of course," nanami shudders, staring forlornly out the window of the cab because he has seen some shit. "we have a group chat."
In the Divinity AU (High Priest Zeke AU), Zeke and Bo's marriage was curt and cold. There were four people there: the officiate, Bo's sister Klara, Zeke, and Bo.
It was awkward. They didn't touch each other, didn't even look away from the nervous officiate until he said those dreaded words:
"You may kiss the bride-"
"That won't be necessary." Zeke interrupted, grabbing a pen and scribbling his name on the marriage certificate. The first time he looked at his new wife was to hand her the pen. His expression was neutral, almost bored, as if the entire ordeal was an inconvenience to him.
Klara shifted from foot to foot, but remained silent. The officiate cringed, but knew better than to protest.
A lot of things went through Bo's mind at that moment. She wanted to leave. She wanted to slap that pen out of his hands if only to get a reaction.
Instead she snatched it from him, then wrote her name on that stupid paper, next to his stupid name, under a stupid font from a stupid-
"You better have bought cake," she said while tossing the pen to the floor at his feet. She was acting like a spoiled child, but she didn't care. His lack of reaction just pissed her off more. "Or else I'm divorcing you."
Still nothing. He looked right through her.
With a huff, she turned on her heel and stormed out the door. Klara followed quickly behind.
They were far from the altar when she spoke.
"He actually did get a cake," she said. Bo's shoulders tensed. "And a nice dinner. Are you hungry?"
The cake was the most delicious dessert Bo had ever eaten in her entire life. Yet another reason to despise him.
when nanami dies, there's a box of letters waiting for you.
months pass before you find it. it's not until you're cleaning out his things, wondering if you can stand to get rid of them, that the letters are there waiting for you.
its no bigger than a shoebox, dark wood engraved with an intricate design, one that you're certain kento picked out specifically for you. you've never seen it before, and you open it with shaky hands, tears already pooling in your eyes at all the memories your lover left behind.
inside, there's a stack of letters, each one dated at the top with kento's name intricately signed at the end. some are in sealed envelopes with beautiful stamps. some multiple pages long and include some little haikus that are far too lovely to be about someone like you. and some are just quick little notes scribbled on napkins.
your spread them across the floor, staring down at each of the tiny little hearts he'd drawn next to your name on each note. even though you'd been together for years, you had no idea that he'd been writing all of them—hours of his life dedicated to this little pastime, and you'd been clueless.
they're like journal entires. insights into kento's life and your relationship, both the good moments and the tough ones. he leaves behind everything to you, entrusting you to keep his entire existence safe in your hands.
you read the letters with tears streaming down your face, and you choke on your sobs, trying so hard not to smear the ink from the wetness on your cheeks.
when you pull one out with shaky hands, you realize it's a decade old. the writing has faded a bit, and the paper is yellowing, but it's kento's handwriting, nonetheless.
it makes you near sick to read it. for a minute, you have to set it aside, cry into your knees as you curl into a ball, wondering when you'll ever stop feeling this empty.
this letter is from a sixteen year old kento; a quiet boy who had a silly little crush on girl in his year that was much too pretty for him. and in the letter, he says he knows you're too good for him, but he can't help but love you. he can't help but hope that one day, in a few years, you'll want to marry him as much as he wants to marry you.
it hurts, burns in your chest because even back then, kento had known you were the one. he'd known and he wrote you these letters because he'd felt that his life would be cut short. he'd felt like that since haibara died, and geto left, and it started to seem like the life of a sorcerer was always doomed to be an unhappy one.
kento had been so afraid that his friend died without knowing how much he meant to him, and he refused to make the same mistake with you.
there are letters from even when you weren't together. from the years that you were eighteen, nineteen, twenty, and kento had been so desperate to leave jujutsu behind that it meant he had to leave you too. even then, even when you were nothing more than a shadow from his past, he adored you.
you feel so outside of yourself, nauseous and filled with so much grief that you're not sure where to put it.
sometimes, you’d doubted if kento felt as loved by you as you did by him. but there's pages and pages of him speaking of how special you make him feel, even when you were separated, and he missed you so much that the thoughts of you consumed him.
you spend hours going through the letters, and then, you see one dated halloween, 2018. even breathing feels hard, but you can't stop yourself from reading it, even though you know it will destroy you, know that you won't be able to leave the house for days after reading it.
in the letter, kento says he loves you. he talks about the day before, when you'd convinced him to watch some halloween movies, and though most of them were silly, he didn't care how he spent his time with you as long as it made you smile.
he says that he feels bad for cancelling your dinner plans, and he's going to be thinking of you when he's in shibuya. that it's such a shame that being a sorcerer is so much more fulfilling than a salaryman, because it cuts into your time together, and you’re the most important part of his life.
he says he loves you again. that he really hopes he makes it back from shibuya because even though he's never told you, he wants a family with you.
he says he’s decided he'll bring it up when he gets home safe and sound. he’s not sure how you’ll feel about it, but you better know that he’ll always love you no matter what you decide, even if what he really wants is a little girl that looks just like you. and lastly, he hopes that you don't stay up too late waiting up for him—you’ve been so tired lately, and it’s making him feel bad.
his name is at the bottom with another little heart.
Another journal completed. It's been a while since my last one so this feels like A Big Thing. Started this in late April around the time I failed practically all available conventional systemic treatments and figured it was time to clear inner cobwebs and properly talk things out with my interior demons - because if not now, then when?
Along the way, i found that i've still got plenty to say and am excited to be pouring into my new Hobonichi (at last!!!) notebook (still with the old Tomoe River paper omg 😭).
thinking about duke gojo satoru who really has no interest in marriage. he finds the entire process of going to balls, scouring women interesting enough and genuine enough to pursue, so so tedious.
he has been skipping out on the last couple seasons and has no plans of going to any events this current season either. that is, until he sees you.
he asks for one dance. then it leads to another. and another. you have to remind him, "your grace, i'm afraid i really can't dance with you any more. it would be inappropriate."
gojo feels a certain pull towards you which he has never felt in his life before towards any other woman. maybe it's because you're new to the city, and your naivety is charming to him. or maybe it's because of the way you conduct yourself, shy but headstrong, all at once.
he hates to admit it, but he's a little aggravated that you would decline his advances. who cares what others think?
he drags you by your arm, giving the excuse of showing you around the estate, and that's how you end up in a nondescript room, getting your cunt eaten out by the gojo satoru on his knees, all for you.
Nanami Kento does not FaceTime. Well, not until he meets you.
“Why do you need to see me?” he asks. “When we’re on the phone, I’m just doing random household chores or paperwork.”
“Thats exactly why! You look so handsome when you’re washing dishes and folding laundry,” you insist.
He scoffs at your statement, but it’s genuine; he always looks so handsome. It’s not enough to convince him though.
“You don’t wanna see my pretty face while we talk?” you pout.
There it is.
“Fine,” he sighs.
You two begin to FaceTime regularly. His phone propped up on the paperweight on his desk or on the paper towel holder while he cooks. You always get a great view of him. Him of you…not so much. You have a tendency to set your phone down or turn the camera to show him something then forget to turn it back.
“You’re not holding up your end of the bargain,” he says, not looking up from the cucumber he’s cutting.
“Huh?”
“I can’t see your face,” he says.
“You’re cutting a cucumber!” you protest, “All your attention needs to be on the knife in your hand.”
He sets his knife and cutting board to the side, and does that thing where he looks at you over his glasses.
“I’m washing it right now,” you say.
“And?”
Ugh. You grab your phone with sudsy hands and position it in the medicine cabinet so he can get a nice side view of your soap-covered face.
“Better?” you ask, not looking away from the mirror.
“Much,” he says.
You can hear the smug smile in his voice.
~
During one of your evening FaceTime calls, you’re away for work. You show him the hotel your company put you in. With your back camera, you give him a walk through.
“And look!” you say, walking into the bathroom. “This shower is so nice and the water pressure is amazing. And there’s a tv in here!!”
The adoration in his eyes is not meant for the marble bathroom tile you’re currently showing him, but for you. He takes great pleasure in your excitement.
“Very nice, sweetheart,” he speaks softly and smiles at you. “Anything else you want to show me?”
Your enthusiastic “yes!” makes him chuckle. You walk out onto the balcony. A picturesque view of a beach fills his screen.
“Isn’t it amazing?” you awe.
“Mhmm,” he agrees. “But not as pretty as you.”
You flip your camera not so he can see your pretty face, but rather the apathetic look casted on it by his cheesiness.
“Corny,” you say.
“I know,” he concedes. “But I got to look at you, so no real loss for me.”
You roll your eyes, but when you look out to the water again your annoyance is quelled.
“Seriously, Kento,” you say. “We should come here on vacation sometime. It’s beautiful.”
The camera is on you, but you’re looking at the water, mesmerized. You look so serene, so content. The afternoon sun bathing you in gold. Cheesy as it may be, you really are more beautiful than any beach.
“What’s the name of the hotel?” he asks.
He writes it down so he can research after you two hang up.
~
He’s washing dishes. He’s washing dishes and you’re riled up. Shameful. But not really because any human with eyes would be if they could see how your boyfriend looks. Dish towel thrown over his shoulder, sleeves rolled up, tie lazily draped around his neck, blond hair messy, belt…well it’s buckled, but if you were there it wouldn’t be.
You’re staring at him, but your mind is somewhere else.
“Hello? Earth to, ____?” he pulls you out of your trance.
“Huh? I’m sorry,” you say.
“Everything okay?” he asks.
“Yeah.” you almost leave it at that, but last minute decide to tack on, “Just thinking about all the things I wanna do to you when I see you.”
“Oh?” He raises an eyebrow. “Tell me more.”
“Well it’s still coming to me, but something something blindfolding you with your tie something something tying your hands above your head,” you pause. “I think ice cubes were in there somewhere.”
Your boldness never ceases to amaze him, but he’s gotten better at hiding it.
“Is this something you’d be interested in realizing in the near future?” he asks, ever the wordsmith even when he’s horny.
“Mhmm,”
“Why don’t you come over tonight?” he suggests. “I just washed all my ties.”
“Mmm…no,” you shrug. “I’m getting drinks with some friends tonight.”
His laugh translates into “you’re such a tease.”
“Plus, I need more time to make my plan of attack,” you say. "You'll appreciate me being well prepared."
"I'm sure I will," he says.
"I gotta go get dressed now," you say when you see the time. "Talk to you soon."
here are some more icky headcanons for the aot characters! i am so so happy you all enjoyed pt 1 so much :) i added more characters to this one based on ur guys requests so i hope you enjoy and dont hate me after this lol. jjk version here
eren:
eats his eggs with ketchup like a literal delinquent. like completely submerges them in it. you guys go out to breakfast and he’s like wanna share? and ur like 🙄 FUCK NO!!! also pours ketchup ON the fries and not NEXT to them when you guys share
asks “who is that” every single time you say hello to someone. he’s like a 5 year old and ur his mother. he does it as soon as you pass them too, he literally cannot contain himself at the fact that you know people who are not him. “who was that?” “someone from my chemistry lab” “…who is she?” “the barista from the coffee shop downtown”
he watches you play games on ur phone from over ur shoulder and then gets mad when you lose or “make a bad move” ??? you tell him to download the game on his phone if he’s so interested in it and he’s like nah but the second you open candy crush he’s like 🕵️♂️ baby switch out the red and green one
mikasa:
when she eats with a fork, she scrapes the fuck out of the metal with her teeth :/ she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it but you can hear her teeth against the metal with every single bite she takes. please get that checked out at the dentist babes
is a disney adult. i’m sorry but she is. jokes about having “peter pan syndrome” and that she’s just a kid at heart <3 probably has like 60 different pairs of mickey ears and gets mad when little kids cry at disney world like it isn’t meant for them and she’s the one out of line???
doesn’t have separate music playlists. she just has one playlist with every song she’s ever liked on it. theres like 1000+ songs on it. she puts it on for every single occasion shes on aux: in the car, at a party, cleaning around the house. its on while you guys are having sex and then Old Town Road comes on :/
armin:
refuses to download tik tok because he thinks he will get too addicted, but watches tik toks through instagram reels??? as if thats any different??? AND it’s always trends or videos that are months old too, like he shows you a video that was popular so long ago and you have to smile and nod while you watch it and pretend you havent seen it
also sends you cringey pinterest couples with his whole entire chest. he will send you those cheesy couple posts from 2012 tumblr and be like baby this is us!!! and you have to be like NO THE FUCK IT IS NOT.
hes such a picky eater :/ like every time he goes out its either chicken fingers or pasta w butter (which is delicious but besides the point). he has a specific answer for why he hates every single food (even if he’s never tried it???) hes like “mushrooms are a literal fungus why would i eat that” or “yogurt has live bacteria in it, ill pass” armin. just grow up.
THANK YOU MODAAAA. u always got my back. even if while writing this i had a mental crisis and forgot how to write gojo LMAOOOO
fake relationship / mutual pining / dared to kiss
Gojo points at the humongous parfait pictured on the backside of the menu and grins widely at the waitress. “We’d like to order one of these, please!”
She hesitates, her eyes shifting between you and Gojo and you can’t help but get the feeling something is amiss. Are they maybe sold out for the day? That’d suck, but if that’s the case, then it can’t be helped since Gojo did say that it’s the restaurant’s most popular item. Slowly, the waitress speaks, “That item is a special couples only item, so when guests order it, we ask them to…”
She trails off, but you get what she’s saying: she wants proof that you and Gojo are dating.
Which is impossible since you and Gojo aren’t dating, not even close. You could barely even be considered friends.
You look at him, and you half expect him to bat those perfect eyelashes at the waitress, asking her to make an exception this one time, but instead he is staring at you.
Batting his eyelashes at you.
What the hell are you supposed to do?
Kiss him or something?
“Don’t be shy,” Gojo tells you playfully, looking like he’s having the time of his life.
“I—” you start, but then stop, unsure of what to do. Do you play the part he wants you to play: a partner feeling shy about public displays of affection? Or do you chew him out for not telling you the conditions of getting the parfait that you both came here for?
Surely he knew, there was no way he couldn’t have since he’s the one who suggested coming here.. If anyone should be performing any sort of PDA it should be Gojo, not you.
You’re fine with settling with a different, marginally smaller parfait.
Sensing your answer, Gojo sighs dramatically. “You can barely keep your hands off me at home, so I would’ve thought one little kiss in public wouldn’t be that bad.”
He’s such a liar; you’ve never even been to his place.
“Oh well.” His tone changes, becoming suddenly nonchalant. “So, instead of that parfait, can I get thirty of your chocolate strawberry parfait?”
The waitress blanches and you think you might see her soul trying to leave her body. You don’t blame her, you’re feeling pretty faint yourself. Thirty parfaits? Is Gojo serious?
You look at him again and he turns to you, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen a serene smile look so ominous. It’s not so much that he’s being serious about this, but more than he’s betting on you to do what he wants.
Damn him for essentially holding this girl hostage for just trying to do her job and damn you too for not being able to stick to your guns.
It’s fine, it’s whatever, it’s just a kiss.
You slam your hand down on the table and half standing as you lean forward to kiss Gojo. Your mouth collides with his and he goes completely still. Is he surprised? He wasn’t seriously goading you into just giving him a simple kiss on the cheek, was he?
The kiss lasts only a second before you whip your head from Gojo’s to look at the waitress who’s gawking at the both of you. “We’ll get just the one couples parfait, okay?”
She gulps and nods before rushing off to put the order in.
You sit back down and Gojo laughs, “I knew you loved me, after all!”
That comment earns him a scowl. “No, you knew that I wouldn’t let you make that poor girl put an order for thirty parfaits in.”
He merely smiles and that all but confirms it.
“You could have just told me, you know, before we got here,” you grumble.
summary. summer romances with jjk men. | wc. 2.5k+
cw/ tw. fem!reader, age gap, possessive behavior, dark-lite (toji’s is a little dark), aged-up character, shy!reader, manipulation, obsessive behavior, pet names (ex. baby, sweetheart), friends to lovers, fwb, sharing (but is it really if gojo wants you to himself???), intended for 18+ readers
featuring. geto, toji, yuuji, gojo & sukuna
an. just a lil something old today, comments and reblogs are appreciated ༉‧₊˚.
𝗚𝗘𝗧𝗢 ༊*·˚
It’s an odd request. Geto says it doesn’t mean anything—don’t worry, friends do this all the time—and you’re tempted to point out that you’re not exactly friends, or perhaps you’re not entirely in tune with the ins and outs of being a roommate.
You think you agree because, after three months of living together, he’s comfortable and familiar, and you admit that it’s kind of nice after a long day of work. Just to be held for a while.
It’s just cuddling—that’s what he told you.
The shift happens when you get up one night to use the bathroom and come back to find him lazily blinking himself awake. He doesn’t say anything when you crawl under the covers—not until you settle into a spot that’s apparently too far away for his liking.
“C’mere,” he mumbles sleepily, looping one long arm around your waist and dragging you across the sheets with too much energy for someone who’d just woken up.
He rearranges your body easily, bringing one of your thighs over his hip and pressing one of his up between your own. Then he pushes up your shirt—something you notice he’s been steadily testing recently, seeing what you’ll let him get away with—until you’re exposed to the warm summer air blowing in from his open window. Except, unlike the times before, you’re not wearing a bra.
It’s probably a good thing that he can’t see your face where he has his buried against your chest. If he did, he’d tease you about the surprise and bewilderment bleeding onto your features like ink to paper.
You squeak when he presses a kiss between your breasts before taking a nipple into his mouth, caressing it with his tongue. When your hips shift against his thigh, you tell yourself it’s only to get comfortable, anything to keep from getting ahead of yourself.
This doesn’t mean anything. It’s just cuddling. Just—
Geto makes a sleepy noise, his mouth popping off with a wet sound, filthy and depraved. “You like this?”
You swallow hard enough that your throat clicks. “No.”
“Liar,” he mumbles, and you don’t even notice him squeezing his hand between your bodies, not until a knuckle presses against where there’s an embarrassing wet patch on your underwear, his fingertips searching for—
"W-wait! That's my—"
"Clit?" His chuckle is a hushed little thing that makes your cheeks warm. “You’re really wet for someone who’s not turned on.”
“I’m not,” you whimper, every ounce of conviction washed away from one exploratory pass of a finger.
“I’m just making it better, okay?”
Geto hooks his finger into the gusset of your underwear, pulling them away from your pussy, and moving his thigh so you’re skin on skin. You preen, wiggling your hips, trying to spread your legs a little wider, anything to get closer.
“There you go,” he says with a mouthful of your breast, content, his eyes still softly shut.
In the end, you try not to think about it too much and eventually cum against his thigh with a high-pitched gasp, leaving you limp and sleepy. You don’t dare look down at him because you know if you do, you’ll find the smirk that you feel curling his lips in triumph as if he’s just proved a point.
Instead, you close your eyes and decide to save that problem for another day.
𝗧𝗢𝗝𝗜 ༊*·˚
Fresh-eyed with a shiny degree hanging above your desk in your cheap shoe-box apartment, those first few weeks of summer in a new place slowly bleeds together.
They're the same. They’re distinct.
It’s a whirlwind of party dresses, cotton sheets covered in cherry-red lipstick stains, and long drives looking up at the city lights with the windows down on the weekends as you speed down Main. You feel like you’re floating on a cloud surrounded by iridescent signs one moment and gunmetal skies the next, almost similar to how things change in fast movies.
There’s only that tiny break on Sundays when you’re drinking your coffee and solving a crossword in the morning paper, softly humming to a song on the radio, before it starts all over again.
For a while, it’s nice until it’s suddenly different, and you find yourself thinking about home again.
If there’s one thing you miss about living in a smaller town, surrounded by people you know and cozy little shops, it’d be how easy it was to point out the red flags when it came to new people. In the city—something you’re destined to find out—the signs are slightly more murky, like looking through a fogged-up lens.
It’s on a night when you’ve had one too many martinis and laughing with your friend when you look over and notice him sitting by himself in the corner of the little dive bar. His gaze, dark from the low light of the room, is already on you, and you wonder how you haven’t spotted him sooner.
He’s tall and handsome, almost in a way that feels off-limits—much older than the guys you usually go for—with a crisp, black button-down stretching over broad shoulders.
You give him a shy smile over your shoulder. He raises an eyebrow and gestures you over with a flick of his fingers.
That’s all it takes to get wrapped up in a sticky thread of red.
He’s intense in all aspects of the word. The first time he fucks you, you whine about how big his cock is, that it’s not going to fit, and his hips shutter against yours.
“Such a filthy word in that sweet, pretty mouth,” he murmurs. “But look at you taking it, anyway.”
Then he notches a thumb in your ass—a place nobody has dared to touch before—and makes you cum so hard your legs shake.
He’ll hold your hand in his when you cross the street and buys you pretty things like soft leather bags and decorates your neck with sparkling gems, his favorite being the one with a gold cursive ‘T’ dangling from a dainty chain. Loves to have you on your back while you wear it, thrusting into you hard and fast, watching with bottomless eyes as it sinks and moves against your neck.
You never ask how he affords such expensive things, from his shiny sports car to his array of thick silver watches, because you don’t think it’s your place to know when this feels very temporary. A summer fling meant to melt away.
That’s how it was always supposed to be.
But then you start noticing things: the bruises on his knuckles, the one room in his house you’re not allowed in—it’s just my hobby stuff, baby; don’t worry about it—how he gets cagey anytime a guy looks at you, even if it’s incidentally.
It’d be easy to pretend that you don’t notice if only you hadn’t seen him threaten a waiter after he smiled at you.
Exactly how things shouldn’t be.
That weekend, you go out with your friends, dance with a few guys, and go home feeling a little shaky in your heels. You flip on the kitchen light and squeak when you find Toji sitting on your couch, his mouth set into a hard line.
Your lip trembles. “How did you—”
“Did you have fun tonight, baby?”
You’re unsure how to answer, so you don’t.
It’s different that night when he has your legs pressed all the way up beside your ears, his hand wrapped around your throat in place of the necklace on your dresser, wrenching an orgasm out of you that makes your abs hurt and sends black spots through your vision.
"I'll tell you what's—ah shit, clench up again for me—going to happen. I'm going to fuck you nice and full, tuck you into bed with my cum leaking out of this cute little cunt, and you're not going to talk to other boys again. Y'got that?"
𝗬𝗨𝗨𝗝𝗜 ༊*·˚
Mom tells you he's been helping them around the house while you’ve been away for school, a nice boy whose parents bought the house across the street.
Despite her forewarning about the stranger working in the yard, the first time you meet him, you’re unloading your car with boxes you brought from your dorm and nearly drop your things in surprise when he comes walking from the back of the house in nothing but sneakers, shorts, and a baseball cap.
“Sorry.” He wipes sweat off his forehead with the discarded shirt in his hand. “Didn’t think anyone was home.”
“All good.” You clear your throat, shrugging.
The crooked grin he gives you, a dimple on his left cheek, makes your heart speed up.
Pretty.
You start to notice how he’s there every other day: tending to Mom’s tedious rose garden, cleaning the gutters, trimming the hedges by the pool, and helping Dad fix the shingles on the roof. You’ve only talked to him a handful of times since that first day, once to bring him the lemonade Mom made, then while sitting in one of the pool chairs and putting sunscreen on.
It no longer catches you off guard to find him around the house; what he says next does.
“Want help with that?”
You swallow. “What?”
He tilts his head, shielding his face from the sun. “You missed a spot on your back.”
You don’t even bother thinking about if he’s telling the truth before you nod your head and turn around for him. “Oh…um, sure.”
It’s a bit silly of you to believe that’s how it’d play out: him making an innocent offer and going back to weeding the garden. You’re only happy your parents are at work; otherwise, they’d see the nice boy who fixes up their house, folding you in half in one of their too-expensive chairs.
“That feel good, huh?” He groans, roughly bouncing you in his lap like he’s using you for his pleasure, his ball cap falling off his head so he can mouth at your neck. “Shit. You’re so warm and tight inside.”
A whimper slips past your spit-slick lips, hair in utter disarray, swimsuit rumpled and peeled aside, looking utterly debauched. You watch how he can’t seem to decide where to look. His eyes flit from your mouth, and breasts, and where his cock sinks into your cunt, and when you slip a hand between your thighs to rub your clit, his jaw falls open.
It only takes a few strokes for you to sob, your entire body trembling.
“Are you cumming? Oh fuck, you’re so pretty. I can’t believe I made you cum—”
Afterward, when he pulls out and sees how puffy your pussy is, he looks like a sad puppy and crawls down the chair to kiss it better. He licks you clean, and you find yourself cumming against his tongue, this one a little less intense but has your fingers fisting into his hair anyway.
And much later, after he leaves, you realize as you lay there—his cum steadily dripping out of you onto the plastic seat of the pool chair—you still don't know his name.
𝗚𝗢𝗝𝗢 & 𝗦𝗨𝗞𝗨𝗡𝗔 ༊*·˚
He’s attending one of your father’s summer company parties when he sees you in person for the first time.
The glossy photo perched on the edge of your father’s desk in his office doesn’t do you justice.
You walk onto the deck, sundress swaying around your knees, smiling with your whole mouth when a guy covered in tattoos wraps an arm around your shoulders. Gojo watches him squeeze your cheeks together and kiss you in a way that shouldn’t be allowed, with your parents mingling close by—how you look up at him with visible adoration on your face.
He finds himself thinking about it later when he’s in his big empty house with nothing but the soft humming of his air conditioner and a list of work emails for nightly company.
Standing in the middle of his entryway, he wonders what it’d be like to have your bright smile and pastel dresses welcome him home, the smell of your sweet shampoo filling his house.
So when your dad calls a few weeks later to ask if you can crash at his place until you’re steady on your feet—it’s a new city; she just needs time to settle—he cleans out one of his spare bedrooms that night without thinking twice about it.
He tells himself he’s doing the right thing, and it’s not about fulfilling some fantasy of his. But when he comes home after a long day of work and finds you making dinner in the kitchen in one of your many lace-trimmed dresses, something stirs in his chest.
It’s imprinted on the back of his eyelids. Clear as day when he’s in the shower later and strokes his cock to the image of your breasts straining against thin floral fabrics and the curve of your ass barely peeking out from under the hem of the skirt after you put some food into the oven.
There’s still the issue about your boyfriend.
"I don't like how the old fuck stares at you," Gojo hears him—Sukuna—tell you one night over speakerphone.
“He’s not old,” you argue. “He’s nice, and I like him.”
It’s an ugly thing that rears its head in him and has him thinking, plotting, of tangible ways he can have you all to himself.
It happens in a way that he doesn’t expect, but he thinks it makes it all the better; how your boyfriend gets so easily worked up about a few things Gojo says:
“She’s never going to cum like that.”
Sukuna scoffs, his fingers still trapped against your clit. “You think you can do better, old man?”
Gojo ignores him and pats his thigh. "C'mere, sweetheart."
You bite your lip and look at Sukuna hesitantly, who pulls you into a kiss meant to show possession before letting you slide off him, and you crawl across the couch to perch yourself in Gojo’s lap. He’s still wearing his tie from work, and you stare at it for a second until he cups your cheek to tilt your chin up, thumb pressing into the middle of your lips until it slips in and strokes along your tongue, giving you something to focus on.
“Listen, if I make you cum, I get to fuck you however I want,” he says, holding your chin to keep you from glancing at your boyfriend again. He can treat you better, make you cry on his fingers, his mouth, his cock—however you want it. He’s sure of it.
You try to speak around his thumb. “But I want—I want—,” vowels and consonants trailing into nothing.
He laughs. “Baby, how can you want something that you can’t even ask for, hm?”
And he thinks—ah, but you’ll figure it out, his wants, his desires, where you’ll fit in his life—just as your boyfriend starts stroking himself to the sound of your moans by another man’s doing.
I was going to draw out a comic for this idea, but decided to write it out instead. No warnings other than Bolina's general tomfoolery.
Freshly married and realizing her husband wants absolutely nothing to do with her, Bo has never felt more isolated in her life. The various faces that cycle through the front doors ignore her and the staff who maintain the high priest's estate avoid her if they can.
She's little more than furniture in her new home, no more important or interesting than an old painting too covered in dust to discern.
That's when she decides that if she's going to spend the foreseeable future rotting in that mansion, she might as well know her way around it. She figures that the pit in her stomach will dissolve if she stops being afraid to leave her room.
So, Bo's genius idea to blend in is to ask the only maid who'll talk to her, a bright eyed woman named Nifa, to smuggle her a spare uniform so she can explore her new home without being stared at. She doubts anyone will recognize her, so she can pretend to be a new hire if asked.
Going into every room takes an entire afternoon. An afternoon that lacks any secret passageways or long forgotten corridors, much to her disappointment. Why a high priest needs such a massive mansion baffles her; he's just some guy. It isn't like he's notably bigger than anyone else.
At least Nifa is good company. She is patient enough to answer all of her questions, and that was all Bo could ever ask for. She would find a way to repay her kindness.
Things were going so well that of course it couldn't last.
The creak of a door hinge interrupts Nifa's story about an old crotchety priest that fell out of a second story window. Both of them turn.
"Excuse me?" Hearing Zeke's voice makes the blood drain from her face. Perhaps he wouldn't recognize her if she lowered her head? "Could you-"
He glances at Bo, then stops. His brows furrow ever so slightly and his mouth is ajar. Her appearance totally knocked him off kilter.
She expects him to snap at her, or maybe say something mocking. She hides her ears with her shoulders and braces herself.
For her part, Nifa acts unfazed. "How can we help you, Your Eminence?"
In a flash he gathers his wits and shifts his focus to Nifa. He takes a moment to study her expression. Bo's heart pounds so loudly that she swears he can hear it.
"Find Yelena and tell her to meet me in my study," he says, posture relaxed, content to act like that little hiccup never happened.
"Of course," Nifa says with a small bow. She turns around and starts down the hall. Bo notices that her hands are trembling.
She angles her body to follow, but can't help but pause. She chances a look at him. His expression is as bland and unassuming as ever. He really isn't going to say anything?
He cocks a brow.
What? Is he trying to tell her something?
He inclines his head.
Oh, does he expect her to bow too? To him? She almost laughs.
Instead, she gathers her skirts and scampers down the hall. If he reacts in any way, she doesn't hear it. Blood roars in her ears. After she turns the corner, the only thing on her mind is saying thank you to Nifa in every language she knows.
Wrote quite a bit so I'm pleased with myself and thought to share the riot that is today's quota for my handwritten fic manuscripts (second-or-ish draft).
Featuring mid-chapter ink changes, handwriting that gets progressively scribble-y, blank spaces for side characters and setting names i haven't decided yet, and plot/scene notes on the opposite scratch page.
he’s sitting next to you, legs crossed, the upper one bouncing nervously in sync with his finger tapping on his knee. the frown on his face is so serious and intense that you’re pretty sure if he relaxed his features a bit you could still see the line marks between his eyebrows from furrowing too hard.
“you don’t like what?”
“the way he looks at you”
“and how does he look at me?”
“dunno. . . like he owns you or something. it’s like the way i look at you. and i don’t like it”
the audacity, he thinks. to stare at you like that while he is sitting right next to you.
“satoru.. it’s just a cat”, you sigh and keep petting the little purring beastie on your lap.
grabbing new writers by the shoulders. it is important to write what you love and to love what you write. if you spend all your time trying to make something other people will approve of you will hate yourself and everything around you. learn at your own pace. you have time. i’m proud of you
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